Gabriel smiles sympathetically. “Remember when you and Holden were here in December buying tuxes for the New Year’s Eve gala?”
“Yes,” I mutter. “One of my former Tinder dates called while we were here.”
“And she said she’d lost her diamond earrings in your apartment,” Gabriel continues, even-keeled. “Said she needed them to pay for a medical procedure for her sister. Asked if you had seen them or could replace them.”
Can I just grab a paper bag to cover my face? Chagrin, thy name is Crosby.
“Dude,” Eric says, chiding me.
“I didn’t fall for it,” I insist.
Gabriel pats my shoulder. “You didn’t. Because Holden and I told you it was a known scam.”
“You almost fell for that?” Eric asks incredulously.
“Fine,” I grumble. “I have a soft spot. I wanted to help her.”
“And we want to help you,” Eric says. “You need it, man. Not only are you a magnet for trouble, your heart is too squishy.”
“That’s not a bad thing,” I say, but combined with my terrible taste, maybe it is.
I toss up my hands in defeat. I’ve got nothing left in the protest tank because they’re both right. Time to man up. “Fine. I’m doing this. Whole-hog, cold-turkey, full-on woman ban through spring training. Hell, better make it until Opening Day.”
The shop owner whistles.
Eric claps.
I take a bow.
“You heard it here first,” Gabriel quips. “Would you like me to let Holden know when he stops by to pick up his tux later today?”
I roll my eyes. “Spread the word, why don’t you? Hire a skywriter. Hoist a banner.”
“We’ll all be your no-date sponsors, Crosby,” Eric says with a grin.
That’s what I need.
Backup.
Accountability.
My guys to have my back.
“Fair enough. You can all call me out if I slip.”
Eric stares at me. “No slipping.”
“It’s for your own good,” Gabriel adds, then snickers under his breath, “Diamond earrings.”
Eric shakes his head, amused. “Did you even sleep with the diamond earrings chick?”
“No,” I practically shout.
Eric holds out his arms in a wide there you have it shrug. I could caption this pic, I told you so.
“I get it. She was never even in my apartment. But I felt bad for her.”
“You’re a good one. That’s why you’re going to need a team of men to back you up. I want daily reports.”
“And when he’s on his honeymoon, you can report in here,” Gabriel puts in.
“Fair enough.” I’ve got a trainer for fitness, one who whips me into tip-top shape with ruthless sprints, squats, and crunches. I’ll enlist these guys as my no-love trainers. “Also, Gabriel, I’ll be sure to give your store a shout-out on my social media.” I run a finger along the suit jacket. “Because this tux is dope.”
“Thanks again for finding these blue ones,” Eric adds, taking off his jacket to hang it up. “Mariana will be thrilled.”
“Happy wife, happy life,” Gabriel says with a smile. “I’ll meet you at the register when you’re ready.”
I shuck off my own jacket and undo my shirt buttons, turning to Eric. “Speaking of your nuptials, I don’t need to bring anyone, do I? Since obviously, with the detox, I’d rather go solo.”
“I hear ya, but fair warning—Mariana does have a ton of single friends.” Eric taps his chin, lost in thought for a moment. “That might be like serving cupcakes at a meeting of the cupcake resistance. What do we need to do so you can just say no?”
It’s a valid question. I take a deep breath and noodle on the dilemma. Then the answer arrives in a flash.
I have a genius idea to avoid the cupcake temptation. But to pull it off, I’m going to need the help of Eric’s sister once again.
2
Nadia
Who authorized all this stuff?
We’re talking boxes, shelves, drawers, racks, and hangers upon hangers of clothes. Stacks upon stacks of sweaters.
“My sweaters have been self-propagating. That’s the only explanation,” I declare from the middle of my walk-in closet.
Scarlett studies the scene, humming thoughtfully before she answers, “It’s hard to argue with that.” She meets my gaze, her green eyes flashing question marks. “But how do you know your sweaters are replicating themselves and not just mating with each other when you’re not looking?”
Snapping my fingers, I point at her. “Maybe it’s both,” I say, gesturing wildly to the clothes. All the clothes. “I can’t possibly have bought so many things. It’s impossible that I purchased so many shoes.”
Though the evidence suggests otherwise—floor to ceiling shelves full of heels, sandals, flats, boots.
My heart thumps harder as I gaze at my pretties. Is there anything better than shoes?
But before I get lost in the beauty of all those pairs, I’ve got to get to the bottom of this bedeviling closet.
I tap my chin. “I heard a podcast recently about possible scientific developments in nanotechnology involving machines and tubes and rays and stuff that would enable DNA and RNA to self-replicate. What if that happened to my clothes?” I run my hand along a fire-engine-red cashmere V-neck that I wore to a December meeting last year. It’s folded on top of a cherry-red twinset, on top of a cranberry turtleneck, perched on a burgundy crewneck. “Evidence, clearly evidence. What if my clothes are on the frontier of experimentation?”
“Yes, that could very well explain your closet,” my friend says, then purses her lips together like she’s trying to rein in a laugh.
“Right? But that’s not all.” I march out of the closet, ushering Scarlett with me. I point to the pile of silk, wool, and fleece ascending into a Mount Kilimanjaro of scarves on my bed—scarves I tossed there earlier while packing. I stab my finger in the direction of the offending mound, winding myself up even more, because, oh mama, I am wound tight right now. “I have sixty-seven scarves. It’s simply not possible that I purchased sixty-seven scarves. Either they’re replicating, or someone has been sneaking scarves in here to make me look like a shopaholic.”
Scarlett doesn’t even try to stifle a laugh this time. “Would that person be you?”
Aghast, I shirk back. Indignant. Utterly indignant. For . . . reasons. “No. Of course not. I would never do that. Because I can’t possibly own that many scarves.”
“How do you know there are sixty-seven? Did you actually count the number of scarves?”
“Yes! And I was annoyed that it wasn’t sixty-nine.”
“Understandable.” She fingers the thin emerald-green silk number tossed jauntily around her neck. “I’d contribute to your pile, but alas, that would only get you to sixty-eight.”
“Sixty-eight is a sad number, and an embarrassing one,” I say, flopping onto the bed, moaning like I’m a balloon running out of air.
Petering out.
Because of that word.