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“Just give me a sec!”
She disappears through a door behind the counter. George is still outside on his phone when she emerges a minute later. She rounds the counter and offers me my jacket. The one I had her wear last night.
Something about this whole exchange—the knowledge she was in my car, wearing my coat, that I could’ve easily been driving her home from my place instead of someone else’s—sends a feral bolt of possessiveness through me as I tuck the jacket underneath my arm.
I have no right to feel this way. No fucking right.
But I do, and that pisses me off.
I’m pissed that Greer went home with a dud.
I’m pissed she’s tired and overwhelmed and obviously taking on way, way too much.
I’m pissed at George for taking advantage of his sister’s eagerness to please.
I’m pissed Lizzie isn’t here.
She’d be the one—the only one—I’d tell about how much I’ve been thinking about Greer this week. Lizzie wouldn’t judge me for feeling all the inconvenient, confusing shit I’ve experienced lately. She’d just listen. Really listen, inhaling her favorite chocolate covered pretzels as she helped me untangle what it is I really feel for Greer.
“Thanks again for coming to get me,” Greer murmurs, quiet enough that I have to lean in to hear her. “I really appreciate it. Lesson learned: no more going home with guys who rip tequila shots on a Thursday night.”
“Or any other night.”
One side of her mouth kicks up, even as her shoulders slump. “Deal.”
“You seem to have a lot on your plate as it is.” I choose my words carefully. I don’t want to patronize her. “I mean, hell, you’re working crazy hours, taking care of your business pretty much on your own, while also trying to take care of everyone else.”
“Who?” Her brow crinkles.
“Weren’t you just saying how you’re planning your mom’s birthday?”
Her eyelashes flutter. “Well, yeah, I mean, if I don’t do it, no one else will . . .”
“You take care of me. Aren’t you going skating tonight? So I don’t have to go alone?”
She bites her lip. “I’m going skating for sure. But to be fair, you are kind of a mess.”
I laugh, and my heart hiccups when her eyes light up. “What about George? If I’m a mess, he’s a fucking train wreck.”
“Someone has to make sure his dick doesn’t fall off. Mom’s words, not mine.”
“But you’re the one making him coffee every morning.”
She crosses her arms and tilts her head, her bangs falling across her forehead. “That’s kind of my job. Literally.” She gestures to the shop around us.
“If this sounds like a line from my therapist, that’s because it is. You’re really good at meeting everyone else’s needs, Greer. But have you thought about what you need?”
She blinks. Considers my question for a moment. Sipping my coffee, I’m more pleased than I should be that she took my concern the right way. It comes from a good place.
“You know, no one’s ever asked me that before,” she says.
“Something to think about.” I grab my muffin off the counter. “Let me know when you have an answer.”
She rolls her lips between her teeth. “I will.”
She’s got a full mouth. I imagine it’s soft. Hot.
Look. Away.
I busy myself by putting on my jacket. Luckily George ducks back into the bakery. His face is flushed from the cold. He thanks Greer when she hands him his coffee and breakfast, then pauses when he sees my jacket.
“Were you wearing that on the way over here?”
“Yes,” Greer and I reply in unison.
Porgeous lets out a breath, shaking his head. “I think I’m losing it.”
“All right, y’all, I gotta get back to it.” Greer waves us away, but not before I catch that mouth of hers moving into a small, secret smile. “Have a good day.”
I don’t know how or why understanding moves so easily between us. We didn’t talk about whether or not we’re telling George about me picking her up last night. We don’t need to. If he asks, we’ll tell him. If he doesn’t, we won’t. No biggie either way. It’s not like anything happened between us. We just don’t want to make him needlessly suspicious by sharing details.
She gets it, and so do I. It’s refreshingly easy. Fun, too, if I’m being honest.
The kind of fun I could get addicted to. Just like her genuine concern for how I’m doing.
Outside, I put my hands in my jacket pockets. That’s when I find the fifty-dollar bill I gave Greer the other day.
“Goddamn her.”
“What?” George asks.
I hold up the fifty between my first two fingers. “Your sister. She won’t let me pay her.”
“Aren’t you a genius or something? Get creative.”
I glance over my shoulder at the bakery.
Challenge accepted.
Chapter Five
GREER
I think about Brooks’s question all day. What do I need?
It’s a simple question. But it feels like a loaded one, with bigger implications than I’m willing to admit.
