Lone Star Nights. Delores Fossen

Would love to get you drunk and see what kind of secrets you’d share.”

      “No secrets,” Cassie assured her. Now Cassie’s gaze drifted to Lucky. Perhaps she was implying that extended to Lucky himself, but Livvy didn’t seem to be buying it. Livvy gave him a thumbs-up, apparently approving of a choice that Livvy thought he’d made. A choice to get in Cassie’s pants.

      Cassie glanced down at Livvy’s shoes. “Though I would like the website for those.”

      “Sure. Of course. I’ll email the link to Lucky and he can give it to you.”

      Great. Now he was involved in the fuck-me-heels buying loop. A loop and link he’d never share with Cassie.

      Thankfully, Della saved the day. “I’ll show the girls to their rooms,” she offered.

      “We’ll go with you,” Lucky said at the same time Cassie said, “I’ll go, too.”

      Mackenzie rolled her eyes because she no doubt knew this was about the running-away thing, and she took both her and Mia’s suitcases from him. “You can’t babysit me all the time,” Mackenzie grumbled, and she made it sound like a threat.

      Lucky made a mental note to make sure someone did indeed watch her 24/7.

      “You can spend some more time with your family and friend,” Cassie said to him. “I’ll go up with Della and the girls. I need to make a phone call anyway, and maybe I can do that in the guest room.”

      All of that sounded, well, like something a visitor might say, but there was something wrong. Something other than the obvious. But Lucky couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

      While Della led the three of them—Mia, Mackenzie and Cassie—up the stairs, Lucky was about to say goodbye to Claire and Livvy and head toward his own room just off the hall. But he didn’t get far because someone else called out his name.

      Riley.

      His brother stepped away from the others and went to him. Livvy and Claire must have realized a brother talk was about to happen because they suddenly got very busy with a discussion of where to move the furniture. Riveting stuff, apparently, judging from the speed at which the women moved away from him.