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She sighed softly. Wishes had proven to be futile. Her ridiculous and childish expectation of a happily ever after with the man of her dreams had long ago been extinguished and replaced by the desire to just have anyone to care for. Someone who would care for her in return. She didn’t need the grand romance that both Daisy and Daff had found. Not anymore. She would settle for something warm and cozy. Like a pair of old winter socks. Comfortable and a bit slouchy. Not quite a perfect fit, but just enough to make her feel content.
But even that modest dream seemed destined never to come true. She would be the daughter who wound up taking care of her parents. Living with them, growing old with them . . . After all the truly terrible dates she’d been on over the last few months, she was starting to believe that there were no husband or children in the cards for her.
The unsavory business with Gregory had just been the rotten cherry on the pile of excrement that was her dating history. She was getting heartily fed up with playing relationship roulette with her love life.
She sighed again and stared at Brand over the rim of her wineglass as he chatted with Daff. He looked relaxed, but still so masculine and predatory and absolutely sexy. Just looking at him and thinking of his words that morning made everything inside her clench in anticipation.
If she was destined to be alone forever, then why not take what he was offering? Why not make some exciting and wild and crazy memories to cherish when she was old and curled up in her lonely spinster bed? What if Brand was her last chance at something different? Something less than ordinary?
He looked up and caught her eye, and he smiled at her. A warm, enticing smile. The stubble over the indent in his cheek darkened as the groove deepened with the movement of his mouth.
“You’re looking gloomy, sunshine.”
“Then perhaps you should rethink your latest nickname?” she suggested, and his smile became a full-fledged grin.
“Nah. Even when you’re gloomy, there are still hints of sunshine peeking through behind the clouds.”
“Oh my God. You’re so corny. Lia, do not fall for any of this smarmy shit, okay?” Daff protested dramatically, and Brand turned that grin on her.
“I’m using my best material here, McGregor,” he teased, and she rolled her eyes.
“Did Laura Prentiss actually fall for your lines?” she asked pointedly, and the other woman’s name shook Lia. How could she have forgotten about Laura Prentiss? He hadn’t given her definitive answers on his relationship, and Lia was not going to be anybody’s other woman. Ew, no. That would be gross.
The food arrived and Lia tried to put the entire train of thought firmly out of her mind. But as she ate and they talked, she couldn’t help but think about it. If he and Laura Prentiss were really through, then why not go for it? He’d been her rebound guy—maybe she could return the favor and be his rebound girl.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Not much of a talker, are you?” Sam observed later that evening after he and Spencer were three beers in and about halfway through another action flick. This time Keanu Reeves was destroying the assholes who’d killed his dog. Spencer, in the process of taking a thirsty sip of beer, cocked an eyebrow and lowered the bottle to level a look at him.
“Hmm.” For a second Sam reckoned that was the only response he’d get. The man hadn’t said more than two words to him since his arrival forty minutes ago. But Spencer’s lips quirked and he contemplated Sam for a moment before saying, his voice droll, “What gave it away?”
Sam chuckled appreciatively.
“I don’t know, maybe the fact that it took me about half an hour to appreciate that you’d managed to glean which drink I’d prefer, what movie I wanted to watch, and what I wanted for dinner, all without asking a single question. And yet I fucking know I had choices.” Spencer’s lips tilted into a full-on grin. It wasn’t an exaggeration to say the guy hadn’t asked a single question.
Drinks were easy—he’d held up a beer and a bottle of scotch with a tilt of his head, and Sam had reached for the beer. Same with food, both microwavable choices—pizza or lasagna. But the movie, that was when shit had gotten freaky. He’d scrolled through Mason’s selection, stopped at John Wick, looked at Sam, and grunted. Just a grunt. But the sound had been a question, Sam was sure of it—why else would he have responded with “Yeah, sure. I haven’t seen that one yet”?
Uncanny fucker.
“How can Mason be such a garrulous bastard when he was raised by someone like you? I can’t figure it out.” Sam shook his head in wonder.
