Page 33 of Three Sweet Nothings (The Blindfold Club)

Chapter

TWELVE

RUBY

Grant’s apartment door swung open as I made my way down the hall, carrying Morgan’s dress in a garment bag in one hand, and a box in the other.

“Happy New Year,” he said. “Let’s hear it, then. Feel better after giving McAsshole a piece of your mind?”

Normally I enjoyed Grant’s South African accent, but now I grimaced. We had become friends my final year of law school, and although he’d never met Kyle, he’d heard all about him.

No. Better was definitely not the word I’d use after my evening with my ex. Trampled, maybe. Or gutted.

As soon as I stepped inside the apartment, I could tell things were different. I set the box down on the kitchen table. Didn’t there used to be a picture on the wall over this? Everywhere I looked, it seemed like something was missing. “What’s going on?”

Grant stroked a hand on the back of his neck. “Yeah, Morgan and I had a disagreement.”

I hung the garment bag in the closet. “About?”

“What’s all right to text to other people and what’s not.”

My movements slowed as I stared at my friend. All the traces of his girlfriend had been removed. There was hurt in his eyes, and I immediately went on the defensive. “What the fuck did she do?”

“Sometimes she’d text me pics where she’d be,” he made a face, “sans clothes.”

Surely his girlfriend sexting him wasn’t a problem. I gave him a skeptical look. “Naked pics, okay. What’s the issue?”

“I wasn’t the only guy she was sending them to.”

I sighed, and pretended I was speaking directly to his girlfriend. “Oh, Morgan.”

Sadly, this didn’t surprise me. Morgan was a pretty girl, but her beauty was her favorite thing about herself. Not only was she vain, she needed constant validation. Like, hourly updates on how good she looked.

She was a backup meteorologist for the weather on channel seven, and had met Grant when he’d stepped in as a line producer for the morning news. I’d gotten along with her well enough, but hanging out with Morgan was exhausting, and I thought Grant could do better.

He was a great guy. A few years younger than me, smart, and good looking. He’d also dated my sister for a nanosecond, so I’d never viewed him as a prospect. He was like a brother. He’d come to the States to get his college education, and wound up staying on a work visa. Last year, I’d helped him through the U.S. citizenship process.

Even though I didn’t like her, Grant had cared about Morgan, and I freaking hated to see him hurting. I’d have to stifle the urge to throat punch her if I ever saw her again in person.

“She swears she wasn’t cheating on me,” he said. “She told me hearing from other guys about how nice she looked made her feel better about herself.”

I paused. “Other guys? More than one?”

“Some of which we work with. Even if I was all right with her sending those kinds of pictures to other people, which I’m not . . . my coworkers? She didn’t consider how foolish it made me look. So, yeah, I’m done.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against his kitchen table. “Just finished my New Year’s cleaning. If that’s a thing.”

“Well, shit,” I deadpanned. “I feel just awful now about ruining the dress she lent me.”

Grant straightened. “You did what?”

I unzipped the garment bag and pulled the sides open, revealing the dress. The pink silk had dried with water stains all over it. The chlorine probably hadn’t helped, either. “A dry cleaner might be able to fix it. Or I can just buy it from her, I guess.” Please don’t let it be crazy expensive.

Grant gazed at the dress and gave half a chuckle. “What happened?” Then his gaze drifted over to the box. He lifted the lid. “Oh no.” He peered at the dozens of cookies inside, stacked in alternating colors. He shut the lid and locked his gaze on me. “Your night obviously didn’t go well. Did you sleep much?”

A few years ago, after too much wine and an evening on Pinterest, I discovered a tutorial on making French macarons. My first attempt had been a disaster. Puffy cookie shells with cracked tops. But I wouldn’t be beaten and kept at it, figuring out the perfect temperature for my oven, and how to fold the delicate batter so I’d get shiny, perfect shells with chewy centers. I was obsessed with making them in different colors and flavor combinations. Creating the sandwich cookies had become my therapy.

Grant knew this. One look at the box announced my fragile mental state.

“Yeah, I slept,” I said, trying not to be defensive. “I got an early start.”

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