Page 63 of The Winslow Brothers

Winnie narrows her eyes. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you?”

I shrug and stretch my neck forward like an ostrich. “I mean…I don’t think I’mnotclever.”

“Uncle Jude brought the stuff for spaghetti,” Lexi says factually, having finally found an opening to add her opinion.

Winnie glowers, and I practically rub my hands together with glee.

“Just look at it this way,” I say. “Now, you don’t have to order takeout and you don’t have to cook and Lex gets to have her favorite food. All around, I’d say this is a win,Win.”

She tosses annoyed eyes at my pun, but personally, I think it was pretty damn cute.

When Wes returns from the door, Remy, Flynn, and Ty are all behind him, looking nearly as satisfied as I am. There’s also a random woman, whom I can only assume is Ty’s flavor of the day.

I only have eyes for the youngest brother of the three, though. The traitor. “I thought you weren’t coming,” I accuse pointedly, taking a seat on one of the stools at the Lancaster kitchen island.

Ty gives me the finger. “It wasn’t my idea, but I wasn’t going to be the only asshole out.” He pulls a twine-tied package out from behind his back and smiles. “Plus, Flynn drove me by the bakery.”

“Cannoli?” I ask hopefully.

“And chocolate chip and almond cookies.”

Well, hot damn. Food, family, and cannoli.

Today started in one hell of a funk—that I haven’t been able to explain—but my mood should be back to normal in no time.

Sophie

My cab swerves to a stop in front of the Mandarin Oriental in Columbus Circle, and I accidentally tap my forehead on the plexiglass divider between the driver and me, I’m so eager to hand over his money and get out.

He looks at me sideways a little, but I don’t linger. Not only would that worsen the embarrassment, but I’m already running horrendously late to set up for an important corporate event. So late, that my assistant, Julie, is probably on the brink of setting the room on fire and hopping a jet to Bora Bora.

Normally, between the two of us, we manage to get more done than a whole staff from one of the larger event firms in the same amount of time. But it’s the setup that makes the magic, and neither Julie nor I alone is equipped to outfit a six-thousand-square-foot space by ourselves.

“Come on, come on,” I mutter under my breath as the almost-spring influx of tourists makes it hard to get into the whitewashed building. Cameras in hand, they snap shots of Columbus Circle and the entrance to Central Park with little to no awareness of just how much of the sidewalk they’re blocking.

Add that in with thereasonI’m running so behind—spending my normal hour and then some lying to Dr. Winters about myexperimental date and the way things turned out—and I’m more than a little frazzled.

Out of time and patience, I karate chop my way through a group of teenage girls clamoring to find the right angle for their social media shots and skid toward the door like I’m on skates.

The light shifts slightly when I step into the lobby, causing my eyes to do a funny sun halo thing that makes it hard to see where I’m going, but I don’t bother slowing down.

If I run into a thing or two, the bruises I earn will just have to be a casualty of war.

“Hold the elevator,” I yell toward the closing doors, but when no hand reaches out to stop them, all I can do is whine in my head.

Why? Why did I have to spend so much time avoiding Dr. Winters’s questions about my date? And why do the people in New York have to be so damn rude?

Power walking, I hit the elevator call button, expecting to have to wait, but the same cart opens immediately, revealing itself as empty.

Oh. Well. I guess that’s why no one held it. Ha.

God, I’m a mess.

Obviously, getting snuck out on immediately following the type of sex that transcends all metrics of reality isn’t the kind of event I’m built for.

And to be honest, I’m not even sure why.

When it comes to relationships, I like defining events and lines in the sand because they’re paths to clarity. And those lines say, in no uncertain terms, that the person who commits the acts are not worth my time. Not worth my thoughts, not worth my worry, not worth the very distinct fantasy for life and marriage and babies I have.

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