One Last Rainy Day: The Legacy of a Prince(68)

“Buy everyone a plane ticket?”

“Exactly, that’s all I’m trying to do.”

“Is that even possible?”

“I don’t know,” I admit honestly, “but it seems like we’re not far away from where we started anymore, so it’s worth trying, isn’t it? Maybe so we can take back charge of the map, but . . .” I swallow.

“But what?”

“From what I’m seeing—what I can prove—it’s fucking terrifying. There’s a powerful group of people, several, who will stop at nothing to make sure we remain blind. We might have a chance if they’re knocked out of the equation.”

“Our country is broken,” she asks, her eyes searching mine, “irreparable, isn’t it?”

“Is that what you think?” A raindrop falls from the sky, skating down her leg, and I trace its path with my finger.

“Sometimes, when I look at you—how angry you are—sometimes, I think that’s what you think. I can feel it from you.”

The helplessness, utter hopelessness I’ve felt over the last months hasn’t gone unnoticed by the one person I’ve refused to show any of my cards to, and still, she sees me.

Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

Because she does know me.

Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

The roar in my chest intensifies as she palms my jaw, demanding my eyes.

“Dom, when you . . . feel this way, you can come to me. I’ll be there for you. I’ll be the best friend you’ve ever had.” Her blue eyes fill with concern, “You can talk to me, and I won’t . . . I’ll try not to ask too many questions. I’ll listen, I’ll be here for you, and we can—”

I cut her off with my kiss, so she can’t see what’s brewing in my eyes as light rain begins to pelt us both.





“Dom,” Tobias calls from down the hall before appearing at my bedroom door. Lowering my hardback, he eyes the title. “Freshening up on history?”

“I think of it as more of a ‘what not to do’ and ‘how not to get caught’ for dummies.”

He grins. “Get dressed. I’m taking you out for dinner.”

“I am dressed,” I look down at my T-shirt and jeans, my muddy boots discarded somewhere on the floor beside my bed.

He grimaces. “You don’t have anything nice?”

I quirk a brow. “Have we met?”

“Good point, come on.” He jerks his chin toward his bedroom, which sits catty corner to mine. “I’ll lend you a shirt . . . and pants . . . and shoes,” he chuckles.

“I’m good.”

“No, you’re not,” he flicks a finger toward me, “they’re not going to let you in wearing that.”

“Then I’ll pass,” I raise my book to resume reading.

“We’re celebrating, little brother, and I’m not in the mood to fight about how,” he grumbles. “So do me a fucking favor and just borrow some clothes.”

“Fine,” I acquiesce, following him into his room. Taking a step in, I glance around. It’s the same as it’s always been, same furniture, same setup. The difference is that he doesn’t live here anymore and hasn’t for nearly a decade. Most of those years, I’ve only looked across the hall to see it pitch dark and empty. “What are we celebrating?”

“You’re leaving in a week for college. That calls for celebration.”

“Which includes fine dining? You sure this party is for me?” I snark.

“Maybe for me a little too. Is that so wrong?”

“It is if I have to look like I stepped out of Men’s Warehouse,” I quip, dubiously eyeing the luggage on his bed.

“You’re not selling out, Dom. It’s just a fucking dress code.” He flips open his luggage, and I cringe when I spot a cashmere sweater.

“You seriously wear this shit?” I pilfer through his suitcase alongside him.

“Yes, I do, and the difference in feel and fit is incredible.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Why?” He tilts his head. “There are perks to being a millionaire, and it’s time you see the upside, or in our case, the flipside.”

“You don’t think I’m ready for MIT,” I conclude.

He pauses before plucking a tightly rolled shirt from a row of them at the bottom of his suitcase. “I don’t want you feeling like you don’t belong.”

“Let me save you the suspense,” I widen my eyes, “I won’t blend well.”

“Dom, I’m not telling you to change, but things will be different—the people, the norms, the culture. It’s a different environment.”

“I’m not a fucking idiot, hence the acceptance letter. I know how to pronounce big words, too. Don’t worry about me. Better yet, stop worrying about me.”

He scoffs. “You act like it’s a choice.”

“It is. I’m all grown up now, so you can brush the dust from your hands. You’re all done. I can take it from here.”

“So easy, huh, this game of life? I’m halfway through my twenties and still have no idea how to handle certain situations. Ever hear the saying ‘age is nothing but a number?’”