Vincent’s Uber drove Daisy back to the rehearsal space. A cop came and wrote down Brit’s statement and took some pictures. Cord helped Brit find the number for her phone’s service provider, and she insisted to the clueless-sounding customer service rep that she had sensitive information and she wanted to know if she could recover it somehow. Most of it was backed up in the cloud, but she wanted to know if she would still have access to her contacts and texts and everything.
When she handed the phone back to Cord, she had to fight to keep the tears away. “The paperwork we worked so hard on is gone.”
Cord waved his hand. “That is the least of our worries. I could draft something like that up in another five minutes, maybe ten.”
“But we worked so hard on that. We worked on it together, and now it’s gone.”
Cord lay his strong hands on both of Brit’s shoulders and waited until she looked him in his blue eyes. “I promise your show tomorrow will still go on. We’ll figure it out. We’ll have Daisy signing things as she walks onto the stage, OK? I promise it’ll work out.”
“Thanks, that’s what I wanted to hear. Hey, you want to come over for some cold Chinese takeout?”
He dropped his hands to his sides. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
“CAN I GET YOU SOMETHING to drink?” Brit had a flashback of when Daisy asked her that hours earlier in Chinatown, which always seemed like such a safe part of town. She guessed maybe it didn’t see many luxury cars on its streets. She shuddered.
“Sure, soda’s fine. Or water. Whatever you’re having.”
“After my night, I was thinking this.” Brit appeared back in her living room with a bottle of sweet white wine.
“Whoa, you must’ve taken this pretty hard if you’re resulting to drinking. I thought you didn’t drink. Not that I’m complaining.”
Brit sighed. She didn’t explain this to many people. She didn’t believe anyone ever deserved an explanation. But Cord was good, and he’d been helping her all day. If anyone deserved her explanation, he did.
“It’s not that I NEVER drink. It’s just that I’m very, very selective of who I’ll drink with and where. If I’m at a family wedding, I’ll sip on a glass of champagne. If I’m at home or my dad’s house, I’ll have a glass of wine or an excessively fruity beer. But I’m not into liquor, and never, ever when I’m out. You saw an example of why just the other night at Elysium. I know what liquor can do to people, even when it’s not drugged on top of it.”
Cord nodded slowly. “I respect that.”
“I knew you would. That’s why I told you.” Brit tipped her chin down and looked up at Cord with a small, flirty smile as she handed him a glass. She twisted the top off the bottle and poured until Cord’s glass was over half full.
“You trying to get me drunk?” He smiled wide, but then ducked his head like he had offended her.
“No, Mr. McCutchen, I am not trying to get you drunk. I just figured you could probably hold your booze better than I can, and Chinese food always makes me thirsty.”
Cord bent into a formal bow. “My apologies, Ms. Byers.”
Brit slapped his arm with her free hand. “Sit down, you dork. I’ll get some plates for the food.” There wasn’t a ton of food to go around, and Brit now wished she had bought everything she was craving. She cut the egg roll into two and scooped a larger portion of fried rice onto Cord’s plate. She couldn’t do much about the soup, so she kept that container on her plate. “Sorry, it’s not much.”
“I ate earlier, but this is a perfect late-night snack.”
“Do you want to watch a movie or something?”
“Um, sure, what do you have?”
“Not much, but I do have cable. We could see what’s on TV. I have HBO, Showtime, there’s gotta be something.”
Brit settled in on one end of the couch with Cord on the other. She flipped on the TV and checked the premium movie channels for their selections. One was showing a Fifty Shades movie—nope—and the other had the newest Marvel super hero show.
“Not into the Fifty Shades thing?”
“Hits a little too close to home.”
“Whoa!”
Brit crinkled her nose. “Not in that sense. He just reminds me too much of guys I’ve dated.”
“So, he’s your type?”
