Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 48

An hour later, and somehow, somehow, I’m still trapped in a board game showdown with two Hayes brothers who could not be more different if they tried.

I honestly don't even remember how Tyler convinced us.

One second Asher was stonewalling the entire idea, practically glued to the couch with his arms crossed like a bouncer at a bad club, and the next Tyler was pleading like a five-year-old begging for ice cream before dinner.

Something about how it was Asher’s duty to “bond” with his brother.

Something about how Tyler needed someone to finally beat me at Monopoly because, in his exact words, *"she’s a demon in cute clothing and she must be stopped."*

I'd snorted, flipping my hair over my shoulder with all the dramatic flair I could muster.

"Unbeatable," I said simply, like it was a law of nature.

Asher had grunted —

a low, disbelieving sound that somehow managed to say Challenge accepted without him even opening his mouth.

Now here we are, an hour deep into financial warfare, and I am, of course, winning.

Because some things in life are just facts.

And Penelope Morgan *reigns supreme at Monopoly*.

Tyler has been to jail four times.

*Four.*

His little red piece is basically renting a permanent room there.

His properties are scattered, mortgaged, a sad broken empire that used to dream big but now cries softly in the corner.

"I hate this game," he mutters dramatically, slumping face-first onto the board and nearly knocking over all the tiny houses.

I lean back on my hands and grin down at him.

"You said that already," I remind him sweetly. "And yet here you are. Still losing."

He groans loudly, face still mashed into the board.

"I knew this was a bad idea," he says, his voice muffled.

"I should’ve just stayed at home and let the storm take me."

Asher —

stoic, annoyingly unbothered Asher —

shrugs and rolls the dice like he’s doing something as boring as breathing.

He moves his piece calmly, his pile of cash neat and stacked with military precision.

And okay, I have to admit it:

He’s doing... alarmingly well for someone who claimed to hate board games with his entire soul.

Still not winning, obviously.

But not embarrassing himself like a certain other Hayes in the room.

"How are you good at this?" Tyler accuses him, sitting up and glaring.

"You *hate* games."

Asher glances at him, expression completely flat.

"It’s just strategy," he says simply. "Planning. Risk management. Calculated aggression."

I stare at him for a beat.

"Did you just turn Monopoly into a tactical military exercise?" I ask, eyebrows raised.

He shrugs again, as if to say, *Is there any other way?*

Before I can roast him further for that absurd answer, my phone buzzes on the coffee table.

We all pause.

I reach for it, frowning when I see the name lighting up the screen.

**Madame Loretto.**

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

My stomach drops to somewhere around my ankles, and I swear the room gets colder.

I hold up the phone helplessly.

"It’s Madame," I whisper, my voice climbing a full octave in panic.

Tyler leans toward Asher and stage-whispers, "That’s her scary ballet teacher."

Thanks for that, Tyler.

Really helpful.

I scramble to answer, putting the phone to my ear with hands that are definitely not shaking, thank you very much.

"Hello, Madame Loretto?" I say, trying to sound like I have my life together.

Her voice slices through the line, sharp and precise like a scalpel.

"Penelope. Good afternoon. Before you ask, no results yet — it’s only Wednesday. You will be informed Saturday."

My heart, which had been preparing itself to either explode in joy or shrivel in despair, immediately does a screeching U-turn.

Not results.

Not yet.

Relief hits me first.

Then dread, because if she’s not calling about the audition, why is she calling at all?

Madame Loretto doesn’t believe in "casual chats."

"However," she continues, her tone growing even icier,

"I am calling to remind you that this is not a vacation. You are to maintain your flexibility and technique. Stretch. Work your routines. Attend the community studio if needed."

I nod frantically even though she can’t see me.

"Yes, Madame. Of course, Madame," I say, snapping to attention like she’s going to appear in the living room and launch into a full inspection.

"Good. See that you do."

The line goes dead.

I lower the phone slowly, feeling the weight of her disapproval like it’s a physical thing.

Both Hayes brothers are staring at me.

I force a smile that feels more like a grimace.

"I, uh. I need to practice," I say.

Tyler blinks.

"Now?"

I nod, already standing, tucking my phone into my pocket like it’s cursed.

"Yeah. At least stretch and run through a few moves."

Without waiting for an argument, I sprint upstairs and change — tights, tiny shorts over them, tank top tight across my ribs.

Hair in a quick bun.

No time to be cute — Madame Loretto's imaginary wrath breathing down my neck is a powerful motivator.

When I come back down, dragging my portable barre from behind the couch, I catch both guys staring.

Well.

Tyler is staring like he's seeing a fun show he didn’t buy tickets for.

Asher...

His gaze pins me in place, heavy, magnetic, focused in a way that makes my skin flush hotter under the thin tank top.

Like he could take me apart and put me back together without blinking.

Heat prickles up the back of my neck, but I shove it down.

"Okay," I say brightly, clapping my hands together. "You guys can leave now and save yourselves. I’ll see you at dinner."

Tyler flops dramatically back onto the couch.

"Nonsense," he says. "I still need to beat Ash."

Asher snorts under his breath —

a low, disbelieving sound —

but doesn’t move from where he’s sitting.

Great.

An audience.

Exactly what I needed while trying to preserve what's left of my dignity.

I plant my feet, flexing and pointing, breathing deep, trying to center myself.

I can do this.

I’ve performed on stage in front of hundreds of people.

Surely I can stretch in front of two very distracting — one in particular — human beings.

Right?

I move into a basic plié, sinking low, arms rounding in front of me.

The silence is heavy but not unpleasant.

Every once in a while, Tyler mutters something about mortgaged properties and dumb dice rolls.

Asher doesn’t say a word.

But every time I glance over —

out of the corner of my eye —

he’s there.

Watching.

Not in a creepy way.

Not even in a flirty way.

Just... noticing.

Like he's reading every movement I make, cataloging it, storing it somewhere behind those unreadable eyes.

I stretch higher, balancing on the balls of my feet, arms overhead, and his gaze never wavers.

My heart pounds louder with every breath.

Madame Loretto might’ve been the one who ordered me to practice.

But Asher Hayes is the one setting my nerves on fire.

And the worst part?

I don’t know how to make it stop.

I’m not sure I even want to.