ATONEMENT NIGHT, 10:28 PM

Grayson Davenport Hawthorne slept like the dead—when he slept at all. There were nights when he didn’t, couldn’t. But when things went quiet and still, when memories gave way to nothing…

He didn’t even dream.

“Yup. He’s out cold.”

“Give me the puppy.”

Something licked Grayson’s hand. So much for blissful nothing—or an early night. Another lick. “That had better,” he said sternly, his eyes still closed, “be the dog.”

In response, his covers were torn back and said puppy was placed upon him.

“Get him, Tiramisu,” Xander crooned from above. “Nuzzle those abs! Sniff those pecs!”

Grayson resigned himself to opening his eyes. He sat up, gathered the squirming puppy in his arms, and shot Xander the most austere of looks. “You are very lucky that I am holding an animal right now.”

“An animal?” Jameson repeated, his lips twitching slightly.

Xander was outraged. “Is that any way to refer to Tiramisu Panini Hawthorne?”

Grayson had been heretofore unaware that the dog had a middle name.

“Tell her she’s a good little pupper,” Xander demanded.

Grayson rubbed the puppy’s ears but did not allow his expression to betray even the slightest hint of amusement. “I will not.”

“That right, little brother?”

Grayson looked to the doorway, where Nash was leaning against the wall—and that was Grayson’s first true inkling about what was happening here, about why all three of his brothers were currently in his bedroom.

Whatever penance is decreed, with that penance I will agree…

Grayson eyed the squirming puppy in his hands. “You are a very adequate canine,” he allowed, stroking her head.

Xander was clearly not satisfied. He gestured for Grayson to continue.

Grayson sighed. “Who’s a good girl? You are. Yes, you. What a good little…” He glanced up at Xander, who nodded encouragingly. “Pupper.”

“I would have also accepted doggo,” Xander told him.

Grayson looked to the other two. “Happy?” he asked Jamie and Nash.

“Not as happy as we’re going to be,” Jameson replied. “The time for atonement has arrived.”

Grayson bent to place Tiramisu gently on the ground. “Does this count as the first?” If memory served, he’d agreed to three acts of atonement.

“The puppy?” Nash drawled. “Hell no.”

Grayson had expected as much. Hawthornes were not known for letting one another off easily. But a promise was a promise. Honor was honor. “I’ll get dressed,” Grayson said.

Jameson smirked. “That won’t be necessary.”

ATONEMENT NIGHT, 10:41 PM

A good suit was like armor. Grayson was the type to dress for battle—not a wrinkle in sight, layers between him and the world.

Boxer briefs decidedly did not count as layers.

Damn his brothers. It was December, and they hadn’t even allowed him shoes. He’d been dumped out of the Bugatti onto some country back road, dressed only in his underwear and with nothing but a suspiciously thick envelope, an index card, and very specific instructions: Give the envelope to the driver of the first car that stopped—and say nothing but the words written on the card.

This has Jamie’s fingerprints all over it. In any other circumstance, Grayson would have been methodically plotting his vengeance, but tonight was different. Family first were words that landed differently now, but whatever misgivings Grayson had about their grandfather, he knew what he owed his brothers.

What they had always owed one another.

Xander had needed him, and Grayson hadn’t come. He’d seen the 911 text, and he’d ignored it. If standing on the side of the road in an embarrassing state of undress was what it took to make amends, Grayson Davenport Hawthorne would damn well stand there and stare down anyone who dared raise a brow.

Headlights flashed. Grayson resisted the urge to cover his pelvic region. When a Hawthorne walks into a room, he sets the tone. The old man’s lessons were forever etched in his mind. As irritating as Grayson found that, he nonetheless set his jaw. The trick to being nearly naked on the side of the road was the same as arriving to a party overdressed: Simply behave as though you and only you were appropriately clothed.

It was hardly Grayson’s fault that the rest of the world had neglected to realize what a faux pas it truly was to wear more than just underwear on this road at this time of night.

A pickup truck came to a stop beside him. The passenger-side window rolled down. “Son,” an old man barked out, “it looks like you’ve got yourself a situation.”

Oh? Grayson would have liked to say in a steely deadpan. I hadn’t noticed. Or perhaps, I don’t see how that’s any business of yours.

But rules were rules, and he could only say the words written on the card.

“Hello, kind stranger,” he gritted out. “I seem to have misplaced my pantaloons.”

