I don’t even makeit past the threshold of The Onion before getting walloped by a pint-sized, fur-clad pixie.
She’s flustered and clearly seems upset. I suspect I’ve added to it somehow just by being in her way, but is that my fault? It’s not like she owns the place!
“Hey! Watch where you’re going!” I say. Then I notice she’s not breathing. “You okay?”
“She’s fine,” her friend says.
I reach out to steady her, then think better of it when her hands connect with my chest, giving me a sharp, angry shove. The neon lights reflect off her glittery fingertips, tricking me into seeing sparks. My eyes travel to her face where her plummy, red lips are tightly pursed. Her lipstick is sparkly as well. Her brows are furrowed, drawn together under thick, black bangs. This does nothing to mar how incredibly pretty she is, though, I note. Long, black lashes and a delicate upturn to her green eyes. Eyes that are presently narrowed, scrutinizing me with what seems like an unfair amount of suspicion.
Quickly, I take a deep breath and hold my hands up by my sides in the universal I-am-not-a-threat position to indicate my neutrality. The last thing I need tonight is another scene in this town involving a Holm. I recognize that I’m much larger than the average man, and that fact alone can be intimidating to certain women in certain circumstances. And particularly, to such a tiny, fairylike one, I imagine.
Facing each other, I step left and she steps right. I step right and she steps left. Now it’s like we’re doing some of ridiculous square dance, and it’s starting to annoy me. Is she punking me? I don’t have time for this.
I pinch my brow. “Maybe pick a side?”
I’d been driving for several hours already, and I’m not looking forward to this meeting. I just want to get in, get out, and get it over with.
She deftly ducks under my still-raised left arm, making a run for it. Okay then!
I turn to watch her as she flits off into the night, trailed by her tall, blonde friend. I am surprised to realize that I’m of turned on. It must have been the contact. The sudden body slam. She was soft and warm. Also, the smell of her. Maybe the lipstick. Whatever it was, she caught me totally off guard. My eyes stalk her all the way across the parking lot, clocking her confident gait and appreciating the way her shiny hair catches and throws back what little light the night has to offer. Then, just like that, she disappears into the passenger side of a parked car.
I shake my head to clear it and steel myself before heading in to meet my train wreck of a stepbrother.
Bryce wanted to do the handoff at some fancy wine bar, but I’d insisted that he meet me at The Onion. Nobody gives a shit about whether you’re a Holm or Smith or even a Kardashian at The Onion. It’s where I almost always get together with my one remaining childhood friend, Jackson, on the rare occasions when I’m in town. I make a mental note to call him to catch up just as soon as I’m settled.
The interior of The Onion is warm and steamy with people enjoying the generously poured drinks and the savory bar food. A crowd is gathered around the pool table in the corner. Assorted drinkers and diners are scattered around the wood-paneled interior at haphazard intervals. The servers hold trays over their heads as they dance their way around all the makeshift table formations. They aren’t even going to try to contain the chaotic arrangement of dragged-together tables and chairs that their patrons come up with. It’s all good, as long as it stays friendly.
It takes me a minute to locate Bryce. He’s sitting alone, hunched over his phone at the bar, and … is that a cup of ice I see him holding on his jawline? Oh shit. What did that idiot do now?
Last month, Bryce tweeted that there were “more than enough dogs in the world, so nobody should miss a few strays,” referring to the animals in the shelter that we’d evicted from the former Farm & Holm warehouse space.
Smooth, especially for someone whose family runs a large, famous, online pet supply website. Make that infamous, now.
In retrospect, we should have anticipated this. The shelter had been operating in our empty warehouse for over a decade. Practically rent free! Not that we’re getting any credit for that now. But there’s a limit to charity. We couldn’t halt the whole project for them. What good would it do anyone if the entire building collapsed?
Of course we could have handled things a lot better. For starters, someone could have—should have—put a muzzle on Bryce. The real estate side of the family business isn’t even his area.
Bryce’s tweet had a domino effect. It spooked our investors in the warehouse reno, creating cash flow issues. Protesters showed up at the construction site. Reporters are still hounding us for an official response.
Our father, Walker, is right about one thing. The sooner we get Bryce away from Ephron, the better.
I ease into the barstool next to him, pushing aside a nearly full plate of chili fries that smell absolutely delicious. It’s still warm. What a waste.
“What’s this, now?” I point at his jaw. “Let me guess … you tweeted that drowning kittens is a fiscally responsible solution to feline overpopulation?”
Bryce appears to consider this as an option for a moment before glaring at me.
“Shut the fuck up. I was totally minding my own business when some psycho bitch attacked me. You just missed it. She and her friend lit out of here!”
“Wait. Was she wearing a black-and-white fur coat, by any chance?” Realization dawns on me and I bite my lip.
“Yes! I think so. Tough girl. Real Amazon type?”
“Hmm … I believe I saw her on my way in.” I nod, adding, “She was actually shorter than Lilly.” Our little sister, Lilly, is still eleven, but she has the tall genes. Thinking of her makes me smile.
“I don’t think so.” Bryce freezes, deflating a bit. “But even if she was, you know size doesn’t really matter.”
“Yeah, some people say that, but I don’t buy it.” I pull the cup away from his jaw to examine the damage. There’s a little swelling, but nothing serious. “Why do I have a feeling that whatever went down, you probably had it coming?”
