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Lying on the couch in the Floyd’s apartment the next evening, Harlow was turning the copy of her sister’s ultrasound picture around trying to work out which end was which. She didn’t hear anyone coming until someone’s stubbly chin bumped her forehead.
“He looks just like me,” Ryske said.
He kissed her hairline and then walked toward the back of the room.
Crunching up, she hung over the back of the couch to watch him approach the gym in the corner. “Really? When did you f**k my sister?”
He sat on the end of the weight bench to unlace his boots. “Lena’s pregnant? Who’s the lucky guy?”
Her groan was one of disgust. “It won’t work in your favor for me to talk about that,” she said, pushing up off the couch.
Ryske stood to take off his hoodie. He tossed it aside and unbuttoned his jea