The old man blinked. “You drunk, boy?”

Grayson gave a curt shake of his head. “I seem,” he repeated, moving toward the truck and trying a different emphasis on the words, “to have misplaced my pantaloons.”

Before the driver could roll up the window and force him to repeat this entire unfortunate situation with the next passing car, Grayson tossed the envelope through the open window and onto the passenger seat.

“Drunk as a skunk,” the driver muttered. “I oughta call the sheriff.”

“I seem to have misplaced my pantaloons,” Grayson said in an icy tone that he hoped conveyed I strongly advise against such action.

Still muttering, the driver reached for the envelope. He opened it, and then his eyes went wide. He pulled out the bills and started counting them, then he came to a note—presumably, instructions from Grayson’s cursed brothers.

“This for real?” the driver asked Grayson.

Rather than repeat that blasted line one more time, Grayson simply inclined his head.

The driver grinned. “In that case, son, hop on in.”

ATONEMENT NIGHT, 11:14 PM

Grayson had entertained a myriad of possibilities about where his brothers might have instructed that he be taken next. An ice-cold body of water he would be required to jump into. A billboard in need of climbing. A country-club golf course whose sprinklers would turn on at the worst possible moment.

Grayson had not anticipated the possibility that he would be dropped off in a residential area, nor that someone would be waiting there for him, the look on her face oh-so-clearly communicating that Thea Calligaris was never going to let Grayson live this down.

The old man behind the wheel looked from Grayson to Thea but didn’t say a word.

Wise choice. Grayson gave the man a parting nod, climbed out of the truck, and steeled himself for what was to come.

“Grayson Hawthorne.” Thea greeted him sweetly, her full lips giving in to a smirk as she eyed his current state of undress. “I had you pegged for more of the thong type.”

“You did not.” Grayson kept his voice absolutely even. Another person had the advantage of you only if you let them.

“You have always,” Thea replied solemnly, “been my least favorite Hawthorne.”

“I am wounded,” Grayson deadpanned.

Thea made a show of looking him up and down. “Not that I can see.”

“Enough, Thea.” Grayson arched a brow at her, well aware of how commanding his presence could be. “Why am I here?”

Thea met his eyebrow arch with one of her own. “Because I’m part two of your penance.”

This had Xander written all over it. “Oh?”

Thea didn’t buy his nonchalance for a moment. “Unless you don’t want clothes?” she said innocently.

Grayson didn’t rise to the bait. “I would hate to put you out.”

“So courteous,” Thea crooned. Then she turned and sauntered back toward her house, leaving Grayson no choice but to follow. “You can thank me when we’re done,” she added, with far too much satisfaction in her tone for Grayson’s comfort.

He attempted to resist the urge to ask but failed. “Done with what, precisely?”

Thea looked back and aimed a most devious smile in his direction. “Your makeover.”

ATONEMENT NIGHT, 11:18 PM

“I am not wearing leather pants.” Of this, Grayson Hawthorne was certain.

“Yes,” Thea replied with no small amount of smug triumph in her tone, “you are. Black leather pants, and fair warning: You may think they’re a size too small, but that’s only because they are very, very tight.”

This was ridiculous. Almost as ridiculous as the fact that Grayson was standing there in his underwear, arguing with Thea Calligaris about pants.

Whatever penance is decreed, with that penance, I will agree.

“Times three,” Grayson muttered, reaching out to take those blasted black leather pants from Thea.

First, the underwear.

Then Thea.

Grayson shuddered to think what his brothers had in store for him next. Squeezing himself into the leather pants practically took an act of God. Fortunately, Grayson Hawthorne was not easily defeated.

“There,” he snapped, once the task was complete. “Are we done here?”

“White T-shirt, ultrathin; black leather jacket, circa the eighties.” Thea tossed the items at him as she spoke. Once he’d put them on, she rubbed her hands together. “Now, about that hair…”

“There is nothing wrong with my hair,” Grayson stated tersely.

“But is anything about it really right?” Thea countered.

ATONEMENT NIGHT, 11:34 PM

Grayson Davenport Hawthorne drew the line at eyeliner. Or at least, that was where he drew the line until Thea brought in reinforcements.

“Avery.” Her name escaped Grayson’s lips the second she stepped into the room. Seeing her still did something to him. Perhaps it always would.

