Page 60 of Came the Closest

Emotion tangles in my throat.

“It’s a good luck rock,” Milo explains. He twists nervously from side to side and stares up at me questioningly. “Do you like it? I used ta make them with my mom before she left.”

Indi stills completely at the sink. Cheyenne lifts her focus from wiping up Milo’s mess on the island. This is the first time Milo’s mentioned our mother since I met him. It should be normal to talk about her, but I can’t form an appropriate response.

I find a nonverbal one instead. I kneel on the hardwood floor, close my fingers around the rock, and fold Milo into my arms. I close my eyes and wonder how I’ll ever say goodbye to this boy come August. When he fidgets, I lean back to look him directly in the eye.

“I love it, Milo.” I love you. “Thank you.”

Del Ray Development is headquartered on the thirty-first floor of a sleek downtown Omaha high rise. I’ve been there before, but not in my adult life. The last place I’ve ever wanted to be is the place that stole my dad from my childhood and teenage years.

In fewer words, I’ve never seen this version of the company.

Marble floors, dark wooden accents, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking city streets, and frosted glass doors separating offices. A circular receptionist desk for the most chipper Asian woman I’ve ever met, and a conference room that’s bigger than most hotel rooms.

It’s overwhelming.

It’s also sheer nepotism.

“It is not,” Graham says when I tell him that. Ironically, we’re standing in the unoccupied office that sits directly beside his. I could toss paper airplanes at the pane of glass separating them from my spinning desk chair. “It’s simply family privilege.”

“Hey, Siri.” I hold my phone up between us, brows lifted in challenge. “What is the definition of nepotism?”

“Nepotism is the practice among those with power or influence of favoring relatives—”

Graham turns my phone off, silencing the automated voice. “Not when we created the position for you.”

“Hey, Si—”

“Don’t.” Graham glares at me. If we weren’t brothers, it might be intimidating since he’s all buttoned up in a suit and tie.

As it is, we are brothers. I make a goofy face and pinch his cheek. “You’re just so cute when you go all alpha on me, Grammy. It’s quite unprofessional of you, though.”

He does not look impressed. He pivots on his dress shoe heel and walks out of the office. I have no idea what to do, so I follow him. Past his bland office, past the glowing receptionist desk, past a closed door with Samuel Del Ray, President and CEO engraved on a gold plate. Graham has one just like it with his name and Vice President.

I make a mental note to order a custom one that says Colton Del Ray, Resident Funny Business Expert. My brother will love me for that one.

“Since I know you can’t function without food, here’s the break room.” Graham flicks a light switch on and gestures to the room. Moderately comfortable looking white sofas with stainless steel legs sit on top of—you guessed it—white rugs. “Pretty self-explanatory. Coffee maker, snacks in the cupboard, etcetera. Grab something if you want it before the team meeting.” He glances at his Apple watch. “We’ve got twenty minutes. I trust you can find your way back to the conference room when you’re done?”

I purse my lips. “I might get lost since everything is the same color. I’ll probably end up in the elevator since it’s silver, not white.”

Graham just shakes his head and heads down the hallway, but I see the corners of his mouth curl. If I do nothing else notable today, I’ll have accomplished that.

I turn to the coffee station. Of course, it’s not a regular Keurig where you pop a pod in it, press the button, and it does the heavy lifting for you. Graham left me with one of those fancy ones that has all the shiny handles and confusing buttons. I bet it also promises to turn the average Joe into a barista overnight.

“Well,” I say, slightly under my breath, “it can’t be that hard.”

I place a plain white mug on the tray and look at the instructions taped to the side of the Breville. It’s already loaded with coffee beans, so I press the power button. I grind a serving, tamp them down, place the tiny silver basket in its spot, and tap the one cup option.

Easy enough.

Except that, somehow, it isn’t.

The machine sputters to life, but instead of dripping into the cup, it bursts at me. I fling my tie over my shoulder. I’m not wearing my suit jacket, but unfortunately for the dress shirt, it’s game over. Coffee bleeds through the stark white material, seeping deeply into the polyester. When it reaches my skin, I arch my back with a hiss.

Just as my dad walks across the hall from his office.

“It’s not what it looks like,” I say reflexively.