There's a certain skill to knowing when you're about to be ambushed. And after almost eighteen years of living with the Alcove brothers, I had developed something of a sixth sense.
I felt it—like a prickle at the back of my neck—the second Marcus walked into the room. I looked up from my book, half-amused, half-suspicious.
"Alright, Marcus, what's the angle?" I asked, folding my arms. My brothers always had one, especially when it came to my love life.
"Angle?" he repeated, eyes wide with feigned innocence. "Can't a brother simply have a nice chat with his sister?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Right, because this is the face of 'nice chat.'"
Marcus sighed, pulling up a chair across from me. "Alright, you got me. I came to make you an offer."