“Nice pants,” Avery said, then snorted—literally snorted—and Grayson couldn’t even hold it against her.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” he said calmly, but damn it to perdition, these leather pants were tight.

“Has Thea taken any photos yet?” Avery asked, unable to bite back a smile that nearly broke her face. A face he knew better than he should have.

Better than he had any right to.

Focus. Grayson replayed Avery’s words in his head and scowled. “Photos?” he said darkly. “She’d better not have.”

“More pout!” Thea demanded beside him, not even bothering to hide that she was now taking pictures by the dozens. “Give me more pout!”

Grayson turned, calmly considering murder. These things, when done, had to be done with a cool head. “Put the phone down,” he told Thea.

“Narrow your eyes a little more. Growl, baby. Growl.”

Grayson made a grab for the phone, but Thea was unexpectedly quick on her feet. “Avery,” she called, clearly enjoying herself, “do his eyes!”

Avery’s gaze landed on his. Grayson had spent a lifetime repressing emotions. Letting himself feel would take some getting used to.

Especially when what he was feeling was this.

“What exactly am I doing with his eyes?” Avery asked.

Thea supplied her with a stick of eyeliner. “Do your worst.”

“She means best,” Grayson corrected, because at least when he was correcting Thea, he wasn’t too caught up in things that might—or might not—have been different, if he had been different.

“You’ll let me do my best?” Avery queried skeptically, holding up the eyeliner with an arch of her brow. “With this?”

Letting her touch him really wasn’t a good idea.

It wasn’t a good idea at all.

“Whatever penance is decreed,” Grayson murmured, “with that penance I will agree.”

ATONEMENT NIGHT, 12:27 AM

Thea, Avery, and her security escort delivered him to an establishment called JOHNNY O’S, all capital letters. The flashing neon microphone on the building provided more than enough context for Grayson to determine what the night—and his brothers—held in store for him next.

“Karaoke,” he muttered.

Beside him, Avery grinned. “Let the punishment fit the crime.”

Karaoke had been Xander’s request when he’d issued his 911. At the time, they had all been reeling, coping in their own ways with the discovery of the kind of man their grandfather had really been. Xander’s method of dealing had involved his brothers—and karaoke.

Let the punishment fit the crime. “Which one of my brothers are you quoting?” Grayson asked Avery calmly.

Another smile. “All of them.”

That did not bode well for what awaited him inside JOHNNY O’S. “Are you coming?” Grayson asked, and he let himself pretend that the question was directed equally at Avery and Thea.

Thea didn’t even bother answering.

“We have been informed that this phase of Atonement Night is for the brothers Hawthorne and only the brothers Hawthorne,” Avery replied. She lowered her voice. “They were afraid I would be too merciful.”

Grayson allowed himself to look at her one more time. “You? Merciful?” She’d always been able to go toe-to-toe with him. “Somehow,” he continued, as he made his way to the door, “I doubt that.”

ATONEMENT NIGHT, 12:28 AM

Nash was waiting for him just inside the door. “That’s quite a look you’ve got there.”

Grayson made a valiant attempt at glaring his elder brother into submission, then looked past Nash to a bar and, beyond that, to a room where he could hear music playing. “Please tell me we have the place to ourselves tonight.”

Jameson sauntered in. “We rented it out.”

Grayson almost let out a sigh of relief, but he knew Jamie, and he very specifically knew that look.

“But then…,” Jamie continued, enjoying this far too much, “a bachelorette party showed up, and the bride was so disappointed that this fine establishment was closed for the evening.”

Grayson glared bullets first at Jamie, then at Nash. “A bachelorette party?”

Xander bounded into the room, holding a hot-pink plastic champagne flute. “To Marina and Benny!” he declared, hoisting it jubilantly in the air. “Benny isn’t here,” he informed Grayson, “but Marina and her friends are going to love that outfit.”

Of course they were. Just as they would likely enjoy whatever performances his brothers had in store for him.

“What am I singing?” Grayson asked, as if this entire turn of events were of utterly no significance.

“What aren’t you singing?” Jamie retorted.

“We might have put together a set list,” Xander explained. He handed a piece of paper to Grayson, who skimmed it with robotic precision, horror swelling in his chest.

“Twenty-nine songs?” he demanded.

Jameson smirked. “You object?”

It was on the tip of Grayson’s lips to say that he damn well did. But rules were rules. A promise was a promise. Honor was honor. “No.”

