“So the mulligan worked?” Josh wore a smug grin. “Griff, you told Logan it was my idea, right?”
That earned him a smoothly raised eyebrow. “Didn’t think it mattered.”
“Says the man who didn’t think of it,” Josh muttered.
“Yes, the mulligan worked. Now we drink to it.” Riley leaned over the bar to order a round of Buttery Nipple shots.
“What the hell, Ry? Those are the girliest shots ever served.”
“We earned ’em. We all had our panties in a twist today. This is our punishment. And we’ll drink to never doing it again.”
Knox frowned down at the line of glasses being doctored by the bartender. “I’ll drink to never doing this shot again. I’ll bet it tastes worse than off-brand Gatorade.”
“Negative reinforcement. Works every time.”
“Wait. We’re not done yet.” Logan extended his hand to Knox. “I’m sorry I sort of insulted your fiancée. But I was just trying to keep her from being used and discarded by the biggest man-whore in the District.”
Knox made a big deal out of looking left and right before patting his chest with a Who, me? expression. “I get it. I understand why you came at me so hard, too. You had to make the noble gesture to defend your blood kin.”
Every so often Knox reverted to his geeky persona. That earlier version of Knox wrote a how-to manual for an interactive video game…that earned him money hand over fist. Enough to pay for his expenses in college and then some. They’d all been proud of him. Still, no reason to encourage him to talk like an avatar. Or was it an emoji? Either way, it drove Logan up a freaking wall.
It drove Ry nuts, too. Which accounted for him lightly punching Knox in the arm. “This isn’t a scene from your video game, Knox.”
“No kidding. None of the characters in that game would be dumb enough to accidentally bang his best friend’s baby sister.” He clasped Logan’s hand and they shook again. “I’m sorry for that.”
Who needed therapy when you could squeeze out a pair of apologies and seal them with a shot? Logan handed out the filled glasses while the bartender worked on popping the caps off of a second round of beers. “Okay. Now we drink.”
Ry lifted his glass. “We drink this sugary shit to remind us not to act like idiots again.”
They all gulped, grimaced, and wiped the backs of their hands over their mouths. Negative reinforcement was an understatement.
Logan shoved a high-backed stool out of the way so he could slide a fresh bottle of beer to each of his friends. More people were trickling in. If they stayed at the bar they’d never reclaim their spot. With the amount of seriously good food he intended to finally put back tonight, they damned sure needed a table. “Let’s go.” He led them back to the couches.
Griffin held up a hand before anyone sank into the leather. “We’ve got to do a round of real toasts.”
This, this was the homecoming Logan always anticipated. The five of them fell into a loose circle around the wooden coffee table. Just like they’d always done since their first days together on the soccer pitch.
“First, as always, we toast to our driver that fateful day, Santos, and his family left behind. Salut.” After a quiet sip, Griff raised his bottle again. “Second, as always, we toast to the Sesto Reggimento Alpini who patched us up and got us back to civilization. Prost.” Another surge forward from everyone to clink, and then back to drink. “Our third toast has to be to Logan. He was away too long this time. He’s a douche bag for not staying in better touch, but we’re damn glad he’s back, safe and sound.”
Four of them intoned, “To the douche bag.” Logan tried hard not to do a spit take. Or let beer come out his nose. God, he loved these idiots. It took a shit ton of self-control not to think about how much he missed them when he was gone. But if he admitted it to himself, he’d be miserable. Or more miserable, considering that sleeping on rocks and eating goat wasn’t exactly the lap of freaking luxury.
Josh drummed his hands on the table once he sat. “While you and Knox were acting like dipwads at the bar, I put in an order to kick things off. Food should roll out any minute. You’ve got beer in hand. The only thing this party is missing is a hot girl to go home with—but we’ll take care of that before the night’s over.”
Stretching out to cross his legs at the ankle, Logan said, “Nah. I’m good.”
“What?” Four heads swiveled in unison toward him.
Too late, he realized his mistake. Knox engaged. Griff wanting to be. He needed to head things off before they decided love could be contagious. “I had a fling. During the hurricane.”
