Free Blame It on the Bachelor by Karen Kendall Page A

Had he really told Kylie that her tits made up for her personality?
    He had a hell of a nerve. Because the thing was…what made up for his own personality? What made up for who he’d been? Was there anything that could make things right?
    He doubted it.
    As Dev poured his fourth double shot of Patrón, his damned cell phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID as he hoisted the glass, and then put it down again.
    Ciara, his sister. He may as well talk to her now, instead of tomorrow with a hangover.
    “Yeah.”
    “How was the wedding?” Ciara had once had a crush on Mark.
    “I’m fine, sis, thanks for asking.”
    “What did Kendra’s dress look like?”
    Dev rolled his eyes heavenward. “I don’t know…white. With lacy stuff.”
    “Dev! Describe. Long sleeves? Short sleeves? Big and poofy, or sleek and sophisticated?”
    “Uh. Short, poofy sleeves. Skinny waist, big skirt.”
    “What was the neckline like? Did she have a train?”
    “A what?” He sighed, trying to remember.
    “Did it drag in the back?”
    “Yup. And the neckline was a V. Does that help?”
    “Did she look pretty?”
    “Yes. Kind of scrawny, but nice.”
    “Scrawny,” she repeated thoughtfully. Ciara, like their mother, was well-endowed, and she was clearly relishing that Kendra was not. Women!
    “Did Mark look happy?”
    “No, Ciara. He looked like he was on his way to a funeral. Of course he looked happy.” Dev blew out an exasperated breath. “Get over it,” he added with typical brotherly brusqueness.
    “Have you been drinking? Because your voice is kind of thick.”
    Dev glared at the phone and did the fourth double-shot. “Your head is thick.”
    “Answer the question.”
    “Maybe.” Dev plucked the strings of the Rickenbacker.
    “Liquor?”
    “Get off my ass, Ciara.”
    “Playing guitar and drinking Patrón, I’ll bet. Which means you’re depressed.”
    “You’ve got me confused with someone else, sis.”
    “Promise me you’ll put away the Patrón, or I’m coming over. And I’ll go get Aidan.”
    Their brother. “No.”
    “Or Mami. I’ll bring Mami. I will, Devon. I’ve done it before.”
    How could he forget their mini-intervention, during some of his darkest days after Will’s death? His excitable, nosy Cuban mother, his dour, sarcastic Irish father, saintly Aidan and bossy sister Bettina—they’d all, with Ciara, announced their concern that if Dev didn’t put the brakes on he’d end up like Will.
    “Jesus, Ciara. I’ve had three drinks, all right?” Dev automatically subtracted one.
    “ Alone. And if you’re admitting to three, they’re doubles and you’ve probably had five.”
    “Four,” he amended.
    “So stop.”
    He was still sober enough to know she was right. Damn it. “Okay. Okay. Enough.”
    “Yes, enough. ”
    “Fine!” Dev growled. “I hear you. Now bugger off,” he said in a perfect imitation of their father’s Irish accent.
    “I love you, too. I’m calling in an hour, and if you don’t answer the phone, I’ll be in your face within fifteen minutes.”
    Dev hit the end button and grimaced. But a corner of his mouth rebelled and tugged up. Ciara was a pain in the ass. But it was always good to know someone cared.

10
    KYLIE WAS STILL several miles beyond furious at Devon and pacing her apartment Sunday when the phone rang. If it had been anyone other than her niece Melinda, Mark’s little sister, she wouldn’t have answered it. But she adored Mel, so she picked up. “Hello?”
    “Do you have a minute? Can I come over?” The girl’s voice held trouble.
    “Sure, if you don’t mind my crankiness and Potsy’s Seaside Delite cat food.”
    “I don’t care. Why are you cranky?”
    “It’s not even worth going into, sweetie. Forget it.”
    Melinda arrived ten minutes later. She looked hungover and agitated, her dark hair scraped back into a messy ponytail and her blue eyes puffy and shadowed. “I hate my mother!” she blurted.
    Kylie chuckled and folded Mel’s