Never Marry Your Brother's Best Friend (Never Say Never, #1)

“Yeah, well, if I’m celibate, at least you know I’ll never fuck you over. Can’t say the same for you.”


“Who’s Elena? Someone we should meet?” Dad asks, skipping over the brotherly shit-stirring. He’s always worried about who we date and spend time with, wanting to make sure they’re ‘worthy’ of a Harrington, and in some cases, that no one leads us astray. I think he fell down on that gig by the time Kyle came around, but for the rest of us, it was a constant Q-and-A about anyone we mentioned. Which is why we don’t mention anyone we date to family, especially our parents. Mom would have the wedding half-planned before the introduction was over and Dad would be running a Pentagon-level background check.

“Maybe, but not like you’re thinking,” I venture carefully, not wanting to say too much, too soon.

“She must be something real special for you to not bail on the overnight after Kyle saddled you with a tagalong. Sorry about that, by the way. Grace said y’all did some sort of museum visit to look at boring paintings, the pancakes were yummy, and that she got to pet a horse?”

“Again, yes . . . but not like you’re thinking.” He’s fishing for information that I don’t want to share, but not answering is like chumming already-shark-infested waters. Because Cameron is definitely a shark, but Dad is the head shark of us all.

“Elena who?” Dad asks, suddenly intrigued.

“Thanks,” I mutter to Cameron. I could say that Elena is someone I’m casually seeing. Lying is becoming my SOP when the situation warrants it. But I don’t.

“Elena Cartwright. Strictly professional, I assure you.”

Dad’s eyes narrow, and if his head were transparent, I think I’d see a tiny elf erratically flipping through file cabinets, looking for an encyclopedia entry on the name Elena Cartwright.

And I see the moment the elf finds the correct file when Dad’s eyes widen and the proverbial lightbulb over his head lights up. “What in the Sam-hill are you doing with Elena Cartwright?”

“When there’s something to know, I’ll tell you. Until then, I’ve got it handled.” I try to sound confident, maybe even arrogant. Dad respects both. Cameron respects neither, at least not in others.

“You had dinner with the matriarch of one of the wealthiest families in the state, and now you’re holding out on us. Spill your guts or I’ll spill them for you.” He makes a slicing motion across his waist, as though he would have the courage to attack me physically. We both know his daggers are verbal.

“I’ve got it handled,” I repeat.

“Look, I’ve heard of Elena, so I know what she’s capable of. Why are you talking to her?” Dad asks again. Except it’s not a question this time.

I don’t want to say. I’ve already said too much, and if I spill any more, there’s no way I’m going to be left alone to handle this. But Dad isn’t the type you tell no. Especially about business.

Resigned, I sigh and search the ceiling for how best to say this, where I come out the hero for having brought the Cartwright portfolio to Blue Lake Assets all by myself. No shared credit, no shared responsibility.

“Carter.” Dad’s patience is waning, the vein in his forehead starting to pulse.

Meeting his eyes, I say proudly, “I’m talking to her about taking over her portfolio management.”

Dad leans forward in interest. “Are you serious? Her portfolio is massive, diversified, and . . . seriously?” His brows are climbing his forehead as he tries to decide whether I’m telling tall tales or the truth.

I smile triumphantly, though I haven’t sealed the deal yet. I know Elena is going to sign with me. She has to after this weekend.

For a long moment, I wait for Dad to return the smile. He’s got to be proud of me for chasing down this opportunity. It’s not a make-or-break for Blue Lake Assets because we’re so large ourselves, but gaining Elena Cartwright’s portfolio as a client would be a massive win for us. Which means it’s a huge win for me.

Because this is my deal. Even if it’s in the early days.

Dad stands up, coming around his desk and leaning back on the front of it between Cameron and me. With his arms over his chest and his feet crossed at the ankles, he says, “This sounds like an exciting prospect. Good job, Carter.”

I beam at the approval. I hate to admit it, but I do. I’ve worked hard for so many years to please my dad, to feel worthy of the Harrington name, and in one little sentence, I feel like I’ve finally done that.

“We’ll have dinner with her. The whole family shebang. We need to woo her, really show her what the Harringtons and Blue Lake are all about,” Dad decides.

And just like that, the balloon of pride filling up inside me pops, leaving strings of latex self-doubt and frustration in its wake. “No, Dad. This is my deal. I’m handling it, and it won’t include the five-ring circus we call a family.”

“This is a potential Blue Lake Asset deal, and if a little Harrington is good, a lotta Harrington is better. We’re not a five-ring circus. We’re a close-knit, passionate family who happens to know a thing or two about making people money. That’s what Elena Cartwright cares about.”

I hear what he’s not saying loud and clear. He doesn’t think I can do this on my own. He thinks I’m not good enough to secure the deal alone and is taking over because he thinks I’ll fuck it up.

“You have no idea what she cares about. I do. I’ve done the research, put in the hours.” I almost admit that I’ve gone above and beyond to a point that no one else in the family would be willing to do.

“Then I’ll ask her what she cares most about . . . at dinner,” Dad says. “Any food things I should tell the chef?”

Once my dad has made up his mind, there’s no changing it. I think I could literally switch out his brain with a new one, and he’d wake up from the transplant surgery still planning a dinner for Elena. But I have to try.

“Dad, stop. I’ve got this under control. Sometimes, going in full-throttle isn’t the move, and finesse isn’t exactly your style.”

“I was finessing before you were a thought in my ball sack, Son. Now what should I tell the chef?”

“Yeah, that’s some smooth moves, Dad.” I glare at him mockingly, hoping he’ll see reason and yield, but he stares back, giving no quarter.

“She likes horses, pancakes, and art,” Cameron offers, and when I sharply cut my eyes to him, he shrugs. “At least according to Grace.”

Dad nods, as if it’s everything he needs. “This is happening with or without you, Carter.”

I feel like this whole thing is being taken from my hands no matter how much I scramble to keep ahold of it for myself. I weigh my options, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut in the first place. But that bell can’t be unrung.