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“And so are you.” That velvety chuckle again.
My legs feel like jello as I pace the room, trying to remember what I have in my closet. Maybe Keira will let me borrow some of her stuff? She can afford to buy cute clothes; I depend on Mom and Dad’s generous gift-giving for mine.
“I’ll pay for my room,” I say, even though I have no idea how I’m going to do that. I guess I don’t need groceries this month. Although something tells me a room at Blue Mountain Resort costs way more than what I spend on groceries.
“No you won’t, because I already did. Consider us even.”
“We’ll never be even. I introduced you to the next great love of your life.”
“True crime podcasts?”
“Drugs in baked goods. Obviously.”
He scoffs. “I went to college too, you know.”
“But you didn’t have nearly as much fun as I did. I can probably leave work around five or so on Friday. I’ll drive?”
“I’ll drive. Five sounds good. I’ll pick you up.”
“Brooks?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.” I put my hand on the small of my back. “This is all way too extravagant, and I’m probably going to have to cancel on you because getting away from Drury Lane for more than a few hours is kind of impossible right now.”
“Not if you lay down the law, boss.”
“Boss. Ha.” I roll my eyes. “But I appreciate you thinking of me. I really do.”
His voice is different—lower, softer—when he replies, “I know you do. I also know you won’t cancel.”
“How’s that?”
“You like me too much.”
I grin. “I like murder too much.”
“One last thing.”
“Sure.”
A pause. “Let’s not tell your brother. Porg is . . . kind of a perv, and I know he’ll get the wrong idea.”
“Right. Of course.” It’s not like anything is going to happen anyway.
“I don’t mean to be weird. But it’s important you get a break, and I don’t want anyone telling you that you can’t go.”
Seriously, I can’t stop smiling. Or flirting. “You’re the only yes I need.”
“We can tell him after.”
“I like that idea.” Although if I’m being honest, I’m pretty sure George isn’t going to love the fact that Brooks and I went away without telling him. Doesn’t that look just as shady?
Then again, this is my life. And as protective as George is, he’s also an expert at being self-involved. I can just tell him I’ve learned from the best.
Brooks is right. I need this trip, more than I need my brother’s approval. George will get over it.
I’m just not sure I’ll ever get over how good it feels to be taken care of this way.
Chapter Eight
BROOKS
I perk up when I glimpse a brunette entering the restaurant. But my heart falls when I look again to see it’s a woman in a sharply tailored coat and heels.
Not Greer.
I need to stop fucking thinking about Greer.
The trip I bought her—us—is a case in point. The urge to treat her comes from a good place. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t more excited than I should be about going away with her.
Even if nothing is going to happen between us.
Nothing can happen. End of story.
Which is why I finally bit the bullet and called that family friend a couple days after my conversation with Dad. George encouraged me to make the call too this past weekend while we were rowing up at his parents’ place.
“I like the idea of our favorite salty, slutty dog settling down,” he said. “Why not try something new?”
The woman smiles at me, and I realize a beat too late that this is her. Margaux Phillips. I haven’t seen her since we were in high school together—she was in the same graduating class as Lizzie and me—and while her eyes and smile are the same, her hair is longer and darker.
“Brooks?”
I manage a tight smile as I rise from my barstool. “Margaux. It’s great to see you.”
“Wow,” she says with a laugh, “you’re even taller than I remember! Great to see you as well.”
There’s an awkward moment where we’re both clearly deciding how to greet each other. Hug? Handshake? Luckily Margaux makes the quick decision to go in for an even quicker side hug.
I help her out of her coat. She hangs it on the back of the barstool beside mine.
“I love this place.” She glances around. “Their food is always great. Do you hang out here much?”
We’re at Bricktop’s, a restaurant fifteen minutes or so outside uptown in the bustling suburb of SouthPark. The food really is good. The cocktails are even better.
I’m not the only one who thinks so. The U-shaped bar is packed with well-heeled customers sipping martinis and expensive glasses of Chardonnay.
“Sometimes,” I reply, waving down the bartender. “My parents live in Eastover, so I’ll meet them here for brunch.”
She settles into her seat and picks up her menu. “How nice that you guys are close.”