Brit left the Marvel movie on and picked up her soup bowl, getting comfortable on the couch with spoon poised. “I’m attracted to two types of guys. They’re either exactly like my father or the exact opposite—the rock star with a heart of gold, or the aloof businessman who takes himself too seriously. In a perfect world, I would like to find someone who is a little bit of both. What about you?”
“Personality-wise, they’re always smart with a good sense of humor. Looks-wise...” He smiled sheepishly, embarrassed about what he was going to say. “...They’re usually blonde. I also have dated an Indian woman, so dark hair and skin appeals to me too.”
Brit thought, so not me.
Cord leaned over the coffee table with his elbows balanced on his knees and scooped a fork full of rice into his mouth. He dropped some rice on the floor in the process and jumped up to find a napkin.
“You know what this reminds me of, but it’s kind of the opposite? Thanksgiving.”
Cord let out a loud laugh. “There was just a bit more food at Thanksgiving. Not that I’m complaining. I ate so much I thought I’d have to be surgically removed from your dad’s house.”
“It was nice you could come. The five of us had a lot of fun, but yeah. The end was painful.”
“You never gave me the recipe I asked you for that day.”
“What recipe was that? I can’t remember what I brought.”
“It was something Dutch. And I thought you said you couldn’t cook.”
“That was something my mom did instill in me—to have one really impressive recipe that people always talk about. You only need one go-to recipe that gets people talking to be considered a good cook. Or at least a decent one. I’m not sure where I put it, but I’ll dig it up for you.”
“You promise?”
“You’re really going to make it?”
“Maybe someday. I like collecting recipes. You get so many recipes and people start to think you’re a good cook, too. Next time, I’ll have you over to my place and cook you something.”
Next time. The words hung in the air as the first action sequence of the movie ramped up.
Brit finished her meal and pushed it back on the coffee table so that she’d have room to rest her feet. Then, she grabbed her wine glass and wrapped herself up with the throw blanket on the back of the couch.
Cord poured himself another glass of wine, draining the bottle and filling his glass past the two-thirds mark.
“Now who’s the generous pourer?” teased Brit.
“Want to split it with me?”
“No, I’m good with one. You finish it. That’s the nice thing about having guests over. The wine I open doesn’t go bad.”
He took a sip and draped his arm over the couch in her direction, but the tips of his fingers were still inches away from her shoulder. “You look cozy over there,” he said.
She snuggled into her blanket more. “I am.”
This scene was quite different from Thanksgiving when both of them were sprawled out on the couch with painful bellies about to burst. Brit’s feet had been pressing up against Cord’s legs that day, but neither of them seemed to notice or care as their eyes glazed over hockey.
Brit got up to use the bathroom and checked herself in the mirror. She fluffed her hair and wiped below her eyes to get any stray mascara flakes that had migrated during this long day. Then, she checked her teeth and applied some lip balm from her makeup drawer.
When she opened the door, Cord glanced back at her. He moved his feet off the edge of the coffee table to let her pass. Instead of going to her previous spot at the end of the couch, she opted for the center cushion, now arm’s distance away from Cord, but not to
uching him. When he looked at her, she recognized the swimming stare of tipsiness in his swimming-pool blue eyes, but she wasn’t afraid or turned off by it like she normally was with drunk people. He looked more sleepy than anything else.
“Long day?” she purred, moving her hand across the couch to squeeze his thigh. Although she wanted to let her hand linger, she slid it back across the couch to tuck her blanket under her chin again.
“Aren’t you tired? You’ve had a more stressful day than I have.”
“Not yet. Adrenaline and all that. You can lie down.” Brit patted her lap before she could change her mind. She reached her hand to the back of Cord’s neck, and he let her ease his head onto her lap.
“Mmm, this is nice.”
She squirmed to get comfortable and then tried watching the movie. Every so often, she glanced down to see if Cord was asleep. His eyes fixed on the TV, but they were drooping. As they closed, she found herself brave enough to run a single finger through his hair, following the direction that he combed in. Then with two fingers, she gently guided some of it down to his forehead the way she liked it when he wasn’t so buttoned up.
