My Best friend's Brother

Before The Weekend

I was an early riser... Or maybe that was the wrong word to use. I had insomnia, so sleeping was a problem.

Which explained why I was in the kitchen by 4 a.m., fully dressed in my usual outfit—a suit—brewing coffee. I walked into the sitting room, glancing at the windows. It was already dawn. The sky was glowing red, a warning of the day ahead.

Soon enough, the girls would be awake. Speaking of "girls"... I took a sip of my coffee before walking toward the window, staring down at the quiet city, save for a few cars and early risers moving like ghosts through the streets.

I’d had a business meeting in Barcelona, which explained why I was in Spain. I was supposed to be finishing up by the weekend and returning to New York on Monday. I should’ve been thinking about work, logistics, my schedule. But I wasn’t.

No, I was thinking about what I’d come back to—my house invaded by my sister and her best friend.

Rhoda always had a streak of stubbornness in her, but it never flared into anything unmanageable. Until she met Joan. I had to give Joan credit for pulling Rhoda out of her grief after our parents died. But Joan didn’t stop there. She had a way of encouraging the wild, reckless side of my sister, feeding it like gasoline to a flame.

And the fact that Joan hated me? Well, that was just a bonus. I overheard her once telling Rhoda that I always looked like I had a stick up my ass. She’d go out of her way to ignore me or start an argument—anything to get under my skin.

And damn if it didn’t work.

I didn’t even realize how long I’d been standing there, staring out at nothing, my coffee growing cold. A movement in the house snapped me back. My body tensed, instinctively alert.

The house was big enough for all of us to avoid each other, but I could sense her. Joan. I wasn’t even looking, but I could feel her presence, the heat of her gaze boring into my back.

Closer, closer, until the room fell into that particular kind of silence that only she could create. I didn’t turn around.

She didn’t speak. She just moved past me, toward the fireplace, her movements slow and deliberate, like she had all the time in the world. I eventually turned and pinned her with a cool, assessing look.

Her ginger-red hair was piled into a messy bun on top of her head, strands escaping to frame her face. She closed her eyes, soaking in the warmth of the fire, her lashes dark against her pale skin. Those eyes, when they opened, were sharp and cunning—like a fox’s.

I moved to the island that separated the kitchen from the dining area, annoyed at myself for noticing things about her I had no business noticing. The quiet between us was thick, tense.

She stood, her movements unhurried, and walked toward me. Our eyes met—green on black—before she quickly glanced away. My gaze followed her, against my better judgment, lingering on the way her sleep shirt clung to her body, the curve of her legs in those damn shorts that barely reached mid-thigh.

She looked good in the morning, like she always did. Too good.

“If you’re done ogling me, move out of my way,” she said, her voice flat, eyes narrowed in a scowl.

I raised the mug to my mouth, taking a sip of bitter, cold coffee, eyes still on her. “This is my house,” I replied, matching her tone. “I can’t be in your way.”

Her scowl deepened, her eyes flashing with something sharper than anger. For anyone else, the look she gave me would have been enough to send them running. But not me.

She squared her shoulders, lifting her chin as if daring me to back down. I didn’t. She wasn’t tall enough to reach my height, not even on her best day, but she didn’t need height to hold her ground.

Fists clenched, lips flattened into a hard line, her whole body practically vibrating with the effort it took not to lash out. It didn’t take much to rile her up, especially if it was coming from me.

She let out a sharp huff, her gaze slicing away from mine as she moved around the island, heading for the kitchen. I didn’t turn to follow, but I knew exactly what she was doing.

Joan Madison wasn’t a morning person without her coffee. In that way, at least, we were alike.

My sister, Rhoda, appeared a moment later, her chestnut hair a wild mess, her eyes heavy with sleep.

I knew both girls slept in the same room and on the same bed. Leaving me wondering why Joan looked like that and Rhoda —like this.

She mumbled a groggy, “Morning,” as she brushed past me and stood next to Joan, who wordlessly handed her a mug.

Rhoda smiled, leaning into Joan’s shoulder as she took a sip. The sight nearly made me roll my eyes.

Rhoda turned to me, noticing that I hadn’t responded to her greeting. Her brow furrowed in confusion, and she just stared at me for a beat too long.

“We’re leaving today,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. My stomach twisted into a knot at her words. Joan didn’t even spare me a glance.

I checked my watch, taking a long stride toward the couch, my mind already racing. “Stay,” I said, my tone flat, almost indifferent.

Rhoda’s eyes widened in surprise, her sleepy expression disappearing as she processed what I’d said. “I’ll be leaving by the weekend,” I added, grabbing my suitcase.

I glanced at Joan, just long enough to catch her tense posture, before I turned back to Rhoda. She looked like she was caught between confusion and mild guilt, but Joan? Joan’s expression didn’t waver. If anything, she seemed more irritated.

Without another word, I headed for the door, suitcase in hand. I didn’t trust Joan. Not even a little bit. And I sure as hell wasn’t about to leave them here without keeping tabs on them.

I wasn’t that foolish.