Page 128 of Best Kind of Trouble
I met up with Cormac last night, too, my unusual need for socialization driven by both my determination to stop obsessing about Briar and my fear of being around Hannah.
Because my sister knows me. She’ll take one look at my face and know that I’ve fucked her best friend. Hopefully, it will soften her to know that I’m also in love with Briar, but I’d prefer to tell her after I have a better idea of whether I still have a shot.
It’s a mark of my desperation that I actually told Cormac about the whole sorry situation—in two sentences, which is the extent of my ability to talk about this kind of shit with another man.
“I’m no good with women,” he responded. “I never know what to say. It’s always too much or not enough. The last woman I dated…I told her she was talking too loudly, and she threw a drink at me. But we were at an event at the library. Shewastalking too loudly.”
“What was she doing drinking in the library?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I never got a chance to ask follow-up questions.”
We both had a good laugh at that. He went on to admit he was uneasy about performing live with the band. While he’s had to present at a bunch of amateur inventor conventions, in those situations the focus was always on what he’d made, not on him.
I’m a little rusty with this friend business, but I patted him on the back and assured him he didn’t have much to worryabout. He’s the bass player, after all, and the audience doesn’t usually laser-focus on the bass. I suggested he could just pretend he was still alone in his room, playing along to a recording. Surprisingly, he seemed to find that comforting.
Like Otis, he offered to help me prove myself to Briar. He told me he has a “particular set of skills,” either purposefully or accidentally quoting Liam Neeson inTaken. Most of those skills are irrelevant to wooing a woman, but some of them will come in handy with my special project.
The other person I’ve spent time with over this past week is Dottie, mostly because she’s made it impossible to avoid her. She started bringing in a special blend of tea for me every morning. I could tell her until I’m blue in the face that I don’t actually like tea, and that any sane person prefers coffee as a caffeine agent, but she’ll still keep bringing it.
Every day, she sits me down and asks me how I’m feeling, as if she isn’t perfectly well aware that I’m not a person who enjoys talking about my feelings.
She’s also told me more about her relationship with Beau Buchanan. I haven’t asked any questions, but every time we sit down together, she slides the conversation in that direction. I might be hardheaded, but I’m not stupid. I know what she’s not saying: it’s perfectly possible for two people to be togetherandwork together.
I’m hoping she’s right.
With any luck, she’s been buttering up Briar too, because even though I’m a patient man, I’d prefer not to wait forever.
It’s a hard thing to miss a person who’s right in front of you, but here we are, andI do. Still…she needs time to decide if I’m worth taking a leap for. I know what that feels like too much to resent it. I’ve spent years not wanting anyone to look twice at me. Hell, I didn’t even want anyone to be nice to me.
Evening comes soon enough, and before I know it, I’mpacking up my bag—this time I’ve got a six-pack of Bubba’s tropical IPA for the big man—and getting on my bike.
I’m on edge as I ride toward Briar’s place, recognizing that there’s a good chance she’ll already be gone. She could have had one of her old man’s town cars pick her up. Or driven there herself.
But when I reach her building, she’s waiting for me outside, and fuck me, I’m pleased to see she’s wearing my other coat against the chill. She’s also wearing pants tonight—dressy pants, but it seems like a middle finger to the dress code. I can get behind that all the way.
Neither of us says anything at first. We just exchange one of those looks that talks louder than words. I tell her with my look that I want her; she tells me with hers that she knows but she’s still not ready. As if we’ve settled something between us, she climbs onto my bike, and I hand her a second helmet from the case on the back.
“You have two?” she asks in an undertone, and I can practically hear her thinking I had to get one for all of the women I’ve given rides to.
I want there to be no misunderstandings, so I say, “I got it for you.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
She puts it on and then grasps my waist. I can feel her hands trembling slightly, so I settle my hand over one of hers for just a second—reassuring her that she’s not in this alone—and then start the bike up again.
When we get to the golden gates of Sterling Manor, Briar leans forward to announce herself over the intercom. I smile to myself, thinking it’ll be a fun surprise for her parents to see me walk in with her.
I park the bike in the drive, facing outward again in case weneed a quick getaway. As we get off, I point up into the skeletal tree by the house. The lower half of the green dress she wore on the night of our last delightful family dinner is still billowing from the branch it got snagged on.
“Want me to get that for you?” I ask.
She smiles wryly. “You’d climb that tree if I asked you to?”
“I was the kid who always picked ‘dare’ in truth or dare.”
“Of course you were,” she says, leaning her shoulder against me slightly.
