Page 75 of The Wife Situation

I think I see him almost crack a smile, but he doesn’t. The three of us continue.

“Are the paps watching us right now?” Carlee asks.

“Yes,” Brody confirms. “They’re always watching Alexis.”

It sounds ominous when he says it.

Ten minutes later, I climb the steps of our stoop and open the main door. Carlee follows behind me.

“We can’t let him stay out here,” she says, glancing back at Brody, who looks like he’s guarding the building entrance. “It’s rude.”

“What do you want to do? Invite him in?”

“Where’s your Southern hospitality? You left that shit back in Texas?”

“He won’t come inside,” I say, turning for the stairwell. “Trust me.”

“You wanna bet?”

“Sure,” I tell her with a laugh. “Name your price.”

“A hundred.”

“Deal.”

I take the four flights of stairs to our apartment and shove the key into the hole, twisting the knob before entering.

The two boxes of items I had shipped here are stacked in the corner. I grab my suitcase and place my clean clothes inside, but I wait to zip it. In the tiny kitchen, I find my favorite coffee mug with the sayingI’m not old, I’m a classicwith a cherry-red 1970 Chevrolet Camaro Z28. A coffee ring circles the inside, and I scrub it out before setting it next to my books so I don’t forget it.

A minute later, Carlee walks in and rushes down the hallway to the bathroom, leaving the apartment door open. Before I can shut it, Brody enters. All six feet of him makes our place shrink—or at least, it seems that way.

“You cost me a hundred bucks,” I say, shaking my head.

“I’m aware.”

I hear the toilet flush, followed by the sink water running.

My mouth falls open. “You knew she bet me?”

“That’s why I’m here.” His brow arches.

I scoff. “You’re an asshole, just like Easton.”

He meets my eyes. “It runs in the family.”

“Wait, you’re related?”

He doesn’t answer.

My eyes scan over the tattoos on his arm and I spot a symbol I recognize with the wordsdeath before dishonor. He’s a Marine. That explains his demeanor.

Brody glances around the room. The space is Carlee’s—with a collage of framed photos on her living room wall, pink pillows on her green couch, a fridge that’s covered in word magnets, and souvenirs from different places she’s visited.

Carlee joins us, opens the fridge, and peers inside. “Want something to drink? A beer?”

“No thanks,” he says.

I shake my head at him.

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