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The seriousness in Calum’s tone forced Zane’s attention back to his best friend. The usual jokey twinkle in his eye was noticeably absent, his torso pitched forward, hands linked together in an “all business” style.
Zane rubbed between his eyebrows and released a heavy breath. Why were words so damned hard to come by right at the moment he needed them to flow?
“Is it Brie?”
He met Calum’s vivid green stare. “It’s not her. Not just her, I mean. It’s both of us. Our relationship seems to be going backward.” He turned away again, unable to voice the whole non-sex thing from Saturday night. That was a step too far. “You and Laurella, you’re just so… into each other. And me and Brie—”
“Aren’t me and Laurella,” Calum interrupted. “You guys have always had a far more adult relationship.” He snort laughed. “At least that’s what Laurella tells me five times a week. ‘Grow the hell up, Calum’ is her mantra.” He laughed again.
“An adult relationship?” Zane rolled his eyes. “Makes us sound about ninety.”
At least the lack of sex would fit.
“Well, you are older than me.”
Zane jabbed his finger at Calum. “Watch it. I can still cut your end-of-year bonus in half.”
“You love me far too much to do that.”
“One more age jab, and it’s coming.”
Unlike me.
Gah! This wasn’t even about sex. It was about the lack of intimacy, of attention, of just being with each other without outside influences taking up every spare moment.
“Seriously, though, Zane, if you’re worried about your relationship, then you need to talk to Brie.”
“You’re right.” He twisted his lips to the side. “I do.”
Pouring a stiff drink, Zane stood by the window of his living room as the sun dipped behind the buildings, cloaking Manhattan in a muted light. He checked his watch. Brie should arrive any minute now.
As he had that thought, the door banged against the stopper, and Brie stepped inside his apartment, loaded down with bags. Zane strode across the living room, plucking them out of her hands.
“Thanks.” She puffed a breath, rubbing her hands where the bag straps had dug into her palms.
“You should have called me downstairs rather than carting them all the way up here.”
“I know.” She grinned. “That independent streak is a bitch.”
He smiled back at her. “Never a truer word.”
“How was your day?” She began unpacking the first bag, setting steaks, potatoes, vegetables, and an enormous cheesecake on the counter.
“Good.” Not exactly true. “Jeez, Brie, are you planning to feed the entire floor?”
She made a face. “I went a bit over the top.”
“A bit?” He unpacked the second bag. Inside were two bottles of red wine and a bottle of white. He held up two of them. “Your day was bad then?”
“Not bad, just frustrating. Sometimes clients piss me off. I tell them what they need to do to either keep their asses out of jail, or at least minimize the sentence, and they argue.” She expelled a frustrated huff. “Armchair lawyers are the worst.”
She crouched and wrestled two pans from the drawer beneath the stove, the clanging accelerating his headache.
“Brie, come sit down for a bit. Dinner can wait.”
“I’m starving, babe. I missed lunch.” More clanging. She tore open the plastic bag on the potatoes. A couple rolled onto the floor. She cursed, bending to pick them up.
“I need to talk to you about something.”
