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It’s not that I’m worried about George punching me in the face for getting involved with his sister. It’s that I can’t risk losing him as a friend. He’s always been there for me in a way no one else really has. Not even my parents. If something happens between Greer and me, and that something blows up—it will, it has to, I’m the bitter to her sweet, I’m the guy who only does one-night stands—there’s a good chance I blow up my relationship with George too.
But wouldn’t I be putting distance between Greer and me, literally, by gifting her the trip I just read about in the email? It’s a trip she clearly needs. I loved seeing her happy and carefree. She’s young. She works hard. She deserves some time off. And those dumbass employees of hers need to actually do their job for once.
The time off, I can give her.
I type out the text message. Erase it. Type it out again.
Greeting? Yes. No. No greeting. Too flirty, too forward.
Isn’t sending a text at 7:02 a.m. the morning after a date flirty and forward?
Only last night wasn’t a date. It was me commemorating the sister who passed away because I was too busy to notice how much she was struggling.
I am not going to make the same mistake twice. Even if it means keeping a teeny-tiny secret from my best friend. Porg doesn’t need to know. If he asks, sure, I’ll tell him. But I’m worried he’ll shoot down the idea, and I don’t see anyone else lining up to give Greer the break she needs.
I hit send.
Brooks
I’m going to float an idea. Think about it before you say no.
My heart leaps when I see three dots appear right away.
Greer Fieldstone
You’re up early. Knitting, I presume?
Aw, hell. Now I’m hard and smiling. In light of that, I keep my text to the point.
Brooks
You were willing to take a night off. What about a whole weekend?
Greer
I’m listening.
Brooks
How crazy is this? My family goes up to this resort, Blue Mountain Farm, in the mountains every year for Easter. It’s a really nice place. Excellent food. A+ service. My mom loves the spa. I’m on their email list and got an email today from them. They’re hosting a “Mayhem and Murder in the Mountains” symposium Memorial Day weekend. I shit you not, the producer for my new favorite podcast is going to be there.
Greer
SHUT THE FUCK UP
Brooks
How about I send you and a girlfriend for the weekend? My treat, since I owe you about five thousand bucks for muffins and coffee at this point.
My heart is in my throat as I wait for her to respond. Am I crossing a line? She said she needed more time away from the bakery. This whole thing is right up her alley.
Greer
OMG that sounds AMAZING. You’re too sweet to think of me. I wish I could swing it, but with work I don’t think I can.
I shake my head, still smiling. I anticipated some pushback. So I grab my laptop and my wallet and get to work. Then I send another text.
Brooks
Too late.
I just booked a room. A really nice one too. Corner suite, mountain view.
Oops, I just hit the button to reserve 90-minute massages too.
Shit, none of it’s refundable. Looks like you’re going to have to go.
Yep. That’s definitely over the line.
But when I see her name lighting up my phone screen—she’s calling—I smile even harder.
Chapter Seven
GREER
“Hey, you.”
Brooks’s morning voice is deep, gravelly. I see him in my mind’s eye: laid out on his massive bed, shirtless of course. One hand tucked behind his head, the other holding his phone to his ear.
What does Brooks wear to bed? Does he sleep naked?
I look down at my jeans and T-shirt, both of which are covered in butter and powdered sugar thanks to an explosion at one of our stand mixers, and frown. I’ve been at Drury Lane for hours already. Luckily Dustin and Hannah showed up a couple minutes after I did—a huge win, considering they’ve been rolling in closer to six. We’ve gotten a lot done despite being exhausted, so I should feel pretty damn good about myself.
Instead, I feel frumpy. Childish, even, compared to what I picture Brooks looking like right now.
I want to feel sexier, because this is kind of a sexy little situation I’m in right now. He’s the only guy who’s ever texted me the morning after spending the night together, and we didn’t even spend-the-night together. And the fact that he wants to send me on an all-expenses-paid trip to a five-star resort in Asheville? There is truly nothing sexier than that. I’ve heard about Blue Mountain Farm; it’s supposed to be super luxe. Super pricey too.
“Fuck off,” I say to both of us as I close the door to Drury Lane’s tiny employee restroom.