“Told you.” Nash aimed a knowing look at Jameson. “Gray’s a man of his word. And since I won our little wager, Jamie…” Nash angled his head back toward Grayson. “Looks like you only have to sing three songs.”

“We each get to choose one,” Xander said in a manner that made it clear the matter had already been discussed and decided.

Three brothers. Three songs. Grayson could do this—leather pants and bachelorette party notwithstanding.

“I, for one, will be making my song count.” Jameson Winchester Hawthorne could not be trusted. “You’ll be happy to hear, Gray, that I have spent weeks delving into decades of musical history, all in an attempt to find the best choice.”

It was clear that when Jamie said best, he meant most horror-inducing.

“Honestly,” Jameson continued, enjoying this far too much for Grayson’s comfort, “I’m still deciding. Tell me: What are your thoughts on milkshakes and yards?”

Grayson felt his eyes narrow. “I neither recognize that reference nor want to.”

“Like I said,” Jameson replied with a wink, “I’m still deciding. Love the outfit, by the way.”

A woman wearing a neon-green feather boa poked her head through the archway. “Woooo!” she yelled. “Let’s get this party started!”

Grayson angled his eyes toward her. “Marina, I presume?” He didn’t wait for an answer before turning back to his brothers. “What am I singing first?”

ATONEMENT NIGHT, 12:34 AM

Grayson was Armani suits and platinum cuff links; when it came to song choice, he favored Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Dean Martin.

Nash was country; he’d chosen Taylor Swift. Not entirely surprising—but Grayson would have expected something a little more country than… this.

As “Shake It Off” began to play and the bachelorette party lost its collective mind, Grayson spared one last glare for his brothers.

ATONEMENT NIGHT, 12:43 AM

Grayson had all of one song to recover before he was informed that it was his turn again—Xander’s pick this time.

“Well, Xan?” Grayson prompted.

Xander pressed the fingers on his right hand against the fingers on his left, adopting a meditative expression. “Picture this,” he said dramatically. “The year is 2013. The movie…”—Xander paused dramatically—“is Frozen.”

If looks could have killed, Xander would have been ashes. “You’d better not have,” Grayson growled.

Xander threw an arm around him. “I’m an Anna. You’re an Elsa. You know in your heart that this is true.”

Nash and Jamie were barely holding it together.

“I hate you all,” Grayson told his brothers.

As he climbed toward the stage for round two, Jameson called after him. “‘Shake It Off.’ ‘Let It Go.’ I think they’re trying to tell you something, Gray.”

ATONEMENT NIGHT, 12:59 AM

Jameson took his sweet time choosing the final song of Atonement Night. Grayson tried to imagine the worst song to sing—in front of a bachelorette party, while wearing tight black leather pants—but after the third or fourth horrifying option he’d considered, he forced himself to stop.

Marina and her friends were becoming increasingly rowdy.

“Please,” Grayson told his brothers after one of the women approached him and lewdly complimented the fit of his pants. “End this.”

“Jamie.” Nash put a command into that one word.

“Fine,” Jameson said. With a sleight of hand, he produced a small slip of paper and held it out to Grayson.

Steeling himself for what he was about to read, Grayson took it. “‘The Wind,’” he read out loud, the words coming out perplexed. “Cat Stevens, 1971.” It wasn’t a song he was familiar with, but Grayson was fairly certain that it involved neither milkshakes nor yards.

“Here.” Jameson handed Grayson his phone. “It’s only fair that you listen to it once before you sing.”

Grayson did, and something twisted inside him as he listened. It was beautiful in its own way and suited to his voice, a song about mistakes and what the heart wanted and not knowing how life was going to turn out.

First “Shake It Off.” Then “Let It Go.” And now—from Jameson of all people—this. It really was like his brothers were trying to tell him something.

ATONEMENT NIGHT, 1:43 AM

His atonement made, Grayson fell into bed, certain of two things: First, he would never again ignore a 911 summons from one of his brothers; and second, he would need to spend considerable time and resources scrubbing the internet of all evidence that this night had ever happened.

Leather Pants Grayson was not going to become a meme.

Lying back on his pillow, Grayson closed his eyes. He willed the nothingness to come. Then he felt a warm, wiggly body beside him. With no witnesses present, he didn’t hesitate to cuddle the little beast next to him.

“Who’s a good girl?”