Craving The Wrong Brother (Sloane and Knox) novel Chapter 223

Chapter 223

–Julie–

It takes me a couple of seconds to process Luke’s words. And when I do, I freeze. My breath catches and my mind feels like it’s short–circuiting. Did he just say…? No, I must have misheard. My ears are still ringing. The blood rushing through me is loud enough to drown out reality. But no, he said it. He said ‘I love you!

I climb off his body, still trembling from everything we’ve just done. My knees are weak, and I’m not sure if it’s from the sex or from the emotional bomb he just dropped on me. I’m standing there, staring down at him, completely lost for words. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

Luke doesn’t move right away. He lies on his back, watching me with those piercing eyes and then a small, lopsided smile.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says. “I just wanted you to know.”

He pushes himself up with a groan, rubbing his lower back. “Damn, my back is killing me. Next time you want to get kinky and toss me onto the floor, maybe give me a heads–up.”

I laugh. “I didn’t toss you. Just a little roll.”

“Whatever you say, princess.”

He stretches, then stands, towering over me. Before I can say anything, he sweeps me off the floor and throws me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing.

“Luke!” I yelp, laughing as I slap at his back. “Put me down!”

“Nope. You’ve clearly decided to break me tonight, so the least I can do is return the favor and haul you around like a sack of potatoes.”

“I’m not a sack of potatoes.”

“Well, you’re not behaving like a lady, either, so…”

I’m laughing so hard now that I can’t argue anymore. He carries me into the bathroom and sets me down on the cool tile floor. The abrupt shift from laughter to quiet makes me notice how close we are again, how his eyes are searching mine, soft but full of something I don’t dare name. He doesn’t say anything as he turns to the tub and starts running the water, testing the temperature with his hand until it’s just right.

When the tub is full, he gestures to it with a slight tilt of his head. “Get in, princess.”

“Why?”

“Please, get in,” he repeats. “It’s my turn to take care of you.”

I hesitate for a moment before stepping into the warm water, sinking down with a sigh. The heat wraps around me, loosening the knots in my muscles. Luke kneels beside the tub and grabs a washcloth and soap.

“You’re really doing this?” I say.

“Just enjoy it.” He dips the cloth into the water and runs it over my shoulders. His touch is careful, like he’s handling something delicate. It’s a side of him I don’t see often, and it leaves me feeling exposed. Vulnerable.

“You’ll stay the night, yeah?” he asks after a moment.

“That’s not even a question,” I reply, letting my head fall back against the edge of the tub.

He smiles, his hands never faltering as he washes me off. The silence is comfortable for a while, but then I feel the weight of the question I’ve been avoiding since we last talked about it.

“What’s the deal with Sara? What do you want to ask her?”

Luke’s hands still for a moment, then he exhales. “Well, when it happened, we were separated, still working out the divorce. I went to the preschool to pick Juan up, and they told me Sara had come earlier. Said we had an event and wouldn’t make it by closing hours.” His voice tightens, the words coming slower now. “I called her non–stop. She never picked up. Then, a few hours later, I got the call. They told me there’d been an accident.”

My heart twists in my chest as I watch him, his jaw clenched and his eyes

distant.

I don’t say anything at first. What is there to say? The room feels heavy, like all the air has been sucked out of it.

want to ask her why,” Luke says. “Why she did what she did. Five years ago, she refused to talk. Maybe she’ll be more talkative about it now.”

I nod, even though part of me feels like screaming. If this is what he needs, fine. I’ll do it. For him. But if he asked me, I’d say she took Juan to spite Luke, to hurt him. And maybe things got out of hand.

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Chapter 223

I lean forward, brushing my fingers against his hand. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll ask her.”

He looks at me, something like gratitude flickering in his eyes. “Thank you.”

But as I sink back into the water, I can’t help the thought that creeps into my mind. What if she doesn’t give him the answer he’s looking for?

20

I stare at the map on my phone again, squinting at the small blue dot. This can’t be the place. It shouldn’t be the place. The house in front of me looks like it belongs in a crime drama, the kind of set you see right before the SWAT team storms in and starts flipping tables, scattering drugs and guns across the floor.

The driveway is cracked, weeds poking through like nature’s middle finger to maintenance. A faded plastic flamingo leans to one side, its beady eyes seeming to glare at me. The house itself is a single–story box of peeling paint and suspicious energy. Every window has bars on it, the porch light flickers like it’s auditioning for a horror movie, and the mailbox is duct–taped shut.

I sigh, gripping my steering wheel tighter than necessary. This is the address Luke forced out of Jerome, his company’s lawyer. Jerome swore it’s legit. What the hell am I doing here? I’m not a private investigator or some avenging angel of justice. I’m just a woman in a car, trying not to look too out of place in my business–casual blouse and heels.

“Okay,” I mutter under my breath, “get it together. Knock on the door, ask the questions, get the hell out of here. Simple.”

Simple, yeah. Except my heart is pounding like a drumline on steroids, and my palms are sweaty.

I try the phone number Jerome provided one more time, pressing call with a prayer on my lips. It rings. And rings. And rings. No answer. Again.

“Unbelievable,” I say, shoving my phone into my bag. What kind of parolee doesn’t answer the phone? For a moment, I debate just leaving, chalking this up to bad intel and an even worse idea. But then I think about Luke–his voice, thick with pain, asking me to do this. And I know I can’t turn back.

Summoning every ounce of courage I have, I push my car door open, step out, and march toward the front door. My heels click against the cracked concrete, each step feeling louder than it should. I stop at the door, hesitate, then knock.

Nothing happens. No sound, no movement. I knock again, harder this time.

A few seconds later, the door creaks open. A child steps out, maybe eight or nine, with a wild mop of hair tied into a lopsided ponytail. She’s wearing a faded pink hoodie and mismatched socks, one of which has a hole where her big toe sticks out.

She looks me up and down like she’s sizing me up for a fight. “What do you want?”

“Hi,” I say. “I’m looking for Sara. Does she live here?”

The girl tilts her head. “Sara, huh? My memory’s not so good. Maybe she does. Maybe she doesn’t.”

“Is that a yes or-”

“You got candy?” she interrupts.

“Excuse me?”

“Candy,” she says, like I’m dumb. “Something shiny. My memory works better when I get paid.”

I blink again, trying to decide if I’m being punked. “You’re joking.”

She crosses her arms and leans against the doorframe. “Rich ladies like you don’t get jokes. You want something? You pay for it.” “Are you serious right now?

She rolls her eyes so hard I’m half–convinced they’ll pop out of her head. “You want to stand here all day, or you want answers?” “Fine,” I say, pulling my purse out of my bag. I dig around and find a ten–dollar bill, slapping it into her outstretched hand. She glances at it, unimpressed. “More.”

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