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She smiles as she shakes her head at me. “I know you think you’re being chivalrous, and I appreciate you looking out for me, but beating up jerks isn’t going to make anything better.”
“It’ll make me feel better,” I joke.
“Exactly. You want to beat up guys who pick on me because it makesyoufeel better.”
“Well, what do you want, Smurf?” I ask, even though most of the blue in her hair has grown out. Nicknames are just hard to shake, I guess.
She lets out a sigh. “First of all, someone who will take me to D&D night without cussing out the Dungeon Master.”
“He killed me!”
“You got yourself killed with those reckless moves,” she argues. “Which I clearly warned you against, but you’re a barbarian through and through.Destroy, smash, kill,” she says, obviously mocking me.
“I thought that was the point.”
“You obviously need more guidance. What you need is a girlfriend who you’ll actually listen to for once. Find her and bringherto D&D night.”
I arch a brow in her direction. Not likely.
When she sees my reluctant response to that idea, she laughs and opens the car door. “Or keep being the same self-centered barbarian who gets himself killed each week.”
“Does that mean I’m invited back next Friday?” I ask.
After climbing out, she peers back in with a smile and a roll of her eyes. “You don’t have to, you know. I can get a ride with a friend or something.”
“What kind of older brother would I be if I let you go to D&D night without me?”
“Technically…I’m closer to being your step-aunt.”
“Never say that again,” I reply dryly. “Besides, as much as the wizard prick pisses me off, I like going with you. You make me look cool, Smurf.”
She laughs and shakes her head again. “Thanks, Beau. I’ll see you next week.”
“See you next week,” I say as she closes the door and walks up to the house.
Driving home, I consider that maybe Ishouldlet someone else drive Sophie. I mean, I started taking her as a favor to Charlie, but I don’t owe her any favors anymore.
Rule #2: Sometimes you just have to smile and lie.
Maggie
“I’m an idiot.” Standing in the middle of the two-story entryway of a completely empty home that now belongs to me, I hear the delicate echo of my voice bouncing off the hardwood floor—that could use some work—and empty walls—that could use some fresh paint. “I’m an idiot!” I yell, this time enjoying the way my voice reverberates through the huge empty space.
My eighty-pound Great Dane, Ringo, comes galloping back into the room after giving our new house a thorough sniffing. He seems a good deal less worried about the move, especially since this one comes with a yard he can enjoy.
My heels click against the floor as I make my way toward the kitchen in the back. Dropping the deed of the house on the quartz countertop—which seems to be in pretty good shape, thank God—I try my best to see potential and not rust, dust, and grime.
What on earth did I get myself into? Why does a single woman in her thirties need a giant house? Just because Emerson Grant owns a thirty-four-hundred square foot Spanish colonial does not mean I should, too. Yet, somehow, here I stand, keys in hand.
Why shouldn’t I have a big house? Just because I’m single doesn’t mean I don’t deserve it. I can afford it. My last house was fine, but the guest bedroom did double as my office, which was less than convenient when I had Hunter living in it for two months.
So now I have a guest suite and an office, and I deserve that, dammit.
A car door closes outside, followed a few moments later by a gentle knock on the door.
“Come in!” I call because I know it’s one of the guys. Turning from the kitchen, I’m relieved to see Hunter walk through the door in a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt. Ringo greets him with a familiar nuzzle against his side, which Hunter rewards with a scratch behind the ears. I wouldn’t say Hunter and I were all that close before but after he spent his period of soul-searching and coming out in my house, we grew a lot closer.
Which means he instantly reads the expression of regret and remorse on my face before the door even closes.
