“Because you’re in a small, military town. They like to protect their own. If you go in there with guns blazing—pun intended—I guarantee they’ll clam up and not give you any information whatsoever. Besides—”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“Make friends.” I don’t respond, because the thought is annoying. Why do I need to make friends here? It’s not like I’ll ever be back in this town again. “Look, I know you’re used to blowing into town, making your pitch, winning a client over, and flying back out, but this is going to take finesse. This is going to take earning their trust. The coach said this Ryan guy’s not a fan of agents, so this slow approach might help win you what you want—whatever that may be.”

“That’s annoying.”

“What, the small-town vibe or the fact that New York Chase has to adjust how she does things?”

“Both.” I laugh. “Thanks for the advice. I don’t know if I’ll heed it—”

“You will if you want to find this guy and then you’ll be thanking me,” she says in a singsong voice.

“I’ve got to go.” I reach for my purse on the seat next to me.

“Don’t think we didn’t notice you chose to go rogue in this month of all months.”

Her words stop me mid-motion. And the therapy session has commenced. I pretend I don’t know what she’s talking about. “What do you mean?”

“You’re twenty-six, Chase. You running off to find Lost Letter Boy isn’t going to make the anniversary of her passing any easier.” Brexton’s words are soft, compassionate, and I hate hearing the empathy edging them.

Of course, she’s talking about the death of our mom, but in true Chase Kincade fashion, I deflect from the topic and pretend everything is perfectly okay.

“Seriously? Did it ever cross your mind that I needed a break from you guys and your prying eyes? That maybe I needed to get laid without my three sisters sticking their noses in my business?”

“No, but it crossed my mind that you make sure you’re nowhere to be found around this time every year. You have a habit of making sure you’re on a recruiting trip or a vacation or somewhere other than here so we don’t know if you’re okay.”

“Your point is?”

“My point is that it’s okay to need someone. To need us.”

“Noted,” I say in a clipped tone, wanting to click the padlock on Pandora’s box before she tries to pry it open.

“You’re our little sister. It’s okay to be worried about you.”