Page 7 of Bordeaux Bombshell
Why couldn’t he stay in France, where I didn’t have to see his stupid face at every holiday and family gathering? Where I didn’t have to choose between my family and the man who makes me see red simply by breathing within fifty feet of me.
Who used to be like a brother.
And then my best friend.
Then more than a friend.
And then a ghost.
I scream into my pillow one more time for good measure, then pick up my phone.
Me: If I didn’t love you so much, I would be a brat about this. But since I love you and I love my brother, I promise to play nice until the wedding is over. But playing nice doesn’t mean I have to seek out his company. It means I will be civil and polite when we are in company. That’s all I can promise.
Her reply pops up almost instantly.
Maggie: And you haven’t been a brat before now?
This is followed by a series of raised-eyebrow emoji. I roll my eyes because I can’t deny it, but that doesn’t mean I’ll admit it out loud. “Whatever,” I say to the ceiling. “Maybe having a sister isn’t as great as I thought it would be.”
I slip into the warmth of my bed, the sheets gliding over my skin. Buying two high-quality sets of sheets was my one splurge last year, and I haven’t regretted it a day since. No man has ever slept on these babies, and I intend to keep it that way, even if my family and friends are convinced otherwise.
My home is my sanctuary. Out in public, I put on a show. I’m loud, I’m difficult—the badass-bordering-on-bitch everyone expects to see. But here, in my home, and especially in my bedroom, I get to fall apart. I can be cozy and soft because no one is demanding I be anything else.
Of course, with the quiet comes the memories. Memories Nate did his best to stir up when he showed up here unannounced. I need to remember to murder Kel for giving him the idea that we needed to be on speaking terms again.
Speaking is not required for the role he plays in my life now.
Annoyed and angry all over again, I grab my phone and do what I always do when I need a distraction from myself—I open up one of my dating apps and start swiping.
Which is ruder? To make disgusting wet noises as you vacuum tiny bits of meat off chicken wings? Or to walk out of the date because the teeth-sucking sounds gross you out?
Asking for a friend. Who is me.
I should have canceled the date when he suggested the restaurant, but even though I hate chicken wings, I figured there had to be something else on the menu I could eat.
My salad and onion rings are surprisingly good, but the sounds this man is making while he slurps minuscule bits of meat off the bones pinched between his fingers are ruining my appetite.
I didn’t even set up an emergency bailout with Payton because I was too distracted thinking about the way Nate’s lips had almost brushed against my ear the other night. Stabbing my fork into the salad and silently cursing myself for swiping while angry, I let the din of the other diners drown out my date’s nasty eating habits.
“You sure you don’t want one?” He waves a chicken wing toward me, his sauce-covered fingers making it look twice as big. “I don’t mind sharing.”
Rolling my eyes at his exaggerated wink, I concentrate on chewing my mouthful and swallowing. “It’s fine, really. I don’t like chicken wings.”
My date goes back to sucking his food. “How can you not like wings? That’s so un-American of you.”
“Not wanting to eat something because it’s too much work is actually the most American thing ever,” I argue back. “They’retoo much work for such a small payoff. And I’m pretty sure people have been eating wings for as long as there have been chickens—which definitely pre-dates America.”
Gavin, Brent—or maybe Travis?—barks out a laugh that turns into a choking cough. Still hacking, he points at me between rounds of thumping a fist against his chest. I assume he thought my comment was hilarious, which is true, but his red face and short breaths aren’t enough to hold my attention.
My gaze wanders over the decor as I wait for him to get it together. Families and groups of friends are scattered around the brightly lit restaurant. Our booth is off to one side, by the kitchen. Nothing about this place is romantic. I’d give him a pass for the lack of charm if he had put more than thirty seconds of thought into planning this date. And if his eyes hadn’t been glued to the TV behind me for most of the evening.
With one last wet gasp, GavinBrentTravis manages to get himself under control. “You’re really funny, you know that?”
“I do, actually.” I pause to sip my soda. “But thank you.”
“For a gir—wait. Did you just say you know?” GBT gapes at me.
I lean back in my seat, tired of this game already. Damn me for not setting up a way to bail ahead of time. “Yes. I know I’m funny. Is that a problem?”