“Way to go!” Knox high-fived him. Guess there was still a little dog in him after all.
“Hurricane’s over,” Riley stated flatly. “You need a welcome-home present. I vote a blonde. Mostly because I call dibs on the tall brunette over there lacing up her shoes.”
Automatically, Logan looked. And his first thought was that she wasn’t as pretty as Brooke. Which was stupid. It wasn’t as if he had any reason to see Brooke again. No matter how hard he might be trying to manufacture one. The ceiling-high stack of boxes in her place was proof that her move was right around the corner.
After a slow sip of his beer, Logan shook his head. “I’m still fighting off my jet lag. Pretty sure that after dinner I’ll go straight home and sleep for another twelve hours. Then I have to figure out what to do about my sister.”
As a skinny waiter—Logan would put five bucks on his being an undergrad at Georgetown, just a few blocks away—set down two trays of pizza, Knox calmly announced, “Just to get everything out in the open, I’ll kick your ass again if you don’t treat Madison well.”
“Jesus H, Knox.” Logan leaned forward, hands braced on his thighs. “I want to. I want to meet her. I know I was a douche bag the first time I talked to her, but that was just surprise. She’s my sister. Half, whole, doesn’t matter. She’s my sister and I want to get to know her. I want to be the best brother to her in the world.”
“Good to hear.” Knox pulled the first slice of their famous Italian Beef pizza and passed it to Logan.
He was starving. And starving for decent food, too. But Logan just looked at the plate and didn’t touch it. Because now that the question had been raised, it took all his focus. “So what do I do?”
“Huh?”
God, it petrified him. Because Logan couldn’t, could not fuck up with her a second time. Madison would have every right not to give him a third chance. “I’ve never had a sister before. What do I do with her?”
Knox bugged his eyes out. “I don’t have one, either. Don’t look at me.”
They all just about cracked their necks swiveling—this time—to stare at Josh. Who was busy taking a photo of the pizza. The guy never stopped thinking about food. Dissecting it in his mind and putting it back together between two slices of bread for his food truck. The only thing that ever fully got his concentration off food was trying to score. In soccer and with women.
He set his phone on the table. “If you think just because I have a sister I understand them, think again. Only women understand other women.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” mused Knox.
Logan sure as hell wasn’t dressing up as a woman to try to connect with his sister. Or maybe that was the last of his jet lag slowing his brain cells. “You lost me,” he admitted.
“What if we went on a double date? Me coming along keeps you comfortable. Madison loves to meet new people, so she wouldn’t mind. You’ve got to have someone you could bring to even things up.”
No wonder Knox made a gajillion dollars every time he rubbed two brain cells together. The man was a certified genius. His idea was brilliant. Now Logan could relax and enjoy the rest of the night. “You know what? I’ve got the perfect woman in mind…”
Chapter 11
Brooke answered the door. And then just stared at her best friend. Katrina was decked out as if The Real Housewives of the Potomac were following her with
their camera crews. Sleeveless pink peplum top over a matching skirt. Pale beige peep-toe platforms. A single strand of pearls lying across the high neckline. And a hat the size of a freaking Thanksgiving platter, complete with a lily and feather combination on the wide brim, tilted at a forty-five-degree angle and staying on Katrina’s head by some reverse gravity phenomenon.
“What are you wearing?”
“What are you wearing?” Katrina shot back. Her expression indicated that unacceptable was too mild a word for Brooke’s outfit. Yep, those squinty blue eyes and perfectly arched brows drawn into a single, judgey line hinted more at reprehensible as a good description.
Brooke looked down at her faded Penn State Cheerleading tee and cotton shorts. “I’m spending all day dealing with boxes. This is what I’m wearing. Don’t be a snob.” She shut the door behind her and walked through to the kitchen.
“I’m not a snob. I’m appropriate. You said we were doing brunch. This is how I do brunch.”
