Page 21 of Buckin' Around

She sighs, her forehead hitting the steering wheel. A groan that turns to a manic laugh rattles her shoulders.

Now I’m a little concerned. Curiosity has been stamped out by worry.

“Myeejitbrother and his carefree ways have caught up with him.”

I tamp back the need to chuckle at her attempt at eejit. My accent and words have been rubbing off on her for the past few months. And I can’t say her Canadian vernacular hasn’t flattened my accent a little. We are an accumulation of the people we surround ourselves with, after all.

Stacey lifts her head, shaking it as her gaze meets mine.

“He’ll never recover from this one, Riles. Not with Mom and Dad.”

“How bad can it be?” I ask, the words threadbare.

“As bad as it gets. At least, it will be, in their eyes.”

Her parents. Their parents.

If I got a read on Mr. and Mrs. Lockwood, it was that they are the type of people whose reputation matters above all else. Their children included. That part of their family dynamic has my heart ache for Stace and her brother.

But it’s not my business or my family. Nor will it be in nine more months, when I’m back home and starting to build my life. From the ground up, literally.

Stacey shifts the car into gear, and we spend the next fifteen minutes in silence, despite the myriad of maybe-helpful things I come up with to try and ease the worry on my friend’s face.

The light snow on the ground lays in a sort of patchy moat around the apartment building her brother lives in as we pull over at the curb.

A silver sign inscribed withLockwood Loftsshines in the morning rays of sunlight in front of the neat hedging that flanks the front of the building.

Fancy.

Stacey kills the engine.

“Please remember, this stays between the three of us. My parents can’t know about this. It can’t come up at the weekly dinners.”

“Sure.” I nod and give her a reassuring smile.

A little of that curiosity over what on earth my siblingship could possibly be useful for in this situation rises again. We walk up the concrete pathway and Stacey pushes the penthouse button.

Oh.

Of course.

No response comes, just the buzz of the front door unlocking a second before Stacey pushes a hand onto the glass and we spill into the warm foyer.

“Morning, Miss Lockwood. Early start?”

A man stands inside the door dressed in . . . is he, holy hell . . . a butler?

Geez almighty.

“Morning, Henry.”

“Mr. Lockwood is waiting for you.”

Mr. Lockwood?

Her father or her brother?

Stacey nods stiffly, and we pad across the dark navy carpet to the silver elevator. I push the up button, and Stace gives me a soft, grateful smile.