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Please do not post if you aren't mentioned above <3 -- PLOT: Two young heirs from feuding families (or rival businesses) are forced to work together to save a crumbling Hamptons estate thats tied to both their legacies. Sparks fly, tensions rise. |
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Calista Mae Astor .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. Name Meaning: Calista - Most Beautiful, Fairest | Mae - Beloved, Pearl | Astor - Hawk, Star Nicknames: Mae, Lista (Only by loved ones) Gender: Female Pronouns: She/Her Age: 20 yrs, 2 months Sexuality: Straight/Heterosexual Heritage: Latina + French - Appearance: Calista's dark chocolate-colored hair is a stunning mess of waves and fullness. Her voluminous locks look good in any style, whether hanging down, in a bun, or in a ponytail. With her hair falling just below her shoulder blades, she often puts it up for sports and other activities, although she doesn't engage in those too frequently. Her eyes, an alluring mix of hazel and blue, captivate anyone who catches her gaze. Close-set and wide, her eyes resemble those of a fawn confronting danger. In terms of facial structure, Calista's French heritage is evident. With high cheekbones and sharp eyebrows, she truly embodies the essence of a Parisian. Her skin, a golden tan, is nearly blemish-free, except for a few moles scattered here and there. Her dressing style varies with the weather and season, changing frequently. In the summer and spring, she opts for light, flowy dresses, usually spaghetti-strapped with floral prints, paired with cute espadrille heels. In the winter and fall, however, she typically wears cropped wool sweaters, puffer jackets, whitewashed flare jeans, and either boots or high-top sneakers. Her wrists and neck are often adorned with numerous bracelets and necklaces, generally gold and featuring multiple seashells and beads. Standing at just 5 foot 4, most people tower over Calista, which makes her feel intimidated, although she does not express this out loud. - Personality: Perfectionist | Paranoid | Sensitive | Inconsistent | Player | Adaptable | Honest | Private | Extroverted | Mature | Wise | Organized | Flirtatious | Meticulous - She is a perfectionist, always striving for flawless outcomes in every aspect of her life. While her attention to detail can be viewed as a positive trait, it sometimes originates from a place of paranoia, where she continuously worries about making mistakes or being judged by others. Despite her sensitivity, she manages to remain adaptable in various situations, using her honesty as a shield when necessary. Being a private person by nature, she navigates social settings with an extroverted demeanor, showcasing maturity and wisdom beyond her years. Her organizational skills are impeccable, reflecting her meticulous nature in everything she does. Known for her flirtatious charm, she easily captivates those around her with her playful and engaging personality. - Family/Relations: Mateo Santiago Astor - Father: - Calista is his favorite (He doesn't own up to this, but you can see it in the gifts he gets her) - The businessman of the family and makes around 20.7 million a year - Loves and spoils his family (excessively) - 60 years of age - Protective - His business is an interior and exterior design company - Carmen Marta Astor - Mother: - Used to be a cleaning lady for Calista's father, but they fell in love. It was a bit of a scandal - Uses her time shopping, knitting, and baking - Horseback rides professionally, uses the money she earns for philanthropy - 56 years of age - Valentina Maria Astor: - Snotty - Rude to Calista - Bossy - Loves shopping with their mother - 24 years of age - Exes: Many, she's a bit of a player - Favorite Song: god is a woman - Ariana Grande - Favorite Quote: "Beauty is power; a smile is its sword." - Charles Reade "Walk out and don't look back." - Me :) - Other: Daddy's Girl ♡ Great at Decoration and Negotiation Would Love to Inherit Her Father's Business Someday |
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WIP Full Name Shiloh Avner Brooks Nicknames Brooky, Boo Name Meaning Sent, Light, Running Water Gender Male Pronouns He/Him Sexuality Painfully Straight Personality Shiloh is the kind of guy who can charm his way through any room, always with a smile that could talk anyone into anything. He knows exactly how to work a crowd, and he’s got a knack for making people laugh or swoon with just a few words. His confidence is through the roof: he knows he’s prettier, richer, and more talented than most, and he’s not afraid to let you know. But it’s not so much arrogance as it is knowing he’s got the “I can get away with anything” energy, and it makes him feel untouchable. He’s a bit bratty, teasing people for fun, and it occasionally can go too far, becoming mean-spirited.
