“You started it,” I reminded him.

“And I’m not wrong.” He swirled his finger in a circle in front of my face. “You got that I’m so happy because that was seriously great sex stamped all over that goofy grin of yours. Deny it.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Dom laughed his ass off and walked away. “That’s what I thought, Kane. Looks like you might be having a honeymoon after all.”

Heads swiveled in my direction. Brows rose in question.

I ignored them all and started stripping out of my street clothes into practice gear.

I’d already lied to Emmersyn once today. I didn’t need to start doing it to my brothers or myself.

Twenty-Five

Emmersyn

I grasped my phone in my hand, my entire body sore from this morning and wound tight with nerves as the receptionist answered the phone. “Yes, this is Emmersyn Houghton. I had a message to return Megan Barton’s call from yesterday?”

It was time I bit the bullet. Yesterday, I’d spent a day avoiding my reality, but with both Kane’s lawyer calling me and this Megan woman from my grandma’s old firm, I couldn’t keep denying what was happening.

“Of course, Miss Houghton. I have a note to send you straight back to Megan as soon as you call. Hold on one moment.”

“Thank you.” My throat, dry as the Sahara, croaked as I thanked her, but if the woman noticed, she was gone before she could say anything.

Elevator music played quietly through the phone, and I grabbed a bottled water from the fridge to help settle my nerves. I was mid-chug when the phone clicked over from gentle, pseudo-soothing tunes and a woman’s voice came through the phone, crisp and clear, it was immediate this woman meant business.

“Miss Emmersyn Houghton? This is Megan Barton.”

“Hi.” I choked on my water and cleared my throat. Great first impression. “Yes, hi Miss Barton. Thank you for taking my call. I apologize for missing yours yesterday.”

“No apologies necessary.” Rapid clicking of computer keys or fingernails on a desktop came through the line. “I have to say, when I received a call from a Mr. Banks? Is it?”

“Yes. John Banks, he’s—”

“Your husband’s attorney. Contracts. Very well known in the sports world, and well, everywhere else. Yes, I know him. You probably don’t know me, but we actually met when you were younger.”

“We did?”

“Yes. I was in law school at the time and your grandmother brought you to the office to meet with Bob—good man, we all miss him—anyway, I was doing a summer internship with my father, Patrick Barton that summer. We went to lunch together, all of the partners and your grandmother. Some new hip-hop star they had signed.”

I had no idea how old this woman was, when she would have been in law school, but I only had a vague recollection of the times I went to the firm with my grandparents. Usually it was my grandma going, so it’d make sense, but, “I’m sorry… I don’t recall.”