I arrived at Beau and Cam’s a few minutes later and knocked on the door. Their trucks were in the driveway, but no one answered the door. Letting myself in with my key, I followed the sounds of grunts and skin slapping against skin from the back of the house. I walked that way and stood unnoticed in the doorway of the dojo, watching my brother and Cam—both wearing only athletic shorts—circling each other before Cam landed a roundhouse kick against my brother’s ribs. Beau flinched, but just barely.

I cleared my throat, and both men straightened and looked chagrined when they noticed me standing in the doorway. “Hey, baby sis,” Beau said, striding over to me, his body red and soaked with perspiration. “What’s up?”

“Just wondered if I could talk to you for a minute.” I kissed my brother’s cheek and then Cam’s as he ambled over.

“I’m going to go take a shower,” Cam said. He ran his hand down his eight-pack abs until the tips of his fingers were in the waistband of his shorts. “That is, unless Blaire wants me to stay so she can ogle my hot, sweaty body.”

“Swear to Christ,” my brother said, “if you touch your dick with my sister in the room, I’ll cut it off and feed it to you on a cracker.”

“Better be a big fucking cracker,” Cam said with a naughty grin until Beau growled him out of the room. “Okay, okay. Going to take a shower now.” He winked at me. “I’ll be thinking of you, sweet Blaire.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Beau yelled down the hallway with Cam’s wicked cackle drifting back to us. My brother grabbed a towel from the rack near the door and swiped it through his sweaty hair and over his muscled abdomen before draping it across his shoulders. “Whatcha need, babe? You want me to pick up Carrie tomorrow?”

“No, I’m off work all day. I actually wanted to talk to you about Axel,” I said. Beau grunted and mumbled something under his breath. “Specifically, about the day we left Texas five years ago.”

“Here we fucking go,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I’m gonna need a beer for this conversation. Come on.” He led me to the kitchen, where he grabbed a couple of long necks, and we sat across the granite breakfast bar from each other. “You been talking to that asshole?”

More than talking, I was tempted to say. “Yes. He said he talked to you the day we left Texas.”

“Yep,” he said, taking a long pull from his beer. I followed suit, waiting for him to speak, but he just stared at me.

Ladies and gentlemen… Beau Atwood… Master of Communication.

“And?” I prodded. “What did he say?”