“Don’t get used to them,” she says. “I won’t be making them again.”

“Why not?” I break off another piece. It’s tempting to just shove the whole thing in my mouth. The shortbread is crisp, and the butter gives it a rich crunch. The lavender is subtle, giving the cookie a whiff of floral top notes.

It’s first rate. My dad married a woman who doesn’t plan to divorce him for profit and knows how to bake. That’s two points in her favor already.

“I like to mix things up, so I never get bored. If you’re still here next week, I’m going to do an oatmeal cookie with dried cherries.”

“That sounds fantastic,” I admit. “But I won’t be here next week. My job is very demanding.” I sound like a dickwad right now, but she already knows the score. What kind of family is so broken that the dad doesn’t bother inviting his sons to the wedding?

This kind. And I honestly don’t know how I would have responded if he’d invited me.

I guess we’ll never find out.

Here comes the man himself, carrying a sheaf of papers. He sits down in the chair beside mine and grabs the remaining cookie off my plate. He takes a bite of it.

“Hey!” I complain. “I was going to eat that.”

“There’s more,” he says while chewing. “Besides, I wouldn’t want you to choke.”

“Why would I choke?”

He folds back the top page of the document he’s holding. I read TERMSHEET FOR THE SALE OF MADIGAN MOUNTAIN LLC TO SHARPE INDUSTRIES. Then I skim the relevant details on the page.

And when I get to the price, I almost swallow my tongue.

FIVE

Posh Industrial

Charli

The limo pulls up at the practice facility at one minute past four. Neil is almost on time.

“Here’s my key card,” he says, one foot out of the car already. “I just texted Miguel, so he’ll let you go up. I’m apartment 613. Leave the card with him when you leave for practice, okay? Gotta bolt.”

He tosses the card, and I catch it. Then the door closes after him with a well-engineered click.

I lean back against the leather and let out a long breath. The car slides onward toward his apartment building, which is only two blocks away on Water Street.

When we stop again, I hop out of the car before the driver can open the door for me. “I’ll get the bags,” I offer.

“I’ll help,” she says easily. “There’s a lot.”

She isn’t wrong. I grab my own, and she takes Neil’s. Miguel, the concierge of the Million Dollar Dorm—as we refer to the luxury renovated condo building where many of the Bruisers live—emerges to stack all the luggage on a trolley.

“Thank you,” I say uselessly. The people who live in this building are used to this level of service. They hand out fat tips at Christmastime.