While he’s competitive by nature, he’s also a bit lazy. Shiloh has a ton of natural talent, especially in sports: tennis, hockey, but he doesn’t always give 100%. He can coast through life without trying too hard and still come out on top, but if you push him hard enough, he’s more than capable of flipping the switch and dominating.
On the outside, Shiloh often comes across as a little shallow, obsessed with appearances, luxury, and all the perks of being rich. His social presence is flawless, and he’s always surrounded by people. But with a look closer, one can see that Shiloh’s more than just a pretty boy with a trust fund. He’s got a secret desire to get his loving but distant parents to notice him. Most of his life has been spent trying to earn their approval, chasing after their attention because it’s always felt just out of reach. No matter how many trophies or good grades he gets, it’s never enough to make them truly see him for who he is.
Flirty and non-committal, Shiloh’s always got someone on his arm, but he never sticks around long enough to form anything real. He’s just in it for the thrill and the attention. Even so, he’d never admit it, but there’s loyalty buried beneath all the bravado.
Appearance Shiloh is a solid 6’1”, with a lean, athletic frame that screams effortless Daddy’s money. His face is all sharp jawlines and high cheekbones, like he was born to be on a yacht in the Hamptons. His lips are just the right amount of full, almost pushing feminine, and when he smiles, it’s got that cocky smirk, like he’s got the world figured out. His eyes? Piercing blue that can either make you feel like he’s reading your soul or like he’s just sizing you up. His hair’s the perfect mix of messy and styled, a little longer than most, falling past his collarbone in sun-kissed waves that say he doesn’t try too hard, and it works (on most girls).. He’s always dressed designer, but in that effortlessly preppy way: tailored shirts, fresh kicks, and polos or button-ups that fit just right. He’s always got a gold watch on his wrist, a couple of bracelets, and sunglasses perched on his face, because why wouldn’t he? He walks into any room, and you know immediately he’s never wanted, never had to work a day in his life. Family Ties: Garrett William Brooks (Father)- Garrett Brooks was a man carved from stone, a monument to ambition and discipline in its most merciless form. From the moment he could walk, he had been pushed toward greatness, each step weighed down by the crushing expectations of a family that measured love in success and valued silence over sentiment. Failure was never an option—not in the Brooks lineage.
Garrett had understood that from the start.
So he made himself unbreakable. He attended all the right schools, climbed every ladder that was placed before him, and pushed himself harder than anyone dared to ask. His victories were never loud, never celebrated with champagne toasts or proud slaps on the back; they were expected.
Earned in sweat and sleepless nights, and acknowledged with a curt nod or a new responsibility to shoulder. At twenty-eight, he married Evelyn Brooks—a woman whose name alone opened doors, but whose beauty and breeding made her a prize even in circles where everyone had money. She was one of the very few people Garrett genuinely admired, though true to his nature, he rarely expressed it.
Affection, to him, was a private thing.
Almost a weakness.
In public, they were the perfect pair: polished, poised, untouchable.
Behind closed doors, his loyalty to her was deep and unwavering—though often unspoken. Fatherhood, like marriage, was simply another duty to perform flawlessly.
Garrett approached his sons the same way he approached his business ventures: expecting perfection, tolerating nothing less.
He demanded excellence, offered little praise, and viewed emotions as distractions best eradicated early.
Mistakes were not learning opportunities in Garrett’s world—they were embarrassments.
Risks were foolish unless they were guaranteed wins.
And softness?
Softness had no place in the Brooks family crest. Still, somewhere buried under all the steel and pressure, there was a part of Garrett that felt pride for his boys—brief flashes he quickly stamped down before they could make him careless. Love, in his mind, was not the wild, messy thing the poets talked about.
