Craving The Wrong Brother (Sloane and Knox) novel Chapter 176

Chapter 176

–Julie–

I’m home early, lounging in the living room, pretending to flip through a fashion magazine. But my focus keeps drifting to Emily. She’s sprawled out on the yoga mat, twisting her body into impossible poses that make me question if she’s made of rubber rather than bone.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” I blurt out, unable to stop myself. There’s no way a human being can bend that far without something snapping.

Emily chuckles, glancing over her shoulder at me without breaking her stretch. “Actually, it feels freeing.” She turns her head just enough to offer a mischievous smile. “You should try it. Might help you loosen up.”

I snort. “Yeah, right. I’m in my thirties. My body doesn’t do… that,” I gesture toward her, “and I’m perfectly happy keeping all my joints intact, thanks.”

Emily slowly untangles herself from the pose and shifts into another, making it look as effortless as breathing. “Age is just a number, Julie. You’re only as old as you feel.”

I flip a page in the magazine, pretending to read. “Then I must be ancient, because there’s no way I’m doing that.”

“Suit yourself.”

Just then, my phone buzzes. I glance down and see my mother’s name flashing on the screen, and immediately, my stomach tightens. This can’t mean anything good.

I take a deep breath, already bracing for whatever new drama she’s about to unload. “What now?” I answer, skipping any kind of greeting.

“Step out of the house,” my mother says. “Meet me at Brooklyn Bridge.”

“Brooklyn Bridge?” I echo. “It’s eight o’clock at night, Mom.”

“Do you have a curfew, Julie?”

I sigh, knowing there’s no point in arguing. “No.”

“Then get off whatever couch you’re glued to and meet me there,” she snaps, hanging up before I can respond.

I stare at the phone in disbelief, then lower it slowly. “Great,” I mutter, tossing the magazine aside.

Emily glances up from her yoga mat, her curiosity piqued. “Everything okay?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” I push off the couch, grabbing my keys and stuffing them into my pocket.

I head for the door with an uneasy feeling in my gut. Whatever this is, it’s not going to be good. But when has anything involving my mother ever been good?

The cool night air bites at my skin as I step out of my car, parking at Brooklyn Bridge Park. I glance at my phone, checking the coordinates my mother sent, and follow the directions, each step accompanied by the steady hum of traffic and the occasional blare of a horn.

It feels like I’ve been walking for ages when I finally spot her. She’s standing at the edge of the bridge, facing the water, her back to me. Even from a distance, I can tell she’s dressed impeccably, like she’s on her way to some black-tie event. Only my mother would step out of the house looking like she’s attending a gala at this time of night.

1/2

1 stop a few feet away, watching her for a moment. She looks so calm, almost serene, like she’s lost in thought. But I know better than to be fooled by appearances. This is just the calm before the storm.

“What’s this about, Mom?” I ask, my voice tight.

She doesn’t turn around immediately, her gaze still fixed on the water below. When she finally does, her eyes sweep over me, pausing on my tracksuit and flip-flops. “You came out of the house in that?”

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