Page 4 of The Proximity Factor

“I do have fun,” I said, half-heartedly defending myself, unable to remember the last time I’d had any fun.

“Oh, right. Your video game nights. Which are just your friends testing out your game. So you’re really just working. It doesn’t count. Whatever happened to your Ultimate Frisbee league?”

“Didn’t you tell me it wasn’t a real sport?”

“I was just teasing you. But ... is it really a sport?” She laughed.

For being siblings, Daphne’s and my demeanors are worlds apart. I had often wished I was more easygoing like her, but our upbringings had been quite different. Daphne’s mother was on the flighty side, but she was also more loving than my mother. I loved my mom, but life and my father had gotten the best of her, and she wasn’t the warmest of people. Too often, I took after her in that regard. It’s not something I was proud of; on the contrary, I wished I were different. For a long time when I was with Maren, I had been. But it hadn’t worked out so well. All it had gotten me was a divorce attorney.

“Listen, kid, it’s a legit sport. How many sports do you know that combine elements of football, basketball, and rugby?” If only I had time to play. My old teammates and friends had been asking me for months to rejoin the league, but my focus was on my company now. Besides, I wasn’t getting any younger. My almost-forty-year-old body didn’t recover the way it once had.

“Whatever you say, big brother.”

“I love you, Daphne.” I didn’t say those words often enough to her. She was one of the few bright spots in my life.

“I love you too,” she didn’t hesitate to say. “Play nice today,” she added. “As you know, southern girls mean business.”

Did I ever know it. Maren had obliterated my world. To further illustrate Daphne’s point, Lanie’s friend had slipped me a note under the bedroom door yesterday that simply said, Hurt Lanie in any way, shape, or form, and your family and friends will cry for you on a Dateline episode. Her friend didn’t need to worry. My plan was to avoid Lanie at all costs.

“There will be no playing,” I assured her.

“Too bad,” she chirped. “You could probably do with a little action, if you know what I mean.”

I knew exactly what she meant. “I don’t need my little sister to say things like that to me.” There was no keeping the disgust from my voice. I knew she was old enough to do whatever she wanted, but to me, Daphne would always be eight years old in pigtails. “Goodbye,” I said before she could say anything else that made me want to beat the hell out of any guy she was dating.

“Bye,” she laughed.

I threw my phone on the bed, the corner of my lips twitching. Daphne always had a positive effect on me. As soon as things were better, I was going to fly to Connecticut to see her.

Since I was awake, I thought it would probably be a good time to sneak into the kitchen and grab breakfast before my roommate woke up. She was probably like Maren, who needed her “beauty rest” and would more than likely not be up this early. I rolled out of bed in only my pajama pants. I didn’t even bother throwing on a shirt before I peeked out the door to look across the hall. Lanie’s door was closed, and I didn’t hear anything. It had probably exhausted her making the place look like a dollhouse with all her frilly pillows and throw blankets. Why did women need so many pillows? A better question is, why did they need to change them out for every season? And for crying out loud, it was June in Georgia. There was no need for blankets. It was going to be a long summer.

Thinking I was safe, I hustled over to the kitchen before I realized I’d made a grave mistake. My gorgeous roommate was not only an early riser but stealthily quiet. She was peeling a banana while dancing around the kitchen with AirPods in her ears. Unfortunately for me, she was wearing tiny athletic shorts and a cropped tee that showed off the curve of her waist every time she lifted her arms. I quickly averted my eyes, but the damage was done. My heart started pounding in a way it hadn’t in years. There was no denying it. I felt a strong physical attraction to her. Regardless, I didn’t want to be some creepy older guy ogling a younger woman. I didn’t catch her age, but by the looks of it, she was too young.

I was about to hightail it back to my room, but Lanie turned at just the wrong moment. She dropped her banana and shrieked, “Oh my gosh! You scared the crap out of me.” She blinked and then gaped at my bare chest before squeezing her eyes shut as if I repulsed her.

Maybe I wasn’t in the best shape of my life, but I still worked out and had some definition. Not the six-pack that once existed, but I didn’t think I was hideous. Until now, that is.

Stung by her reaction and unprepared to interact with her, I spluttered before spitting out, “I’m just here to grab some Pop-Tarts.” That was smooth—a man of my age admitting I still ate Pop-Tarts for breakfast.

Lanie’s eyes popped open. She pressed her lips together, trying to hold back her snickering, but failed. A perfect melodic laugh escaped her primed pink lips. “Pop-Tarts, huh? Well, that’s the breakfast of champions.”

I grumbled some incoherent swear words as I marched over to the pantry in the corner of the kitchen. Maren had always made fun of me for eating Pop-Tarts. I didn’t need another beautiful blonde doing the same thing. I threw open the door and groaned. Apparently, Lanie had given the pantry a makeover last night. Cutesy white wooden baskets lined the shelves—all labeled. She even had her cookbooks organized by color.

Lanie came up behind me, her baby-soft floral scent hitting me like a wrecking ball.

I clenched my fists, not needing this distraction in my life.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “I was organizing my food, and yours just looked so sad. Now it looks pretty like mine.”

Once upon a time, I might have found both her and her actions adorable. Now, anything that reminded me of Maren was irritating. “Food doesn’t have feelings.”

“How do you know?” She challenged me.

I didn’t have time for this—or her. Especially her, who smelled so damn good it was driving me mad. Without giving her the satisfaction of a reply, I reached into a basket labeled Treats and grabbed a box of cherry Pop-Tarts—my favorite flavor. I ripped it open and grabbed a packet before putting the box back on the shelf where it belonged. Not in some basket. When I turned around, she was still there, blocking the entrance and eyeing the box on the shelf as if I’d hurt its feelings.

“Excuse me,” I said more curtly than I meant to, but I wanted to get my point across.

“You know, if you let me make you a healthy breakfast, maybe you wouldn’t be so grumpy. How about some protein pancakes and a green smoothie?” She was turning on all the charm. I knew how these southern women worked. Lanie was going to try to kill me with kindness. It was all well and good before they turned on you.

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