“San Antonio.”
“Cancel it.”
Her face morphed into tortured shock. “What? Never. Absolutely not.”
“That wasn’t a request. There was no question mark at the end of my sentence.” Chase pointed at her, his quaking arm revealing his anger. “Because you don’t have the sense to stay away from Blake Eastwood, my campaign is suffering from the fallout.”
Emmett’s hands balled into fists at his sides.
He was rarely in disagreement with his friend, but in this case, Chase’s comments were out of line. Stef had been briefly involved with Blake—whom Emmett would love to go a round or two with, bare-knuckle—but the accusation that she was to blame was harsh.
“Whatever you have to do in San Antonio with your girlfriends can be done from Dallas just as easily. You’re not leaving the city, and if you do go out, you’re going to be chaperoned. Do you understand me?”
Her stricken expression faded into a laugh of disbelief. “You can’t ground me, Chase. You’re not my father. And even if you were Dad, he can’t ground me, either. I’m thirty years old!”
“Then why are you acting like a spoiled teenager?” Chase roared.
“Hey!” Emmett’s outburst was so unexpected that both Fergusons faced him wearing shell-shocked expressions.
He took a step closer to Chase, instinct more than decision driving him. “Let’s keep the blame where it should be. On Blake. Stefanie’s been through enough. She doesn’t need you piling on.”
Chase’s lips pressed into a thin, frustrated frown. Then he pinched the bridge of his nose, took a deep breath and leaned both hands flat on his desk.
Emmett flickered a glance over at Stefanie, who, for the first time in her life, regarded him with something akin to gratitude. He wasn’t sure what to do with that.
“I’m asking, Stefanie—” Chase addressed his blotter before sitting in his chair and meeting his sister’s eyes “—for your cooperation.”
“Penelope is amazing at her job. There’s no reason she can’t—”
“I’m asking,” Chase repeated, his voice firmer.
“I look forward to this retreat every year. I can’t cancel an event that happens in four days.”
“Why not?” Chase’s forehead dented. “Can’t you and your girlfriends drink champagne and talk about fashion another time? Mail them their gifts. Hell, invite them here. You can host at my mansion.”
“I...can’t do that.” She regarded her impractical boots, appearing tormented by the idea of canceling.
Disappointment, Emmett could understand. Torment didn’t make a hell of a lot of sense.
Stef loved her family above all else. Over the years, Emmett had witnessed the special bond she and Chase had—she respected her brother. And she would never lie to him. So why was Emmett getting the distinct impression that she was trying hard not to do just that? Why couldn’t she party here in town? Why did she have to travel to San Antonio?
She wasn’t lying—not yet—but she was definitely keeping from saying too much.
“Plans can be changed. I’ll foot the bill for it, if you like,” Chase told her. “I’ll grease some palms and find you a last-minute venue in Dallas. You can’t leave town with this mark on your back. I forbid it.”
“What mark? Do you think I’m going to be kidnapped by Blake’s henchmen or something?” Stef let out an exasperated laugh. Emmett didn’t find it funny. His back went ramrod straight, his senses on high alert at the idea that any harm would befall her.
Heforbade it.
“You do things without thinking,” the mayor said. “Who knows what could happen?”
“Chase, that’s enough.” Emmett took a step closer—to Stefanie this time.
His friend was right to watch out for his youngest sibling, but he was handling this wrong. Not that Emmett had much experience with sensitivity—he had been raised by Van Keaton, after all. But Emmett knew Stef and he also knew the situation. He couldn’t keep from stepping at least one toe in her corner.
“You can stand down,” Stef snapped. “I don’t need your protection from my stupid brother.”
“You need protection from yourself,” Chase interjected.