Page 74 of How to Lose at Love

It’ll be nice to lie low and watch our older brother’s game on a full night’s sleep and a day off, rather than watching it completely exhausted and half-asleep.

“Brunch?” The girls perk up.

“Yes. It’s a tradition—just the three of us.” Meaning: not you, or you, or the brunette who for some reason didn’t make an appearance tonight.

Probably being cock-blocked by these two brother stealers.

The girls pout.

Ryann? Doesn’t seem to care—not that I would expect her to. She’s only along for the ride because she’s doing me a favor.

My date yawns.

Head tips to the side. In an unusually affectionate move, she rests her cheek briefly against my bicep and yawns again.

“Ready to go?” I ask down at her.

“Sure.”

“You guys leavin’? I feel like we just got here.”

We did almost just get here. “Think I’ve seen enough. The music is too loud and the beer is warm.”

Tepid at best.

Drake stares into his cup. “Piss warm, eh?” He sets it on a nearby table. “We’ll come with you—I want to order pizza. You don’t mind giving your little brother a lift, do ya?”

Yes, I mind.

I mind a lot.

Drake drapes his arm over the blondes’ shoulders. “Your little brother and the twins.”

“The twins?” Ryann asks.

“We’re not actually related.” One of them giggles. “He just calls us that because we’re always together.”

“Right. Yeah, no, I got that. I was just confused for a second.”

Because it’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ heard, that’s why.

I grunt. “I’ll give y’all a ride home, but you’re sitting in the back seat.”

She giggles again, eyeing me up and down as if Ryann weren’t standing there beside me. “I love it when you say y’all. You sound like you’re from the country.”

“That’s ’cause we are from the country.” A sprawling ranch in Texas, a few hundred acres of land surrounded by fencing, filled with roaming cattle and the occasional hay bale.

I grapple for Ryann’s hand and lead us to the door, our escape taking much longer than our arrival did, everyone wanting to say goodbye, give hugs, slaps on the back, take selfies to prove they partied with me.

I call it the Goodbye Tour ’cause no one can just leave; it’s gotta be a gosh-dang production.

Still. The online tagging will be good—it’s the very reason we came tonight, so I don’t really mind it, making a mental note to shoot my agent a note about it so he can check out the socials and direct teams and scouts to them.

We look about as humble as apple pie, smiling pleasantly at those around us.

It feels fake because it is.

Ten minutes later, I’m behind the steering wheel of my truck, a place I consider an oasis to block out the noise. Except it’s packed full of people, one of whom won’t shut her yap.

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