His breathing slowed, and Brit smiled as she watched him. She stroked his head while alternating watching the movie and watching him. Her fingers brushed across a scar along his hairline, and she wondered how he got it.
When her own eyes closed, she popped them back open and rubbed them with her fists. She squirmed again. Her legs were falling asleep beneath Cord’s head. She lifted his head, scooted out from under it, and gently laid it back down on the couch. After draping her throw blanket over him, she padded into the bathroom to brush her teeth. When she came back out, Cord had re-situated himself on his back, his long legs stretching the length of the couch, and his head resting on his hand. He only had an undershirt on top, but his bottom half was obscured by the blanket.
“Hey,” he quietly called to her. She tiptoed over to him, now more self-conscious with her hair in a bun and her makeup washed off her face. “Is this going to be awkward at work tomorrow if I stay over?”
“No.” Brit squeezed his exposed bicep. “We won’t let it.” He looked so warm that she wanted to crawl back onto the couch with him, but she willed herself to her own bedroom and closed the door.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IN BRIT’S DREAM, OR more like a nightmare, she was up on stage with a microphone in front of her, and she was naked. The spotlight was blinding. She couldn’t raise her arm to block the light because one hand was covering her top bits and the other was covering her lower bits. She could just make out the first couple rows of the crowd, and they were all Cord clones in business suits and hair severely slicked to the side. None of them were looking at her though. They were all looking down at phones in their laps. So not only was she naked, expecting to sing in front of a crowd, which was her worst nightmare, her audience was already bored. She heard a knocking sound. Someone below the stage was knocking. Vibrations hummed at her feet.
“Britnee! Britnee!” the knocking person chanted. This wasn’t right. Why was someone knocking under the stage? Was she supposed to start singing? When she opened her mouth to try, nothing came out but a high-pitched hiss. The knocking and name calling got louder until Brit’s eyes flew open.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit.” She threw off her covers and hurried to the door. Running on the balls of her feet, trying to be as quiet as possible, she sped past the snoozing form of Cord on the couch, who had just begun to stir at the sound of knocking.
“What’s going on? Is someone at the door?”
“Yes, our siblings.” Brit fluffed her hair, unlocked the door, and then crossed her arms in front of her to hide the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra under her over-sized New Pornographers T-shirt, nor did she have on underwear under her silk paisley pajama shorts.
Cord straightened up on the couch and steadied himself like he had moved too fast. His eyes looked cute and droopy and heavy with sleep. He yawned. “What do you want me to tell them? They’re going to assume something.”
Brit smiled at his messy hair and five o’clock shadow. This is what Cord looked like just waking up. “You can tell them the truth. They can assume whatever they want.”
Cord ran a hand through his hair, messing it up further. “I don’t mind that.”
“I don’t either.”
On cue, Barbara opened the door. “Not going to let your favorite sister in?”
Brit hugged herself tighter. “Come on in, sis. Lander.”
“How you livin’?” Lander came in for a hug, but he stopped short at the scene in front of him. “Awww, Barbie Doll, it’s all happening.”
Brit put her hand up to stop him. “Don’t get too excited. Nothing happened.”
“A lot happened,” Cord interrupted.
“Well, yes, but not between us.”
Barbara looked from Brit to Cord and back to Brit. “Explain.”
“My car got broken into.”
“Britnee! You need to start calling me when things like this happen. First, you’re drugged, and now this?” Barbara pulled her into a hug and released her. “You smell like old Chinese food. Did you forget we were coming over?”
Lander collapsed next to his brother on the couch. “You smell like Brit.”
“Lander! Shut up!” Brit punched him in the arm, and he swatted his baseball cap at her. “You guys need to grow up. Cord helped me last night, and then I let him spend the night since we were both tired. We’re practically siblings.” She didn’t believe she said it. She certainly didn’t mean it, and she couldn’t let herself look at Cord to see if it had hurt him or affected him in any way.