It was quiet. Evelyn Vera Brookss (Mother)- Evelyn Brooks was the crown jewel of East Coast aristocracy. Tall, fair, and almost painfully beautiful in that effortless, old money kind of way, she had been raised in a world of pressed pleats, cashmere cardigans, and carefully calculated charm. From her first breath, she had been groomed for a life of polished perfection—private schools where the skirt hem was inspected more carefully than the curriculum, summers spent gliding between yacht clubs and seaside galas, and winters tucked away in ski lodges that smelled of cedar and legacy. She had been raised to believe her life would unfold like a string of pearls: one polished event after another, culminating in the ultimate prize—a wealthy husband who could finance her endless clam bakes, charity balls, and shopping sprees without ever asking where the money went.
Children had never been part of her dreams.
But children were expected. Evelyn endured her pregnancies with the same detached grace she applied to everything unpleasant—head held high, smile politely frozen in place, eyes already drifting past the cribs and baby showers to the next luncheon or polo match. She bore her two sons dutifully, gave them strong names—names that looked good engraved on silver picture frames—and then stepped back, her maternal obligations complete. The boys were accessories to her life, much like her string of Mikimoto pearls or her gleaming white Range Rover: polished, presented, but rarely handled.
She made sure they looked right—pressed shirts, matching haircuts, perfectly staged holiday cards—but she left the actual raising to governesses, tutors, and the crushing expectations of the Brooks legacy. She worked tirelessly to shape them into the ideal Brooks men: quiet, charming, handsome, and above all, unblemished.
No messy emotions.
No loud opinions.
No failures. Love, in Evelyn’s world, was not unconditional.
It was a reward you earned by being better.
By being perfect. And perfection, after all, was the family business. Sutton Aubrey Brooks (Brother)- Sutton Aubrey Brooks might look like a carbon copy of his older brother, but that’s where the resemblance ended.
Sure, they shared the same sun-bleached curls, the same broad, white, camera-ready smiles that made strangers sigh and family friends whisper aren’t they just perfect?
But the shine on Sutton was a little different.
Less polished, more dangerous. Where Shiloh could be cold and cutting in a crowd—every move deliberate, every smile a performance—Sutton carried himself with a quieter, almost lazy charm. He flirted. He teased. He played the part of the carefree younger brother with an easy, lopsided grin and that golden-boy glint in his eye.
But the moment the air shifted—the moment tension cracked in the room—Sutton sharpened.
He listened, waited, learned. There was a patience to Sutton that made him infinitely more dangerous than his flashier, more impulsive brother.
He didn’t need to be the loudest.
He just needed to be the last one standing. Unlike Shiloh, who craved their parents' affection like a half-starved dog, Sutton had different ambitions.
He didn’t want approval, he didn’t even want acknowledgment. Sutton wanted to be untouchable.
Stronger.
Smarter.
Self-made in a family that measured worth by bloodlines and bank accounts.
He loved his brother fiercely, but he knew better than to follow in his footsteps. Shiloh bled for the family. Sutton planned to walk away from it. Still, beneath all the edges, Sutton was a rose, an absolute rose.
Soft. Sincere.
Someone who laughed too easily, who could make a room feel lighter just by walking into it, who still believed in something gentler than what they were raised for, even if he didn’t dare say it out loud.
