Morgan slides his sunglasses down his nose — even though he wasn't wearing any before — and scans the growing crowd like he's selecting his audience. A group of three women stops dead on the sidewalk. All are in their early twenties. All staring at the brothers like they've materialized out of a romance novel.
Morgan gives them a slow wink.
"Hey," he says loud enough for half the street to hear. "She's my mate."
OH, NO.
The effect of that sole declaration is instant. The women gasp so loudly that a pigeon flaps away in protest. Someone across the street drops their iced coffee. A car horn honks as the driver realizes who they're looking at.
"Mate?!"
"That girl?!"
"He's carrying her?!"
"Wait… which one is Morgan?"
"The hot one— no, the other hot one— actually they're all— whatever, take pictures!"
Phones rise like a wave.
Grayson's mouth falls open. "Morgan. Dude. What is wrong with you?"
