“We’re not done here.” He folds his arms over his chest, forcing the material in his jacket to strain over his biceps. “Who are you meeting next week?”
“Nosy much?” I huff. “You and my mother will get along just fine.”
He nods. “Can’t wait to meet her. Same question.”
“What else do we possibly need?” Our shopping cart looks like it ran away from an HGTV set. All that’s missing is a high-performance toilet and shutters.
“Wedon’t need anything. You’re getting cans of that paint color you keep eyeing. I’m getting a juicer.” He nudges me out of the way with the cart. “What’s next week?”
My nose wrinkles. “Why a juicer? I don’t juice.”
“But I do.” He glances at the aisle signs above us. “The guys keep breaking the ones I buy for Steel House. I like juice in the morning and after practice. This way.”
We pass another aisle. I snag a couple of outlet covers to replace the ones in my bedroom.
The scene of last night’s—
“So what’s happening next week?” Antonio asks again.
Tingle-free friend zone.
I blink. “Huh?”
“The few friends you plan to add next week.”
“Oh. That.” I fidget with my jacket zipper and look down at the salt streaking my winter boots. “There’s an event that takes you around the city on a bus and drops you off at different bars. It’s for people who want to make friends. Organic opportunities to establish friend groups don’t happen as often as they did when we were younger.
“Research suggests that our number of friends peaks in our early to mid-twenties, then goes down. I’m already fighting an uphill battle, and I want to better my chances in a controlled environment with like-minded people who are also looking for friends. I don’t need a lot. I just want more than one, and someone who isn’t my sister.”
It’s me again, rambling.
Antonio’s face sours. He opens his mouth and closes it.
“It’s okay to laugh,” I say quietly. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
“Why would I laugh?” His voice is smooth and low. “There’s nothing wrong with trying to make deeper connections. I inherited most of what you’d consider friendships from rugby. But the only people in my life I call beyond wanting to have fun, the relationships that go deeper than surface-level shit, are Julian and you.”
“Oh.”
“The quantity isn’t as important as the quality.”
I smile. “So you don’t think what I’m doing is weird?”
“Oh, I do.” He scratches his beard and laughs. “Only because it sounds like speed dating. Do you get a steak dinner if you both swipe right at the end of the night? I’ll go, and we can pretend not to know each other.”
“Shut up!” I reach for the cart but come up short.
“Do you want a wingman?”
“A what?”
“A wingman,” he says again. “Someone to be your emotional support or sing your praises. Point out people with ulterior motives.”
A crease burrows between my brows. “Why would anyone have ulterior motives?”
His stare is the most serious I’ve seen him. “All those book smarts and not a lick of street—Doesn’t matter. There’s always some asshole waiting to take advantage. They’ll pretend to be your friend and like what you like until the minute they slide the panties to the side. Once they get their nut”—he shoots his hand into the air like an airplane—“gone.”
“This is why I stay in the house,” I mumble.