“You are not siblings,” said Barbara. She put the paper bag she brought on the counter in the kitchen and unloaded its contents. “Now get some clothes on and help me cook. Dad will be here in an hour.”
Still unsure if she wanted to check on Cord or not, Brit rushed out of the room. But then she stopped short. She couldn’t leave it like that. She walked backwards and peeked into the living room. “Hey, Cord. Stay for breakfast.”
“Yes, ma’am!” He had stood to leave, but he all but saluted as he settled back down on the couch next to his brother, who looked like he was about ready to give Cord a noogie.
Grabbing the first low-maintenance cute things she could find, Brit pulled on black leggings with a corset lacing on the side of her calves, a simple black bra, and a dark-gray off-the-shoulder slouchy T-shirt. She pulled her hair into a messy ponytail, brushed her teeth, and splashed her face with water. A shower would have to wait. She found some body spray she got in a swag bag at a store opening, sprayed it into the air, and stepped through the mist. That would have to do for now.
When she breezed back into the kitchen, breakfast production was underway. Barbara had stuck Cord in Brit’s frilly black and white damask apron that she had bought when she was trying to be a fifties housewife for Crazy. Brit pressed her lips together.
“Don’t laugh.” Cord shook a wooden spoon in her direction.
“OK, Julia Child, whatever you say.” Brit bent over and leaned her elbows on the counter. “What are we making today, Barbie?”
Barbara launched into her best high-pitched Julia Child voice. “Today we are making a very delicious dish called omelettes aux champignons et aux epinards.”
“So mushroom and spinach omelets, got it,” Brit translated.
“And?” her fiancé said.
“And bacon and cheese for the plebes.”
Brit smirked. “You sound more like Mrs. Doubtfire.”
Cord barked out a surprised laugh, and Brit reveled in his amusement.
Barbara paused from chopping mushrooms. “I hate to bring this up, but considering I’m wielding the knife and you’re not, I’m going to.”
Even though she didn’t know what was coming, Brit groaned. No good news came after an opening like that. Why couldn’t she say something like, “Good news!” and then spin it as such. With a buste
d car window and getting drugged, Brit had had her fill of not-great news.
“Out with it. Let’s get whatever you’re going to tell me over with.”
“Saffron, our wayward sister, has been texting me again a lot.”
Brit fumed. “Of course, she is. It’s summer. School’s out. She’s bored.”
Lander stopped what he was doing, freezing like he sensed danger.
Cord examined the two women and grabbed his brother by the back of the T-shirt. “Hey, Lander, why don’t you help me fold this blanket on the couch?”
“Man, fold your own blankie.”
“It’s a two-person job.”
“Fine. You girls good? You’re not going to use that knife now, are you?” He rested his hand on Barbara’s wrist.
“No, darling. I’m not.”
He kissed her on the cheek and kissed Brit on the top of the head on his way to the living room. He took a moment to smell her hair. “You smell like Cord, too.”
Brit whacked him on the shoulder. “Shut up, Lander.”
Cord shot her a look of concern as he left as well.
She returned his gaze with desperate eyes. She knew this was a discussion for her and her sister, but she wouldn’t have minded the brothers around as backup.
“Your fiancé is a punk.”
“Yeah, but he’s a cute punk.”
Brit grabbed the package of spinach and ripped it open. “What did our delinquent sister want?”
“She wants to come up for the summer.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re family. I told her she should, and I invited her to stay with us. Although I think you should consider letting her stay here.”
“No way in hell! I barely like her. Why would I want her to stay with me?”
“Because she’s your sister. It doesn’t matter if you don’t like her. You have to live with her. It’s not like we’ve never had a fight. We always got over it.”
Brit with the Pink Hair (The Rockin' Austen Series, #1) Page 8