Whoops. This one was her fault. “I meant doing as in cooking. We’re making it here.” She pointed to the pink place mats on the tiny wrought-iron table crowded into the corner. Not to mention the coffee mug she’d stuffed with cheery dahlias to make it feel special.
Katrina dumped her pale rose Birkin bag on the chair. The bag that Brooke coveted with every cell in her body. “Why?”
“First of all, because you asked me to help you with your homemaking skills, remember?”
“Oh. That.” Katrina deflated noticeably. “Yes, I did—but it’s not as fun as endless mimosas.”
Brooke handed her an apron. “Secondly, because it is Tuesday. Which is not a big restaurant brunch day.”
Obviously trying—and horribly failing—to conceal her lack of enthusiasm, Katrina mustered up a weak grimace that was probably intended as a smile. “You’re right. You’re a sweetheart for helping me figure out how to take care of myself.”
“Don’t worry, it’ll be painless. Because I’m going to keep you entertained with the story of my hot island fling with one of my oldest, dearest friends.”
Katrina’s perfectly lined and glossed lips fell wide open. “You’ve been holding out on me. You have a sex story?”
“I’ve only been home for two days. I saved the story knowing I’d need to bribe you into dipping your toe into cooking.” And because Brooke had needed to keep it to herself for just a bit.
Her time with Logan had been special. Wonderful. Literally life-changing, as he’d managed to dig her the rest of the way out of her…well, depression wasn’t the right word. Not clinically, anyway. Or so she’d been assured by a therapist who’d encouraged her to concentrate just on trying to live in the moment. Well, that advice had finally kicked in with Logan. He’d lifted her out of her funk. For which she’d be forever grateful. On top of the wonderful reconnection with a friend she hadn’t realized just how much she’d missed.
“Well then, let’s get started! I’m completely inspired by the thought of hearing that you finally got to star in some sexcapades.” Katrina’s heels tapped against the linoleum as she rushed over to the stove. “What’s it going to be? Crepes? Those amazing corn fritters with smoked salmon we had at our April book club?”
Brooke took a dozen eggs from the refrigerator and set them on the counter. “Egg salad.”
“You’re joking.”
“It’s simple, quick, and versatile. It can be eaten at breakfast or lunch. Ergo, the perfect DIY brunch for your first time cooking.”
“Don’t college kids make that in dorm rooms?”
Biting back a laugh, Brooke said, “Yes. But can you?”
At first, Katrina’s lower lip pushed out in the beginning of a pout. Then she caught herself. Caught the absurdity of a thirty-five-year-old woman not being as accomplished as a college freshman. With a rueful frown, she shook her head, the tips of her blond hair fanning out like a dandelion puff. “No.”
“Then this is where we start.” Brooke pulled out a loaf of bread.
“Are you this much of a slave driver with your students?”
Wait until she made Katrina wash the dishes at the end of the lesson. “Yes.”
“By the way, when you finish the big sex story, I had another amazing business idea last night that I can’t wait to tell you.”
Oh, boy. “Hit me.” Preferably with a rock to the head so she’d be unconscious.
A knock on the door saved Brooke. “Fill a pot with eggs and enough water to cover them. I’ll be right back.”
At the door, Logan stood, one hand propped on the lintel, the other jammed into the pocket of his navy shorts. His white polo shirt with blue piping along the collar was tucked in. Hair combed and slicked back. Deck shoes made him look ready to hop on a yacht. It was Logan version 1.0, the way she remembered him from high school. Urban—and urbane—hotness.
“Hi.”
“Hi back at ya.” Her arms hung, leaden with indecision, at her sides. Should they hug? Kiss? Was that presuming too much?
Was he here for another hookup? Shouldn’t there be warning for that sort of thing? Warning so that her hair wouldn’t be in an unbrushed topknot, at the very least. And her legs shaved. Or had Logan left something here, accidentally? Brooke half turned to glance at her coffee table.
“Can I come in?” Amusement lightened his voice.
Sheesh—how long had she been lost in thought? Long enough for Logan to notice, at the very least. Possibly long enough for him to regret whatever impulse made him swing by. But at least this gave Brooke an excuse to touch him. Legitimately.
