Page 18 of Betting on the Brainiac

“This is such a momentous night! Coral lipstick. Order the good wine. I know Ava will be maid of honor, but let me plan the bachelorette party.”

Sami jumps up to make it a group hug. “Definitely coral lipstick, definitely don’t let Madi plan the bachelorette party, and I would be pretty happy with no satin, but I’ll wear whatever you want me to.”

Ruby squeals. “I can’t believe this, besties.”Neither can we. “Now let me go so I can get ready.”

We release her and leave her room, Sami throwing heart hands before she pulls Ruby’s door shut behind us. Then she grabs my arm and hustles me back to the kitchen.

“Ow.” I pull away and rub my bicep. “You’re too little to be that strong.”

“Quiet, Iron Woman. Are we supposed to do something?”

I plop onto a kitchen chair. “If you’re sure your friend is about to marry the absolute wrong guy, do you try to talk her out of it? Or do you keep your mouth shut so you’re there to pick up the pieces eventually?”

Sami gives a deep sigh. “You know who would know?”

“Ruby.”

She points, likeThat.

“We could be wrong,” I say.

“We’re not wrong.”

I slump. “You’re right. He’s not the one.”

Sami’s eyes go out of focus, and she starts tapping her fingers against her thigh. I wait almost a full minute before I interrupt.

“Samuel Sami Sam? Are you writing a song?”

She blinks and looks at me before muttering, “You say I let our love die, but when did you ever try to find the things that make me tick.” She walks out, fingers still tapping.

Yeah, she’s in lyrics mode. I guess it’s up to me to make a judgment call.

I’ll send Ruby off with a smile, then text Ava and tell her to come home from work and to bring Joey over too. A proposal is big. But a wedding is huge, and if anyone will know whether we should keep it from getting to that point, it’s Ruby’s childhood best friend and her favorite brother.

Chapter Nine

Madison

Niles knocks ten minutesearly. He’s not even wearing a tie. He’s in nice pants and a button-down shirt, so technically, he’s within the restaurant’s dress code, but who doesn’t wear a tie to his own engagement? Or at least a freaking sport coat.

“Ruby,” I call. “Come in, Niles. She’ll be out in a minute.”

He steps inside and immediately looks bored, like he’s already been waiting ten minutes and we’ve exhausted our conversation. If he hates being kept waiting, why does he show up early?

Probably so he can be grumpy about having to wait.

I keep my face friendly like I do when a VIP in my section reveals himself to be a tool but a tool who has booked a two-thousand-dollar champagne service with a mandatory gratuity.

“Heard you’re going to Spenser’s. Nice place.”

He nods and jingles his keys, his shoulders tense.

Maybe this isn’t impatience. Maybe this is nerves? Always the hostess with the mostest, I try to set him at ease for Ruby’s sake. “So, big night?”

He gives me a look of mild annoyance. I know it well because I get it from him all the time. “In the mood for steak.”

“Sure. Who isn’t?” But I always thought Niles was a Sizzler kind of guy. Spenser’s cheapest steak is a hundred bucks. I had them often on my parents’ dime, until I realized that accepting those kinds of luxuries from them left a bad taste in my mouth not even a dry-aged ribeye can hide.

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