On my way out, I cut over to the corner where the management office is located, when I see a beautiful brunette in expensive shoes step outside. She slides her sunglasses onto her nose and rests one manicured hand on the arm of a good-looking son of a bitch with a crooked nose.
She sees me approach before he does and waves.
“How’s my favorite almost-sister-in-law?” I call to Vivian as I cross the street.
Nate dips his chin in greeting before admiring his fiancée unabashedly.
“Charmer.” She grins. She’s not wrong.
Since my brother met her, he’s been over the moon and not the least bit shy about admitting it. The cliché that the bigger they are, the harder they fall is true in his case.
“Eating for two?” He nods at the bulging bag of takeout in my right hand.
“I have extra in case Cris shows up hungry tonight. We’ve, ah, been working late nights.”
“Uh-huh.” His eyelids are at half-mast, his mouth a knowing tilt. “Vivian said she’s dating and it’s not going well.”
“Nate!” she admonishes. “That’s proprietary!”
“I don’t count,” he informs her.
“I’m helping her out,” I explain, sweat prickling the back of my neck.
“You are?” Vivian asks. I’m surprised she didn’t know. I thought she and Cris talked more often than Cris and me.
“Yeah. We’re doing postmortems after her dates. Sometimes she comes over hungry and I have to be ready.”
“So, she leaves her date and then comes to your place for dinner and drinks?” Viv’s eyebrows leap over her dark sunglasses, her slight smile almost accusatory.
“What are friends for?” I say with a shoulder shrug. Cris is at my house a lot. Now, a little more than usual. I’m not seeing the big deal.
“Be good to your life assistant,” Nate warns, his mouth screwed into an amused tilt.
“Life assistant coach,” I correct automatically.
He laughs. I wish them well and turn to leave. Nate has been giving me shit about Cris for a while now. He maintains she has an incurable obsession with me, but I can’t let the idea take root. She’s my best friend. Did that sound defensive? Anyway, he’s my oldest brother and ribbing me is part of his job.
At home, I stash the sushi in the fridge and glance at the clock. If things go bust with Rick tonight, Cris will have the finest sushi to ever touch her tongue. Nate doesn’t fuck around when he puts businesses in his live-work facilities. They are top-notch or bust. Probably because the big bastard likes to eat. I’m grateful to any restaurant making amazing food because I also like to eat. And I really don’t like to cook.
At my countertop, I drum my fingers on the surface and consider the clock on the microwave. Six thirty. I wonder how her date is going. If he picked her up or she met him there. If they are laughing over a glass of wine, or she’s fretting about how long she should stay to be polite before leaving and coming to me.
My mouth shifts into a sly smile. Before I know it, I’m hoping she has a reason to run to me from her (likely shitty) date. Not that I want Cris to fail, but honestly, like one of these chuckleheads could be good enough for her? Highly doubtful.
Then another thought hits. What if the date’s going well?
What if she’s touching his arm and telling him how much she enjoys talking to him? I saw a photo of the guy and even I can admit he’s not unattractive. Unbidden, a vision of them at a candlelit dinner pops into my head. What if they finish off a bottle of wine and then order a second, lingering over crème brûlée? What if they leave the restaurant hand in hand, her rosy-cheeked and doing that cute eyelash-batting thing she does, while he slides an expectant, feral gaze down her body…
Wow. That got dark.
I stop drumming my fingers and stand. I’ll reroute my nervous energy and grab a workout and a shower. Or maybe a swim and then a shower. I debate for a few moments before deciding a swim would feel better. It’s cool-ish outside but the pool is heated. And concentrating on laps will quiet my lizard brain.
Anything to keep from imagining what might happen if the next few hours pass and I end up eating sushi for two alone in my kitchen.
Two and a half hours later, I’ve swum, showered, and returned to eyeing the clock. I poured myself a glass of wine a few minutes ago, having given up on Cris showing. I’m guessing her date went well. I resisted texting her for a status update.
Barely.
But then her telltale knock comes—three in quick succession. I race to the door trying not to look like I’m racing for the door.
“Hey.” I sound a little out of breath. I check her person for signs she’s been kissed within an inch of her life—or closer—but her curls are un-mussed, her lipstick on, and her black dress pants and flowy red shirt are in pristine condition. There are no wrinkles suggesting the outfit was recently plucked off the floor, which is a big fucking relief. I’m not ready for that discussion. (If ever.)
“Hey,” she says, her tone muted. I love that her tone is muted, and hope it’s because she’s disappointed. I realize this makes me sound a dick. Trust me, I don’t want Cris to have a horrible life. I want her to have an incredible life, complete with her knight in pressed khakis. I just don’t think she’s going to find him on a freaking dating app.
“How’d it go?” I shut the door behind her and rub my hands together, realizing I might’ve assumed too much. She could be disappointed because she had sex with the bastard and it was bad. That…I really don’t like thinking about.
“Well, we made it to dinner.” She lets out a gusty sigh and drops her purse on the sofa. “And then he drove me home.”
I tense.
“He was such a pretentious asshole. I should have run out before dessert, but like an idiot, I let him pick me up so he was my ride.”
“You could have called me,” I growl, my tone harsher than I intend. “You can always call me. Tell me you know that. You’re not at the mercy of some douche-nozzle because he shelled out money for dinner.”
Her cupid’s-bow lips curve into a soft smile at my creative insult. She pats my chest, the warmth of her palm leaving an unexpected imprint on my shirt. “You think he paid for dinner. That’s cute.”
I clench my jaw.
“There’s one thing I didn’t have my fill of tonight. Wine. Rick was a self-professed teetotaler. I followed suit to be polite.”
“I have a lot of opinions,” I let her know. “I won’t start my lecture until after I’ve poured.” I point to my glass. “Red?”
“Is white too much trouble?”
“Not even a little.” Nothing is too much trouble for her.
Her phone rings from her purse and she pulls it out to check the screen. “Vivian,” she informs me. “I’ll be fast.”
“Take your time. I’ll pick out the perfect vintage.”
She heads out to the pool, sliding the patio door shut behind her. I jog downstairs, whistling as I go to the large wine cooler and study the contents. I feel a hell of a lot better knowing she didn’t sleep with the guy, but he better not have done anything untoward or I’ll have him killed.