“Sorry. Of course.” She took his hand and pulled him inside. “But if you just want more ibuprofen, I’ll bet you passed a handful of drugstores between the rectory and here.”
“I’m good, thanks.” Logan followed her into the kitchen. “I mean, I’m going to milk it for another day just to twist the guilt stick a little deeper into Knox. But overall, I’m fine.”
“I’ll say,” breathed Katrina as she got a load of his double-barreled hotness. She’d been holding off on dating until the divorce was final, to avoid any potential red flags, per her team of lawyers. In the meantime, she’d been contenting herself with barely veiled ogling of everything old enough to have a five o’clock shadow. “Are you here for brunch, too?”
“No.” He sort of did a double take at Katrina’s hat. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Brooke gave him full credit for not asking why one of them was dressed for the Kentucky Derby and the other for cleaning out the dryer’s lint trap. “You’re not intruding. This is brunch with a lowercase b. And you’re welcome to join us.”
“In that case, thanks.” He strode to Katrina, hand outstretched. “Logan Marsh.”
“Katrina Pendleton—no,” she stopped herself with a harsh laugh, “not anymore. Not as of a week ago. I’m Katrina Ware now.”
Oh, boy. Brooke hadn’t been the only one whose week had taken a dramatic turn. She threw an arm around her friend’s waist in a comforting hug. “The final papers came through?”
Katrina leaned into her for a moment, and then straightened with a victorious gleam sparkling in her blue eyes. “The papers and, more importantly, my first settlement check. A big, huge, enormous, and wholly justified one. Logan, I don’t suppose you have a start-up business idea you need funded?”
“Uh, no.”
“Pity.” Katrina waved her hands at Brooke’s biggest stockpot. “Voilà. Eggs are ready.”
The pot was filled to the brim with probably two quarts of water. The entire dozen eggs sat in the bottom. Katrina definitely promised to be her most high-maintenance, hands-on student.
Brooke reached for the coffeepot. A helpless best friend and a surprise return of her vacation fling called for a big jolt of caffeine. “Was everything okay with your father, Logan?”
“No.” One corner of his mouth dipped lower. “Not at all, as a matter of fact.”
That sounded dire. “The way you ran out of here on Sund
ay, it seemed like an emergency. Is he sick? Or upset about something?”
Logan looked out the window at the bright blue sky. “I’m upset. Does that count?”
“Of course. But I don’t understand.”
“Me, neither.” Katrina surged closer to Logan. “Catch me up, if you’re suddenly sharing family sagas. How do you two know each other? Because I’ve never heard Brooke mention you.”
“Logan’s an old friend. A very old friend.” It was a weak hint, but hopefully Katrina remembered their conversation of all of three-point-five minutes ago.
Crowding in on Brooke, Logan opened the refrigerator door and pulled out the coffee from next to the butter dish, as if he’d done it a hundred times. It felt cozy. Or, Brooke supposed, it just proved that she knew how to organize a kitchen. “That makes me sound like you’re fitting me for a walker, Escarlata. If we’re going to throw around labels, how about you call me a very good friend?”
Katrina’s eyebrows shot up at the nickname. To help her get the rest of the way there, Brooke rephrased his description. As she handed Logan the coffee filters so his back would be to Katrina. “An old and dear friend who I ran into on vacation.”
Sure enough, that resulted in some very graphic hand gestures accompanied by a questioning look. God. It was just like being back in high school, for all the wrong reasons. Awkwardness. Mouthed conversations behind the hot boy’s back. Katrina gave her a double thumbs-up paired with a toothy, knowing grin.
“Speaking of vacation, do you remember when I told you about my sister living here?”
Brooke lidded the pot to get it to boil faster. Because she wouldn’t be able to handle Logan in her tiny kitchen for much longer. He just took up so much room. Made her so aware of his size. Made her remember just how all that size felt draped across her naked body. Which brought heat to her cheeks, what with Katrina standing right there. Maybe she’d hang out over the hot stove a tad longer so nobody questioned her red face.
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