“I’m sorry I fell for the oldest trick in the book.” Her eyes flicked to one side before meeting his. “I should’ve asked you first.”
He wrapped his hands around her small shoulders, consoling her. “Right, the old pretend-to-be-snow-removal-guys-to-capture-photos-of-the-mayor-with-his-old-flametrick.”
That brought a soft smile to her face.
“They play dirty.”
“I’ve never minded getting dirty.” She tipped her chin and pegged him with admirable ferocity. Once upon a time, she’d been his and he’d let her go, believing she couldn’t handle his life.
Had he been right and she’d grown stronger because of it? Or had he been wrong and this strength had been there all along?
He knew the answer. It wasn’t a pretty one.
“Sit tight for a few hours. I’ll find out what’s going on.” His phone buzzed and he glanced at the screen to find the link to the blog post. “Do me that favor?”
She nodded her agreement and walked to the kitchen for a cup of coffee.
Chase began reading.
* * *
Emmett’s gruff voice bounced off the walls of Chase’s Dallas home and Stef paused in the doorway, wiggling her key from the lock. She’d come over to borrow a staple gun since Zach was out of town and she didn’t have a key to his house. Chase had given her a key a long time ago. One she’d never bothered returning.
But she hadn’t expected to find Emmett here. He was crowding her space an awful lot lately. She would have suspected he’d followed her here if she hadn’t arrived second.
His phone conversation was brief, and she guessed he was talking to Chase about something serious given his clipped tone and the mention of Mimi. There was a name she hadn’t heard in a while. She peeked into the dining room to find Emmett, his broad back covered in a white button-down shirt, his very short hair close cut in the shape of his perfect head.
He was a big, muscly, glaring guy. Stefanie preferred guys fun, easygoing and quick to smile. Lean muscle, not bulk. Kind eyes rather than Emmett’s intense stony stare. She supposed those attributes made him perfect for security. And besides, it didn’t matter that he wasn’t her type. They hated each other. It was a silently agreed upon fact. It was sort of magical, actually, how they were each peeved merely by the other’s existence.
“That sounded serious,” she said, announcing herself.
He turned and glared and said nothing.
Typical.
“Anything I can help with?” She grinned, knowing his answer.
“Did you write an article about your brother having an affair with a woman who vehemently protests the oil industry?”
“No.”
“Then you can’t help.” He slid the phone into his pocket and grabbed his coat from the back of a chair.
“What did the article say?”
He didn’t so much as slow down as he blew past her. The disturbingly manly scent of his leather coat tickled her nostrils.
“Emmett? Is everything okay?” she called after him.
At the door, he paused, letting the cool November air blow in.
“It’s clearly public knowledge. I can tell by your gruffer-than-usual attitude,” she added.
He let out a long-suffering sigh—a reaction she’d come to expect. She assumed it was also a sigh of surrender, but no confession followed.
“Lock up,” were the only words he spoke before stepping outside.
“Emmett!” But he was done gracing her with his presence. Gruff, grouchy, impossible. What did her brother see in that guy?