Page 88 of The Winslow Brothers

“Oh, c’mon, Soph,” she whines and stands up from my bed. “It’s the least you can do for making me think you’d gone missing.”

“Stop being so dramatic.” I roll my eyes and shake my head, but my sister is determined.

“Put on some clothes, you little nudist, so John can buy us some fucking French toast.”

I laugh atThe40-Year-Old Virginmovie reference. But also, I agree because…French toast. I’m a sucker for all things delicious breakfast foods.

Plus, after the erotic events of last night and Jude not leaving any trace of his presence in my apartment besides a text message with instructions for a future clandestine rendezvous, I’m pretty sure I could use the mental distraction that my sister and brother-in-law can provide this morning.

Amelia’s Diner is always moving and shaking during Saturday brunch hours, but since Belle and I have been regulars for the past five years, Danielle, the hostess with the mostest and a good friend, managed to sneak us in past the waiting crowd and seat us in a booth near the kitchen.

It’s also how we managed to get our food within fifteen minutes of arriving. Otherwise, we’d still be sitting outside with the rest of the crowd, waiting to be seated at a table.

In New York, it always pays to know someone.

I cut into my last piece of French toast, but when I shove another bite into my mouth, I realize it’s going to be a no-go on finishing my plate.

“I’m stuffed,” I mutter, set my fork down on the table, and lean back against the cushioned booth on a sigh. “I want to eat more, but I can’t.”

“I feel like a bloated whale,” Belle announces just as she shoves the last two bites of her French toast into her mouth.

John smiles lovingly at her from across the table. “Am I going to have to carry you out of this place, sweetheart?”

Belle grins around a mouthful of sugary carbs and shrugs. “It’s either that or ask Danielle if they have a wheelchair we can borrow.”

“I’m just glad you didn’t go nuts and order the waffle sundae like you did that one time,” I tease, and an amused laugh departs from John’s lungs.

“On that, we can agree, Soph.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” my sister retorts, and both John and I give her a look.

“Wasn’t that bad?” I question. “Belle, you ate an entire Belgian waffle covered in ice cream, chocolate syrup, and whipped cream in five minutes flat.”

“I was hungry.”

“You were nauseous for the rest of the damn day and spent a good two hours on the toilet,” John comments, and Belle snorts.

“It’s because I ate it all too fast. I just need to go slower next time.”

“Or you need to realize that you’re not a teenage boy who can eat anything in sight. You’re an almost thirty-year-old woman with a history of IBS.”

“I’m twenty-eight,” she corrects what I already know. I mean, we are fucking identical twins. “And that waffle sundae definitely gave my intestinal tract a run for its money.”

“Pretty sure that waffle sundae is a GI death sentence for anyone who orders it,” my brother-in-law adds, and I laugh.

“You’re spitting facts, John.”

“Whatever,” Belle retorts and takes a sip of her coffee. “One day soon, I’m going to woman-the-hell-up and order it again. Because that shit is delicious.”

“Remind me not to join you guys for brunch that day.”

John grins across the table at his wife. “Yeah, and give me some advanced notice so I can make sure I load you up with Gas-X and Pepcid.”

Belle crinkles her nose at us. “You guys are so lame.”

“If we’re lame, then you’re downright cuckoo. Especially when it comes to breakfast foods.”

My sister has a serious addiction to baking and eating anything carb- and sugar-loaded. Her eyes are bigger than her stomach, but she never actually listens to her stomach. Instead, she scarfs that shit down until she practically has to put herself on bedrest to recover. To be honest, she’s damn lucky her genetics have blessed her with a freak-of-nature metabolism.

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