Favourite Quote
“I desire the things which will destroy me in the end.” -Sylvia Plath Other ❤︎ |
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Shiloh yawned, rolling onto his back, and frowned. This was *not* his bed. The sheets were scratchy. The light was too bright. And the lingering scent of yesterday’s cologne mixed with faint tequila was... less than ideal. Panic flickered for a second, sharp and instinctual, and he sat up fast enough to make his vision blur. But no—he wasn’t in a stranger’s bedroom, or worse, some shady guesthouse from last night’s barely-remembered spiral. Just Sutton. His brother. Dead to the world and looking like a Victorian child ghost, face half-buried in a pillow and limbs splayed like he'd been through a war. Shiloh let out a breath of relief and scrubbed a hand over his face, piecing together the night before. Golf with the boys at the club. Laughs, cocktails, *excellent* gossip. Then *the call*. A sharp, awkward interruption from a family lawyer with a voice like gravel and the charisma of a tax form. Something about their great-uncle—no, *great-great-uncle*, or whatever level of ancient counted as “barely remembered but wealthy enough to matter”—passing away. And a complication with the will. Of course there was a complication. The Brooks family was built on a foundation of generational wealth and intergenerational beef. They’d had wine. Then more wine. And then, apparently, he'd blacked out somewhere between calling the Astors "monogrammed bastards" and passing out mid-sentence. Classic. Groaning, Shiloh slid out of bed, tugging down his crumpled designer tee. At the doorway, he paused, eyes drifting back to Sutton. His little brother was curled up on *barely* two square inches of mattress, clearly having ceded the entire bed to him without question. Shiloh’s chest ached for a second. A rare, unannounced feeling. He walked back, gently adjusted Sutton so he wasn’t at risk of falling off the edge, and pulled the blanket up over his shoulder like the mom-friend he’d never admit to being. Then, with a sigh heavy enough to fog up a mirror, he padded down the hall to his own room. He needed a shower. He needed caffeine. He needed this day not to exist. --- Despite arriving *extremely* fashionably early to the Whitestone estate, Sutton was already annoyed. The estate was old, sprawling, elegant in the way of things that were clearly falling apart under their own history. The driveway alone felt like it should be haunted by the ghost of some tragic novel. Shiloh stood beside him in a black cashmere sweater and sunglasses that cost more than they deserved to be worth, sipping a cold brew and radiating disapproval. “We should’ve just ignored the whole thing,” Shiloh muttered as they crossed the marble foyer, shoes clicking ominously on the cold stone. Sutton didn’t reply. His expression was tight, laser-focused. The lawyer, Mr. Gilbert Something-or-other was waiting for them in the estate’s library. He stood when they entered, like they were royalty, which Shiloh appreciated the gesture of. He flopped into one of the velvet chairs like a maiden on a fainting couch. Sutton didn’t sit. “Before the Astors get here,” Sutton said calmly, “you’re going to tell us what’s in the will.” The man blinked, and stammer an excuse about waiting for 'all relevant parties.' Shiloh raised a brow, pushing his sunglasses up onto his forehead. Sutton leaned in just slightly. “We didn’t come all the way out here just to get blindsided in a room full of Astors and photographers. So you’re going to tell us now, or I will have my mother’s lawyer subpoena a private copy of the will and open an ethics complaint for intentional withholding of material information.” Gilbert’s face paled about three shades. Shiloh frowned. Sutton and all his *legal* jargon. It was honestly annoying. “Now,” Sutton said. Calm. Friendly. Nothing like a nineteen year old. “R-right,” Gilbert stammered, fumbling with his briefcase. “Yes. Of course.” He shuffled papers like his life depended on it, and Shiloh took another sip of coffee, watching with something between mild amusement and deep boredom. Gilbert cleared his throat. “Your great-great-uncle’s final wishes state that the Whitestone estate is to be jointly inherited by the Whitneys—your family on your mother's side—and the Astors. The two parties are to co-manage the property, restore it, and, should they complete the project within one calendar year, be granted the right to decide its future together. If they fail to do