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

Showered, shaved, lotioned, and potioned, I smooth my palms over the skirt of my dress. I considered taking Carter’s option to wear whatever I wanted to heart and show up in overalls or baggy jeans just to be ornery, but ultimately, I decided to play along with whatever this dinner plan is. The dress is the same black one I wore to Carter’s parents’—freshly steamed after what I did in it last time—but it’s the best I could do from my closet on short notice because Samantha borrowed the green dress, not caring that it exposes several more inches of thigh on her long legs than it does on mine.

The hostess at Capitol Chophouse greets me politely, if not a bit stiffly, when I come in. “I’m meeting a friend here . . . Carter Harrington.” I see the spark of interest in her eyes at Carter’s name, and she looks me up and down more thoroughly. I follow her to the table, expecting to find Carter waiting for me.

Instead, there are two people sitting there . . . Carter and Zack. “Uh, hi.” Both men stand as I approach, and then there’s a weird moment where they both reach to pull a chair out for me.

Zack chuckles and sits back down, letting Carter get my seat. “Guess it’s a good thing you’ve got manners, huh? Your brother would have you doing one of his seminars if you didn’t.”

Carter leans my way. “He’s talking about Chance. He hosts a podcast called Two Men and a Mic that teaches young men how to thrive in our current world, business economy, and beyond. I don’t think he mentioned that at dinner.”

“Dinner?” Zack echoes, catching that nugget instantly.

“Yeah, things got a little carried away when the old man caught wind of the whole deal. Called a family dinner,” Carter explains as if the dinner was no big deal, which it most definitely was. It was more like a Family Dinner with capital letters.

“Glad I missed that.” Zack shakes his head knowingly, and I wonder if he’s ever gone to a dinner at the Harrington home. I never cared before or even gave it a single thought, but now, I’m curious.

“For sure,” Carter agrees. “About that . . . there’s something I want, I mean . . . we want to talk to you about.” Carter reaches over and takes my hand, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it.

Zack catches onto that quick too. “You son of a bitch,” he snarls at Carter. He’s at least keeping his voice somewhat reasonable considering the place, and I realize Carter smartly planned for that. “Did you sleep with my sister?”

Scratch that . . . because the table next to us totally heard that.

“There wasn’t a lotta sleeping going on,” I murmur accidentally, and Zack’s stony glare shoots to me. “Oops, that was supposed be my inside voice.”

Carter squeezes my hand and tries to reassure Zack. “It wasn’t some meaningless fuck.” He flashes me a private smile, and I blush furiously as I stare at him in wide-eyed horror. And then it gets so much worse. “It was special. A first.”

“Could we not?” I whisper angrily, hoping Carter will shut up. The table next to us has given up all pretense of not-listening and is going so far as to lean our way for a better earful.

Zack looks from me to Carter and seems to realize that not only did we sleep together, but that it was a first for me. Apparently, that technicality counts by some societal standard I don’t agree with, but I’m sure as hell not discussing my sex life with my brother.

“I’m going to kill you, you motherfucker,” Zack shouts, loud enough to stop dinner and conversations at all the surrounding tables. There’s a chorus of surprised gasps as every eye in the restaurant locks on us.

Zack’s on his feet in an instant, coming around the table in two strides. Carter stands to meet him with his hands held out wide in a placating stance. “Look, man. Calm down.”

Why do people say that? It never actually makes the angry person calm down. I don’t think anyone has ever stopped in their tracks, thought to themselves, ‘yeah, I’m overreacting’, and chilled out. But Carter says it anyway.

Zack grabs his shirt, shaking him a bit, and when that doesn’t change the past, Zack rears back and throws a punch smack into Carter’s nose, which pops red blood that drips to the marble floor.

“Zack! Carter! Stop it!” I shout, but neither of them pays me any mind.

There’s a bit of a scuffle, but it’s mostly a one punch-and-done deal because Carter isn’t really fighting back. When he’s released, Carter covers his nose, glaring at Zack. “Feel bedder?”

I’m sure he means ‘better’, but the bloody nose is giving his voice a bit of a hollow sound.

Zack doesn’t seem to care. “Not at all.”

The hostess swishes up with more interest in her eyes than anger and says, “Boys, if this isn’t over, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Out of the side of her mouth, she whispers, “You got them fightin’ over you?”

I think that’s supposed to be a compliment, not a question.

I speak up for all three of us. “Go get cleaned up.” I wave Carter off. “And you sit down.” I point at Zack’s vacated chair.

“I’ll be right back,” Carter vows. “And we’ll handle this.”

Ugh, I hope that doesn’t mean more fighting! It’s not like it’s going to save my honor or something antiquated like that. Alphena would kick both Carter and Zack’s butts for even thinking something like that, much less acting on it. And the shred of Alphena that resides inside me is considering doing it, too.

Carter stomps away, not giving any mind to the people he passes who are staring at him in disgust. I guess bloody noses aren’t really dinner entertainment in a place like this. Maybe some of these people should come to the college bars Sam takes me to? There, a plate of nachos, a beer, and a fight are a typical Friday night.

“What the hell, Zack?” I demand when it’s the two of us. I’ve leaned in close, though we’re sitting next to each other at the table. But we’ve put on enough of a show. This conversation deserves some privacy.

Zack lays his hands over mine, leaning into me too. “I am so sorry for getting you tied up in this, Moony. This isn’t what I meant to happen. I never thought he’d take advantage of you like this.”

His eyes are filled with the self-torture he’s subjecting himself to. At one point in our lives, I would’ve let him stew in his own guilt, earned or not. But not now, not this time.

“I’m not sorry,” I confess, knowing it’s true. “I’m fine, and he didn’t take advantage of me. But I’m not discussing my . . .” I pause, looking around to make sure no one is listening, but there are still side-eyes looking our way. I whisper, “sex life,” and then return to regular volume, “with you. We talk about a lot of things, but that’s off-limits. And that goes both ways. I don’t want to hear about whose ankles you pinned behind her head, either.”