Page 76 of Wish You Would

“I wish I’d known you were a troll before we got involved,” she grumbled, stabbing at her pasta. “And after I cooked dinner and shared my nice wine.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you were so distracted by my rack to pay attention to the signs.” I reached for my wine and smirked across the island. “They were all there.”

“Can you blame me?” She looked me over with slow intention, gaze lingering on my chest. “You’ve got a fantastic rack.”

My nipples hardened beneath her gaze. I swallowed and gripped my fork tighter as heat crept up my neck and across my cheeks. Gigi followed it with her eyes, a delicious smirk curving her lips.

“Eat your dinner,” she said, her voice husky. “So we can get to dessert.”

31

31 GIGI

TORN

Heathcliff’s before open was my favorite. The darkened bar, the hush of silence. The way my footsteps echoed as I walked across the hardwood, then dulled as I hit the anti-slip mats behind the bar.

Used to be, silence meant failure. It meant no customers, and no cash flow, and the brink of closure. Now, it was the peace before the chaos. The calm before the storm.

It was my favorite.

Well, second favorite now. Any moment spent with Parker sat at the top spot on my favorites list now. Even last night, her on my couch amid a disaster zone of books and papers, in her sweats and topknot, was higher on my list than anything else at the moment.

Smiling to myself, I sat cross-legged on the floor behind the bar. I’d come in early to inventory our liquor supply. It was usually my least favorite task in all of Heathcliff’s—I’d rather clean out the fryers than count the booze—but I’d been in such a good mood lately that even this tedious-ass task couldn’t bring me down.

I fell into a rhythm, counting and typing, labeling and noting, until my brain was a blank slate. Nothing but numbers and names of alcohols and the random melodies I hummed as I worked.

It was calm. It was quiet.

It was Zen as fuck.

Which was probably why when Vaughn leaned against the bar next to me, I jumped about ten feet into the air.

“Jesus fuck!” I spun on my butt to face him. “Why are you sneaking around like a goddamn ninja with a man bun?”

He frowned. “I called your name three times. That’s hardly ninja-like.”

“Oh.” Now it was my turn to frown. “Shit, sorry.” I sat my stack of paperwork down and stood, brushing my hands over my jeans. “What’s up?”

His dark eyes looked me over before he spoke, face unreadable. My stomach flipped. “I was hoping to talk to you before I head out.” He gestured toward the empty bar. “You have a few minutes?”

I eyed him, skeptical. “Is everything okay?”

He nodded, then walked away, waving for me to join him. “Come on.”

With one last look at my half-finished inventory list, I followed. Vaughn picked a two-top against the wall and we sat. I exhaled, anxiety creeping at the edges of my brain, and looked up, tracing the lines of Jo March, long, lean, and fierce, looming over us. It was my favorite of the figures Anya had painted on the walls. They were all good. Anya was stupid talented. But something about Jo, even from the concept sketch she’d shown me ages ago, had spoken to me.

Locking eyes with the fictional character, I willed her to loan me some of that fierceness that emanated from her so effortlessly. I wasn’t feeling very fierce right now. I was feeling a lot of things, but fierce was not one of them.

I blew out a steadying breath and faced my brother. I didn’t know what he wanted to talk about, but I had an idea. And that idea started par and ended with ker.

“All right,” I said, sitting back in my chair. “Out with it.”

Vaughn frowned, mirroring my position. “Out with what?”

“I take it Anya talked to you.” At his nod, I continued. “I take it she has opinions?”

“It’s Anya, so of course,” he relented. “But—”

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