so, the estate passes to the Historical Preservation Society.” Shiloh choked on his coffee. “I’m sorry. *Together*?” “Yes, jointly,” Gilbert said quickly. “That’s the stipulation.” Sutton closed his eyes. Breathed in. Breathed out. Shiloh stood. Walked over to a dusty window. Opened it for dramatic effect, except the rain had died. “So what I’m hearing,” he said, “is that I am legally obligated to coordinate aesthetic decisions with an *Astor*, one of whom once called me ‘a limp nightmare with daddy issues’ at a charity gala.” Sutton didn't look at him. "She wasn’t wrong." “I *will* slap you, Sutton.” They fell silent as the sound of tires crunched up the driveway. Shiloh closed the window. “They’re here,” Gilbert said nervously, shuffling his notes. Shiloh turned back around, smile sharp enough to cut glass. “Wonderful,” he said in a falsely cheerful tone. "Thus begins the train wreck." |
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Calista opened her eyes to find the early morning sun streaming through the window. Ach, she still had a headache from last night. Maybe one too many margaritas. But anyway, her mind couldn't shake off what Father had told her the night before. Something about a call from their lawyer. Something she hadn't known before. Something that she would hate. She had to work with someone from the Brooks family. Her family’s rival. To save a Hamptons house. Apparently, this was all written in the will of the Brooks family. That if this random great-uncle died, someone from her family, and someone from their family, had to work to save this house. She couldn't even express how pissed she was. Though this was a perfect chance to show how great she was with interior design and planning, she had to object. This specific Brooks' son called her and her family “monogrammed bastards.” How did she know this? She put, let's say… spies, in the Brooks’ parties and houses. She pays them quite well, and in return, gets all the juicy gossip from their mansion. They posed as maids, butlers, anything the Brooks’ needed. She learns what they are doing, and when and where they did it. She also knew Sutton was drunk last night, but that didn't matter. Well, she pushed that out of her mind, at least for now, and took a quick shower, seeing that her hair was a mess of tangles. She chose a flowy little mini dress and some Louis Vuitton sneakers and headed to breakfast. She picked out a light breakfast, which consisted of an omelet and strawberries, fresh-picked, of course. Then, her father sprung something else upon her. “Hon, you need to meet up with them today. At the house.” He said this with a sorry look on his face, but she could tell he was thankful to get out of work, as he already had a lot on his plate. Of course, she was infuriated, exclaiming, “Now?! I haven’t mentally prepared myself for this! I need at least 3 days, maximum.” Apologetically, he said, “I have the Porsche and the driver ready, with anything you might need back there. Snacks, weapons, anything.” Calista sighed, but thanked her father and headed to the 5-car garage. She hopped in the Porsche, asking the driver to take her to the Whitestone estate. Daintily getting out of the vehicle, she thanked the driver and set off towards the luxurious estate. Turning the doorknob, she took a few deep breaths, not knowing what was going to happen. She found them all in the grand library, Shiloh sprawled on on velvet chair, Sutton standing coldly by himself. She said, in the most calm, collected, and sarcastic manner, “Hello boys… it’s just wonderful to see you. Now, are you ready to clean up this old dump?” |
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Shiloh was already sick of this entire ordeal, and he was also horrified. Not only had he put on a full three piece suit, but the Astor girl had arrived in a mini-dress. Had she no respect for anything? Strutting through the manor’s foyer like it was her ancestral birthright instead of, you know, someone else’s dead uncle’s crusty passion project. Actually, that was one of the *only* good things about this whole ridiculous situation. The great-great-uncle who’d passed had been on the Brooks’ mother's side—*not* related to the Astors at all. Which meant, legally speaking, the will had carved up the property into three shares: one for Shiloh, one for Sutton, and one for Calista. Two against one. And since Shiloh and Sutton were still, for now, operating on brotherly synergy, that meant Astor votes didn’t hold nearly as much weight. Just