“So…” Shawn taps a knuckle on the table. “You’re on my side about—”
“No!” I stomp a foot, refusing to concede. “War! I declare war!”
Shawn’s face lights up, and he roars, “War! War! Beth declares war! Shots fired!” He rushes over to me with a tiny glass of innocent-looking clear liquid. Tequila, you sneaky bitch. The fact that it’s already poured is a hint he knew this was coming.
We always fight about love.
I down the shot with only a slight wince—Shawn can afford the top-shelf booze that’s smoother than most—and hand my glass back to my brother to refill.
“How many battles will be fought?” I ask in the haughtiest voice I can manage.
Shawn scrunches up his face in a serious expression. “Five battles.”
“Agreed.” We shake hands. Then we both turn to George, our hands outstretched.
If he’s in book club, then he’s got to beinbook club. Too late to escape now.
“I feel like I’ll regret asking this, but what does declaring war entail?” Despite his ignorance, George still stands and grasps Shawn’s hand, then turns to repeat the gesture with me. Shawn hurries back to the kitchen to grab more glasses while George slides his palm into my waiting hold.
A shiver travels along my nerves, and my breath catches the moment he wraps his fingers tight—but not too tight—around mine. The touch is warm and rough with his callused skin and lasts for a million years. Or at least, I imagine it does.
“War is the only way to settle a book debate.” Shawn’s voice snaps me back to the present, and I jerk my hand back.
George lets me go, dropping his hand to his side. And I must imagine the way he clenches it.
To distract myself from whatever that just was, I hop off the table and find the well-worn deck of cards stored in the hidden coffee table drawer. Despite the beers I’ve already downed mixing with the tequila, I manage to shuffle them like a pro.
My fingers need something to do other than reach for George Bunsen again.
“We play five rounds of war. Winner of each round takes a shot. Winner of the most rounds is the molder of history and, therefore, ordains the truth at the end of a book debate.”
“Oh.” George nods. “I get the notes now.”
I pause in dealing. “The notes?”
He freezes, eyes flicking to me, then to Shawn, then to the bookshelf on the far wall where my brother keeps all the annotated copies of the books we’ve read.
At the end of book club, we always exchange our copies, so we can read over the comments each other made.
Did George read my annotated copies?
Oh god, what did I write?
In at least one of the books, I know I used the phraseHe’s giving major daddy energysurrounded by drawings of fire. In the margins of a different thriller, I described—in detail—how I would commit a murder if I ever—hypothetically—needed to. Then, because it always makes Shawn laugh, I like to writeSmashorPasswhenever there’s a description of a character.
George potentially knows my murder plans and all of my smashes.
It’s fine. It’s cool. Totally cool cool cool.
Besides, I’m about to be drunk and forget this whole conversation if I’m lucky.
“Deal the cards. Or do you forfeit?” Shawn sets five shots down in the middle of the table, and I do my best not to dwell on the possibility of George having read my random book thoughts.
Technically, Shawn and I never agreed that others can’t look at the books. To be fair, Darla has flipped through a few of Shawn’s copies when we’ve hung out in my bedroom.
Maybe George onlysawthat there are notes but never read them.
That’s a good lie. I’ll tell myself that one.
