She meets my eyes, oblivious to my growing lustiness. “I can’t tell you everything she told me. Sisterhood code, you know.”
Focus. This could be good intel. “Did she tell you the name of the guy?”
Her brows lift. Up close her eyes are a light brown with gold tones, reminding me of honey. Sydney with the honey eyes and sweet scent. It’s natural to be drawn in. She’s not sweet, which I like because sweet women always take offense to my direct way of speaking. Except Kayla, but she’s used to me. Sydney looks and smells sweet, but with a fiery personality. Want.
“You don’t know his name?” she asks.
I blink a few times, trying to remember what we were talking about. Oh, yeah, Kayla’s ex. “I never met him. This whole thing was a nasty surprise.”
She shakes her head. “She never actually said his name. Just that he was a PhD student.”
“That narrows it down. How many could there be in the biostatistics program? She said they went to the same school.” I shift Snowball to the floor, who gives me an aggrieved look, and retrieve my laptop. I click over to the university’s website and search the biostatistics department for PhD students. Sometimes they’ll list grad students if they work as teaching assistants.
Sydney looks over. “She didn’t say he was in the same program. They could’ve met in an overlapping class or at a student lounge or mixer or something.”
I ignore her. I’m on the hunt. There’s two PhD guys working as teaching assistants. Nerdy types like Kayla favors. I shut the lid. “I’ve got two potentials, but you’re right, she could’ve went outside the program. She said they met online, and then she found out they went to the same school. Why can’t she just spit out the name?”
Her eyes gleam. “What’re you going to do to him?”
“I’d like to punch him in his stupid face.” Snowball lifts her head from where she’s curled at my feet.
Sydney nods eagerly. “Then what?”
I give her a wary look. Bloodthirsty, this one. “I hadn’t gotten that far.” Snowball curls up to sleep.
“You’ve got to kick him in the nuts,” she says, as if this is obvious.
“Remind me never to get involved with you.”
She stands and takes a step back. “Not a problem. You’re not my type. At all. Actually, you’re the opposite.”
I ignore the jab, and the sinking feeling of disappointment. I kinda thought we were building something here. She talks to me a lot and came over to my place twice now. And I didn’t miss the appraising look in her eyes when she first got here. She likes what she sees.
I keep my voice cool, instinctively knowing she’ll run hot in response. “That’s convenient because you’re not my type either.”
She crosses her arms, which gives her breasts a nice boost in that clingy sweater. “You probably exclusively date models.”
I gesture wearily. “And actresses and heiresses. Anyone in the wealthy fundraiser circle.” I sigh like it’s a curse. Not that I mind beautiful women throwing themselves at me. I just wish it was actually me they were interested in, instead of my bank account. “That’s who I meet. As a matter of fact—”
“I don’t want to hear about your women,” she snaps, those honey eyes flashing.
The blood rushes through my veins. “They’re not mine. They’re on loan. Let me guess, your type is big dumb jocks.” My exact opposite.
“Why is that my type?”
“You know why.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You care more about the package.”
She jams her hands on her hips. “So now I’m shallow?” Her head swivels, and I know I’m in for it now. “Why the hell you think you know me well enough to predict my type is beyond me. You don’t know me at all.”
“Sure I do.”
“No, you don’t. Not even close.”
This is so blatantly untrue I have to correct her. I tick everything off on my fingers. “You’re broke, you have no business sense, you’re hot tempered, which is great in bed and terrible in business, refer back to failing business, and you don’t know when to cry uncle.” At her silence, I think of one more so all five fingers are accounted for. “You’re entirely too stubborn and independent, and it’s not doing you any favors.” Technically, six, but I keep to my one hand out.
She lifts her chin. “You prefer your women docile and dependent.”
“I prefer a woman with good sense.”
Her face flushes. “Go to hell!”
I might’ve played that wrong.
She flips me the bird and marches out of the room.
I really need to stop making her mad. It’s not like I was trying to insult her. She is too stubborn and independent, struggling to keep that restaurant afloat, ignoring all my good suggestions, refusing to take a loan from Harper. I guess I get that with them being childhood friends, but still. The rest was all true, and she knows it.
I sit there for a few moments, debating if I should catch up to her and apologize. She did come out here in a snowstorm to cheer up my sister and brought homemade ice-cream cookie sandwiches.
I head back through the kitchen and find Kayla sitting on top of the island, scrolling on her phone. Snowball follows me in.
Kayla looks up. “Sydney just left in a hurry.”
I ignore the stab of guilt. “She was trying to get home before the storm got bad.”
Snowball looks up at me expectantly. Her people barometer approved of Sydney.
I screwed up.
Sydney
Damn him! Softening me up with that protective big-brother stuff, and then wham! Insult city. To think I came out here in the middle of a snowstorm with ice-cream sandwiches to help out his sister! This is how he thanks me. By insulting me, my restaurant, and my good sense!
No more. I am done with Wart forever.
Even the pelting snow can’t touch the heat of my anger. I step outside just as the storm is picking up, the trees bending with the wind. I make my way over to my old black Honda, yank open the trunk, and grab the ice scraper. Front windshield. Back. Side windows. I toss the scraper back in the trunk and dash back to the driver’s side, getting inside. Crap. I left my ice-cream scoop in his kitchen. I should’ve taken that and all my ice-cream sandwiches with me. He doesn’t deserve any of my snowstorm essentials. Now I have to go home with nothing.
I shiver and consider going back inside for my stuff. I don’t want him to enjoy my food. I want him to eat dirt. Forget it. I just want to get out of here. I start the car and blast the heat. I swear he’s insulted me for the last time, and if I never have to see him again, I will be one happy camper.
I slowly ease forward, not wanting my tires to spin on the fresh snow. A monstrous crack rends the air right before a huge pine tree looms overhead. I scream as it crashes right in front of my car. The car shakes from the near miss. The tree trunk on its side is nearly as high as my car. I put a hand over my pounding heart, adrenaline rushing through my veins.
I could’ve been killed.
Oh my God.
I could’ve been killed.
My hands are shaking. I blink a few times, still in shock. Okay, it’s okay. I’m alive. That’s the important part.