Page 82 of How to Win the Girl

But Drake is cockier. Smug.

Sexy.

Everyone knows this.

Cocky, smug, sexy is facts.

As I look at pictures of the guys, arms around one another, posing, it’s clear to me which brother is which, if not by the way they look or carry themselves, but by the eyes.

Clear as day.

Drake’s gaze haunts me from the screen, almost as intense as if he were sitting across from me again at the dinner table.

“I was thinking... how about we go out for some revenge on my brother?"Drew’s words echo in my brain, repeating themselves on a loop, doing nothing to quell the butterflies in my stomach.

“He needs to learn his lesson.” Drew had called me when I’d gotten home to discuss the plan further.“Not that I want revenge on him or anything, but he has to learn to stay out of my business.”

“If you actually wanted to get revenge on him, I’d be seriously concerned.”I’d laughed.

“I do love the idea of getting back at him, on the other hand, it makes me nervous. What if he gets pissed?”

That made Drew scoff into the phone. “Drake doesn’t get pissed. He gets quiet. That’s how you know he’s mad. He doesn’t talk.”

I laughed. “That’s worse.”

“The good news is you’re not in a relationship with him, and it’s not like you’re friends. So it won’t matter how he feels about it.”

Not in a relationship.

Not friends.

His words hurt a little, but the real Drew knew nothing about the rapport Drake and I had formed nor had he known we were on speaking terms to begin with—so who was he to say?

“Right.” I shook my head though he couldn’t see it, pacing around my small bedroom like a caged cat at the zoo, and if I had a land-line telephone I’d be twirling the cord the way I’d seen girls do in movies.

“Anyway, I was kind of thinkin’ about how to judge whether or not he feels bad about any of this, and I could pretend to really be into you to see what he does.”

I force out a chuckle. “So you'd be pretending too?”

“Yeah, but obviously, it wouldn't be the same thing. You would know about it, and he wouldn't.”

“Different but the same,” I say. “Don't get me wrong, I'm all for it. I just want you to know that it's basically the same thing in a roundabout way.”

“This time, no one's getting hurt.”

I am.

I would be.

Maybe.

I mean—there’s a chance.

“So did you just want to walk around the house pretending that we were going out, or did you actually want me to come over to see his reaction?”

“It might be really fun if you actually came over, and then we could leave and go for ice cream or something. Let him marinate in his own misery.”

That perks me up. “You think he’d be miserable?”

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