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I can’t look at Grant even though I’m dying to know what he thinks about all of this.
“Does Luke know about this guy?” Dustin laughs.
I roll my eyes. “Luke won’t care.”
The guys snort like they know something I don’t.
“Oh really?” Dustin continues. “I think he threatened the last guy you dated with his life.”
My head jerks up at this news. “James?”
“Was he the blond guy? Kind of skinny?”
“Yes…”
Dustin nods. “Yeah, him.”
What?! James and I dated for three short weeks back in November. I thought it was going well. He enjoyed running, he had a good job as an accountant, and he wasn’t interested in Luke or his career. Sometimes guys are only interested in me for the perks. Getting to know Luke and the Pinstripes is just too tempting.
You’re Luke Allen’s little sister?! Are you kidding me? You think I could get his autograph? I mean…after we finish making out, that is.
An average accountant with an average personality who always showed up on time for our dates and wasn’t shy about letting me know he was looking for something serious seemed too good to be true. Then one day, poof, he ghosted me. I assumed it was something I’d done. Now I know Luke is to blame.
“The guy was a total dud anyway,” Dustin confirms with an apathetic shrug.
“How would you know?!” I ask, suddenly defensive of a man I didn’t even like all that much in the first place.
“I was there with Luke when he went to the guy’s office.”
They confronted him at work?!
“Oh my god. You guys need a hobby.”
Dustin unfurls a confident smirk. “We have one—baseball.”
Grant laughs under his breath, and for the first time since the start of this conversation, I look over at him. He’s clearly amused. He’s wearing a cheeky smile, just big enough to make his dimple pop. God, he’s handsome. Lethal, even. He should come with a warning label.
I could fall under the spell of that smile, those eyes, no problem.
“What’s so funny?”
One cocky eyebrow rises to the challenge. “Nothing.” But his daring gaze says the exact opposite.
“Michael’s different though,” Daphne chimes in. “Luke would approve.”
Grant holds my gaze. He’s waiting for me to confirm what Daphne’s said. Is Michael different?
With everyone’s eyes on me and on the heels of Dustin’s declaration about Luke meddling with James, I feel like I have no choice but to nod and reclaim a slice of my dignity. “Yes, he’s perfect.”
Take that, assholes.
Upon hearing my assessment of Michael, there’s an infinitesimal change in Grant’s expression. A layer of ice hardens over all that warm honey. Regret churns inside me. I almost reach out to touch him, to clamp my hand on his forearm and force him to listen to me. I could come clean with the truth and rewrite the last few minutes so we don’t find ourselves worse off than we were before.
But isn’t that the point? Isn’t that why Sophia brought up Michael in the first place? This is what has to happen. Keeping Grant at arm’s length is the only safe option.
We don’t say anything else after that, not while dinner wraps up and I continue pushing food around on my plate, forcing down a few bites only so I don’t go to bed hungry later.
I’m relieved when conversation shifts and Daphne claims control of the remote—an eternal struggle within our friend group—and changes it from ESPN to HGTV. The guys always moan when we put on our “girly shows”, but it’s merely a front. Without fail, they end up more invested in them than we do. We had them watching The Bachelor last season, and when Nick’s favorite girl got sent home without a rose, he actually cried. CRIED. We have video of it somewhere.
As is tradition, the guys throw their hands up in protest over the house flipping show Daphne chooses, but then Nick starts critiquing the design choices.
“That blue is going to clash with the green. And marble countertops? Big mistake. Those are going to be a bitch to clean.”
“Pipe down,” Josh argues. “I can’t hear what they’re saying about the backsplash.”
While everyone settles into the show, I sneak off to the kitchen to figure out dessert. I can’t make anything as fancy as Chloe. She could pull random ingredients out of my cupboards—cardamom, baking soda, and chia seeds—and produce the most jaw-dropping delicacy you’ve ever tasted. Me? Yeah…I settle for foolproof break-apart chocolate chip cookies.
I’ve just turned on the oven to preheat when Grant strolls into the kitchen, presumably to refill his water glass.
I’m not buying it.
“Thirsty?”
He ignores my question, fills his glass, and takes a sip. He could leave now and rejoin the others in the living room, but instead he lifts his chin toward me. “What are you making?”
I open the fridge and retrieve a package of cookies to show him. “Only the finest, fanciest food for you all. Homemade, from scratch,” I tease, crinkling the package for full effect.