enough to be annoying. The lawyer was once again going through the will like they hadn’t heard it already twenty minutes ago. Shiloh, valiantly resisting the urge to claw his own face off, slouched deeper into the overstuffed armchair he’d claimed, sipping a lukewarm iced espresso like it was his only anchor to this plane of existence. “‘…All major structural decisions to be agreed upon by at least two of the three parties… estate to be preserved with intent to restore, not demolish… historical value recognized by the Preservation Society…’” the lawyer droned, flipping pages that sounded like sandpaper scraping his brain. Shiloh zoned out again. Paint colors. Plumbing. Roof inspection. God, kill him. When the lawyer finally packed up his papers, offering a vaguely apologetic bow and mumbling something about being *available by phone*, Shiloh watched Sutton track him with the eyes of a hawk with a vendetta. The man practically tripped over his own briefcase on the way out. Good. The door clicked shut. “Well,” Sutton said, folding his arms, “it shouldn’t take that long.” Shiloh raised a skeptical brow. That was optimistic for Sutton. Borderline delusional. Sutton started pacing a little, half-evaluating the room, half-venting. “The bones of the house are solid. Structurally, it’s fine. We just need to clear out all this ugly furniture, seriously, who upholstered that chaise in *olive corduroy,* and bring in a crew to do paint, flooring, patch the roof. Easy.” “Define ‘easy,’” Shiloh muttered. “Because I have exactly zero plans to personally haul century-old armoires out of this dust trap.” “Obviously,” Sutton said dryly. “You’ll break a nail and sue me. I have plenty of companies that owe me a favor or two.” Shiloh smiled serenely. “Good.” Truthfully, his mind had already floated off. The idea of playing house flipper was... exhausting. Tedious. Domestic in a way that clashed deeply with his aesthetic. There was something weird about staying in a half-dead mansion when they could be at the beach club, or literally anywhere with room service and a decent Wi-Fi connection. Thank God their uncle had left a solid restoration budget in the will. There was no *way* either Brooks brother was putting their own money into fixing up antique window moldings or re-plastering walls. Shiloh would rather set the place on fire and fake an electrical mishap. Sutton checked his watch, one of those sleek, minimalist ones that suggested that he was already a rich businessman with a terrible amount of debt and a serious lack of emotional depth. “I’ve got a meeting at BC in half an hour,” he said, grabbing his latte off the dusty mantel like he’d done this a hundred times. “Admissions thing. After that, you and I are golfing. Bethpage Black is already expecting us.” Shiloh perked up slightly. “Did you reserve the caddy I like?” Sutton didn’t even blink. “The one you keep flirting with so you don’t have to carry your clubs?” “I carry the weight of the family name, Sutton. Not golf bags.” Sutton rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he headed for the door, glancing over his shoulder at his brother. “Come on. Let’s escape before Calista starts suggesting we install a crystal healing room or something.” |
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Calista already knew everything the Brooks' lawyer was saying. His legal slang was as familiar to her as the back of her hand, so as he rattled on, she found herself growing increasingly bored, her attention drifting. Glancing over at Shiloh, she noticed he seemed just as disinterested, leaning back in his chair with an air of coolness that mirrored her own feelings. His posture suggested he was unwilling to invest any energy into the lawyer's monotonous drone, which only added to the mood of contempt in the room. Suddenly, their eyes met—just the intensity of his gaze made her blood boil, igniting a mix of frustration and tension between them that simmered just below the surface. The lawyer, noticing the shift in the room, hastily wrapped up his talk, making quick work of a bow before heading out the door, leaving Calista standing alone with what she considered her two worst enemies. With a small sneer that expressed both scorn and challenge, she gracefully sank into one of the plush velvet chairs, letting the fabric's coolness contrast with the heat of her anger. The boys, apparently unaware of the charged atmosphere, began to bicker mildly about something trivial, the specifics of which she didn't bother to catch.
