“Wrong.” She walks over and plucks my jacket right off the chair. “You’re having lunch with me.”
“The guys need me,” I argue weakly, pointing toward the shop like reinforcements are about to burst in and rescue me.
Brooke shakes her head with an almost scary calm. “The guys can handle things for a couple hours while we settle this.”
“They really can’t,” I try again. “There are forms. Many forms. The forms need me.”
“Forms will survive,” she says, already walking toward the door like she owns my willpower. “Let’s go.”
I sit there, frozen between fight-or-flight.
She turns back and deadpans, “If I have to drag you out by your hair, I will. You know I’m capable.”
I groan into my hands. “You’re a monster.”
“And you love me,” she sing-songs. “Now move.”
She waits, patient but deadly, and the worst part is she’s right. I can’t avoid this forever. I can’t ignore them until the end of time, even if the idea has been ridiculously tempting. So I push up from my chair and follow her out, not because I’m anywhere near ready to deal with this, but because Brooke has clearly decided I’m going with her whether I agree or not, and I don’t feel like being dragged across the parking lot today.
I grab my purse and phone and follow her out. My boots squeak against the concrete as we step out into the sunlight, and for a second, the ridiculousness of the moment hits me. Brooke’s sleek black Mercedes glints in the parking lot like it’s judging the entire biker aesthetic. She’s not really like that though. She’s worked hard for what she has and she enjoys all of the finer things.
She unlocks it with a fancy little chirp that feels like it’s mocking me personally. I slide into the passenger seat, sinking into buttery leather that smells too good, the seat hugging me like it knows I don’t belong there but will tolerate me anyway. Brooke tosses her designer purse into the back and adjusts her sunglasses before starting the engine.
I buckle up and angle her a look. “Sell any houses this week?” I ask, because small talk feels safer than feelings.
Brooke smirks, pulling onto the road with the confidence of a woman who could definitely commit tax fraud and get awaywith it. “Three closings, two offers pending. One buyer who wants to see a property so ugly I might gouge my eyes out.”
“Ah, the glamorous real estate life.”
“You have no idea,” she says, sighing dramatically.
The drive is awkward, but not silent. The music is low, the tension is high, and every streetlight feels like it’s judging me.
We pull into the parking lot of my favorite Mexican restaurant, the neon sign flickering like it’s been through a few bar fights. Brooke parks perfectly, of course she does, and I sit there a second longer, gathering my nerve. Readying myself for the conversation we’re about to have.
My phone buzzes and I look down.
Blade:Where’d you go?
Instant stomach flip. Traitorous butterflies. Criminally attractive possessiveness in just three words.
I chew my lip before typing back.
Me: Brooke kidnapped me. We’re grabbing lunch at Los Amigos.
Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again.
Blade: …Kidnapped?
I snort under my breath.
Me: She’s scary when she wants to be
Blade: Want me to come rescue you?
Oh. Oh no. That should not make my heart do gymnastics.
Me: No, I’m good.
