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Nodding slowly, she points to my door, where I’ve commandeered the locks. “Can you release me, please? Like you said earlier, long day. I should get some sleep.”
“If you swear this is where you actually live, I will set you free.”
She holds up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.” I pray that she doesn’t sweep those fingers against my cheek again.
I also pray she does.
“Can I walk you to your door?”
I get an eye roll. “You worried about dorm safety?”
“You never can tell.”
“Fine. Let’s go.” She doesn’t give me time to come around and open her door, swinging it open and hopping out with her tote bag slung over one shoulder. She waits for me to come around and escort her to the dorm.
I feel a hundred years old walking up to a college dorm, fully aware that Fiona is far closer to being college-aged than I am, and that also makes me feel ancient.
We pass a smattering of students sitting on benches and talking in the well-lit courtyard. In the common area on the ground floor, students sit at four-top tables or recline on couches. Most of them seem to be studying. All of them wear earbuds.
When we reach the bank of elevators, Ruby turns to me. “Okay, I think I’m good here.” I get her message loud and clear, and I shouldn’t need reminding. She doesn’t want me to walk her to the door. This isn’t a date. I’ve ensured her safety, and my job is done.
“Okay, just making sure. Text me when you get inside,” I tell her, taking a step backward so I don’t do something stupid. Like pulling her against my chest and kissing her.
She gives me a soft smile before the elevator doors close, and she’s gone.
ChapterThirteen
Jax
PJ is the one to bring me a sandwich today. The sibling habit of forcing lunch on me hasn’t stopped, despite the fact that I sometimes take breaks myself these days and make my way down to the test kitchen for a snack.
I think they just like an excuse to visit.
“It’s the arugula and brie one. I know you like it.”
“Thanks, Peej. Did you bring one for yourself?”
She fans herself with a manila folder she’s holding, making the bangs she recently cut fan up over her forehead and drift down with each wave of her hand. I’ve never known my sister to wear her hair the same way for more than a year at a time. Bangs, color, cut—she’s always trying something, and she almost always claims to hate what she’s done. The bangs were a breakup cliché she fully admitted to falling for.
“Nope. I only have a sec.” She opens the folder and runs her finger down a printed piece of paper, searching for something. “I’m figuring out tables and seating arrangements for the IMA event, and I need to know who you’re bringing.”
I groan at the reminder that I need to attend the Industry Movers Association dinner in a week. Our father insisted we all join the organization back when he was in charge of our financial future, and it means we all have to go to the group’s events every month.
Sometimes, they’re not terrible. We’ve had Bill Gates and other luminaries come as guest speakers to run roundtables on best practices for innovative businesses. Those events are great and always inspiring.
Unfortunately, most of the events are just dinners or obligatory weekend trips to hobnob with the other group members. The idea is to forge connections and grow Buttercup Hill Vineyards while helping media outlets and venture capitalists grow their businesses. One hand washes the other.
Once a year, we end up with an event at one of our restaurants. Attendees love it because they can bring a guest, and they’re treated to a private tour of the nearly-mile-long wine cave and tastings of vintages no one else has tried. Everyone leaves with a case of wine and bragging rights about the experience.
Our sister Beatrix runs the whole thing, and PJ handles all the media and publicity. That can mean splashy magazine spreads or social media videos of celebrity weddings where the who’s-who of Silicon Valley or the entertainment industry show up and need to be photographed looking fashionable and blasé.
Even though she’s a pro at wrangling big names at events larger than this one—three hundred-person weddings are run of the mill at Buttercup—making sure all the niceties are in place for industry titans always gets her britches in a twist.
“Do I really need a guest?”
I know the answer, but I ask the same question every year in hopes of getting a different one.
“Let’s not play this game.”
