Page 160 of The Grump Next Door
“She’s perfect. Even when she’s demonic. Which is often.” He pockets his phone and finally looks at me directly. “How’s the firm?”
I take another sip, the bourbon warming my throat. “Great.”
“And the house?” He’s watching me too closely now, reading between the lines.
“Still standing.” I shift in my seat, uncomfortable under his scrutiny.
“That wedding planner Mason mentioned?” He leans forward slightly, and I know this is what he’s been working up to.
Dammit, Mason.
I signal for another bourbon and rub my temple. “In Italy.”
“Ah.” He leans back, nodding as if that explains everything. “Is that why you look like someone killed your dog?”
“I don’t have a dog.”
“Right. Just borrowing the neighbor’s emotional support animal.”
“It’s not—” I stop and take a breath. Why is everyone against me? Tonight was supposed to be about moving on—grabbing drinks and dinner with an old law school buddy. Not whatever this hell is. “How’s work?” I manage, gritting my teeth.
Nice deflection, asshole.
“Good. Boring. Exactly how I like it.” He steals a fry from the basket between us. “Nine to five. Home for dinner. Bedtime stories. The whole suburban nightmare you always mocked.”
“I didn’t mock it.”
“You literally called it ‘death by minivan.’“
“That was—”
“Last year. At my birthday.” He grins. “Right before you gave that whole speech about freedom and choices and not being tied down.”
The bourbon burns. Good.
“Things change,” I mutter.
“Do they?” He studies me, that lawyer look we perfected in mock trial, checking for weaknesses. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re still doing the exact same thing. Big cases. Empty house. Pretending you’re too evolved for basic human connection.”
“Screw off.”
“She must’ve been something.”
I don’t answer.
“Mason said she handled his entire wedding solo. Said she charmed everyone. Even you.”
“She was… competent.” The word feels wrong. Of course she was competent. But she was so much more.
Nate laughs. Actually laughs. “Competent. Damn, Dean. You’re thirty-five, not dead.”
“Thirty-six.”
“Whatever. Point is, when are you going to stop this?”
My fingers tighten around the glass. “This?”
“The whole tortured genius routine. It’s getting old.” He says it gently, but it still lands like a punch.