Their argument, however, triggered a memory from her childhood—playful yet fierce squabbles with her sister that had often started over insignificant matters but escalated quickly, leading to punches thrown and hair pulled in a whirlwind of frustration and love. Each jab and shove had felt so critical at the time, as if their lives depended on those small fights. She shook those memories out 0f her head, trying to focus on the goal, when abruptly, the boys stood up and walked out of the room. She heard them chattering, but one thing caught her attention. Sutton had said, “Come on. Let’s escape before Calista starts suggesting we install a crystal healing room or something.” This made her infuriated. She hopped up off the chair, and ran up to him, exclaiming, “Excuse me, that is no way to talk about me. Now apologize.” - (Completely off topic: Sorry it’s so short ^^”) |
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Shiloh had been in the middle of bringing up the time Sutton had flirted with one of their mother's friends, an absolutely shameless maneuver designed to get them out early from one of Evelyn's infamous garden parties. It had almost worked, too, until Sutton, with his usual brand of dry, surgical wit, had left the woman so flustered that she’d been clinging to his sleeve like a sailor to a lifeline. And then, just as Shiloh was laughing through the memory, Sutton had cut in, leaving a parting, razor-sharp comment about the Astors. One of those scathing, offhand remarks he did so well: one that skated the line between brutally honest and unreasonably rude. Shiloh, of course, had laughed. He always did. Sutton’s wit was a weapon, but it was a beautiful one, and Shiloh had always enjoyed watching it cut. But to no one’s surprise, Calista didn’t take the comment nearly as well. Her expression frosted over, hiding something far sharper beneath it. Her jaw tightened, and she snapped at Sutton, demanding an apology with a high, clipped voice that sounded like fine china cracking. Shiloh didn’t miss a beat. He turned slightly, brushing his brother’s elbow with his own, a silent, almost instinctual signal. A reminder: You and me. Always you and me. “No,” he said, his tone turning to ice, polite but lethally calm. “Aubs doesn’t need to apologize for anything. I’m sorry you can’t take a joke now and again, but you have no right to snap at him. He wasn’t even talking to you, and I’m damn sure you’ve heard worse from people who are considered closer to you.” The silence that followed was thick, electric. Sutton’s grip tightened on his glass, the only sign of his irritation. He jabbed Shiloh in the ribs, a silent warning: Don’t fight for me. He hated that. Always had. Being treated like the weaker brother, like the one who needed saving. But he didn’t walk away either. “Maybe we ought to just leave,” he murmured, his voice a quiet, even monotone, the kind he used when he was holding something in. “I don’t want to be late, and Will—” “Shut up, Aubs.” Shiloh’s voice was a sharp hiss, a whipcrack. “Your preppy boyfriend can wait. This is important.” That did it. Sutton turned, his expression frigid, dark eyes narrowing in a look that promised consequences. Shiloh matched it, a brief battle of wills in the air between them. Tension spiked, a cold, sharp thing hanging between the boys. And then Sutton’s expression shifted, just slightly, enough to show he’d won. He always did. Shiloh let out a breath, pulled away, and snatched his sunglasses from the ugly chair he’d been leaning against. His smile returned, sharp and mocking, a mask slipping easily back into place as he turned to Calista. “Would the great Astor care to join us for lunch and golf?” he asked, voice smooth as silk, that infuriating, charming warmth back in his tone. Sutton’s expression remained flat. “You’re insufferable.” “Only because you make me look good,” Shiloh quipped, draping an arm around Sutton’s shoulders and steering him towards the door, not waiting to see if Calista would follow. “Come on. Lunch is on me. And maybe golf. But only if you stop sulking.” “I’m not sulking,” Sutton muttered, but he didn’t shrug Shiloh’s arm off. “Of course you’re not. You’re far too dignified to sulk,” Shiloh teased, already feeling his mood lift now that they were leaving. He glanced over, catching the faintest hint of a smile twitching at Sutton’s lips. Victory. “So…Bethpage?” Shiloh asked. “Or you wanna try somewhere a little more exclusive?” “Bethpage is fine,” Sutton sighed, a hint of his usual sarcasm returning. “I’ll call ahead, make sure they clear the cameras.” “Ugh. See, this is why you’re my favorite brother,” Shiloh laughed, pulling his sunglasses on and stepping out into the bright, summer sunlight. “And you’re my only brother,” Sutton replied dryly. But this time, there was a faint warmth in his voice. |
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Fall Month: 1 
Day 
Light Rain
