“I don’t have—”
But we’re already leaving. I glance back to find Dean glaring at the risotto like it personally offended him.
The more I see of the house, the more I love. Mason narrates like a discount tour guide.
“Living room where Dean pretends to relax. Office where Dean actually lives. Piano nobody’s touched since 2019.”
“Why’d he stop?”
Mason’s quiet for a beat. “Same reason he stopped doing a lot of things.”
Before I can ask what that means, Ivy appears at the top of the stairs in a sundress that probably cost more than my rent.
“Poppy! You came!”
She hugs me like we’re old friends. She smells expensive. I probably smell like stress and dry shampoo.
“Thanks for having me.”
“Please. You’re doing us a favor. Dean needs more human interaction that doesn’t involve billable hours.”
We head back to the kitchen where Dean’s now plating risotto with the focus of a bomb technician.
Cool.
“Smells amazing,” I offer.
He glances up. Does this quick scan—sweater, jeans, pencil in hair—and something flickers across his face.
“It’s just risotto.”
“Just risotto,” Mason scoffs. “That he’s been stirring for forty minutes.”
“It requires constant attention.”
“So does therapy, but here we are.”
Ivy smacks Mason’s arm. “Be nice.”
“I am nice. Dean’s the mean one.”
“I’m not mean. I’m selective with my enthusiasm.”
“That’s literally the definition of mean.”
I bite back a laugh.
Dean catches it, eyes narrowing. “Something amusing?”
“Nope. Just… you two. It’s cute.” I gesture between the brothers who couldn’t be more opposite.
“We’re not cute,” they say in unison, which only proves my point.
We migrate to the dining room. Through some configuration I don’t fully track, I end up next to Dean. Our knees bump under the table. He shifts away. I pretend not to notice.
The risotto is, annoyingly, perfect. Creamy and comforting with a hint of tangy parmesan and plenty of buttery goodness.
“Okay, this is stupid good,” I admit after the first bite.
