He puffs up, looking smug. “I’ve been bulking up ’cause I’m trying to prepare for this role I heard might be coming around.”
“Oh?” Presley perks up at this news. She’s always talking about how talented Myles is. I know she’s hoping he gets his shot soon. “What’s it for?”
“Don’t really want to talk about it quite yet. Afraid I’ll jinx it, you know?”
She sighs, shaking her head. “You theater types and your superstitions.”
“You won’t be thinking that when I win an Oscar.”
She reaches up to pinch his biceps. “Get any bigger, and you’ll break the damn stage walking up there.”
He fakes a wince, acting like he’s in pain, but then laughs. “Nah. If Jason Momoa can manage, then so can—” His words come to a screeching halt as his eyes land on her left hand.
Oh, fuck. I hadn’t expected those icy blue eagle eyes of his to lock onto the tiny gold band so quickly. I thought we’d have some time to order drinks and ease into it.
Presley’s gaze darts to her wedding ring and then to me. I glance back over at Myles, who has a puzzled look about him.
“What am I missing here?” he asks, now noticing the matching ring on my finger.
“I’m not actually visiting,” I say, deciding to just come out with it like I did with his parents. Rip that band-aid right off. “I moved here a couple of weeks ago. We got married!”
He quietly looks at me, then at his sister. A moment passes. Then another. Finally, I see his mouth curve into a big grin as he opens his arms wide. “Dude, are you serious?”
We both nod.
“Give me a hug, guys! This is awesome.”
Well, that was easy.
One down. Three to go.
Myles is so happy you’d think he was the one who just got married. He’s telling everyone at the bar our joyous news, including the bartender, and every stranger that passes by. He even waves over the guy he was talking to earlier to introduce us.
“This is the sister I was telling you about,” he beams, speaking into the man’s ear. “And this is her husband, Hollis. They just got married! This is Omar. We’ve worked together on a few projects.”
Something tells me, by the way they stand just a little too close, that they are more than just work buddies.
“Congratulations,” Omar says, offering me a handshake. “So I guess you’re not in town to visit then?”
“No.” I chuckle, giving my wife a sideways glance. “Definitely not visiting.”
“Aww.” Myles sighs. “See the way he looks at her? I always knew you had a thing for each other.”
“You were twelve.” Pres scoffs. “How would you even have known?”
“I may have been twelve, but I wasn’t blind, Pres. And neither was anyone else. We all knew about you two sneaking off to the beach at night and all your”—he holds up his hands to do air quotes—“study sessions in your room.”
She points a finger at him, with a hint of amusement in her expression. “Okay, those really were study sessions, I’ll have you know.”
He laughs. “Sure, sis. Sure.”
I don’t bother correcting him. If he wants to believe we were fooling around in high school, then let him. It only solidifies our case.
And God knows, it sure as hell crossed my mind a time or two.
“Come on.” Myles motions with his hand. “Let’s do a round of shots to celebrate!”
I can practically hear Pres groan, but she agrees, and I drape an arm over her shoulder as we join her brother and Omar at the bar. Myles signals to the bartender, and when she approaches, he leans in to tell her his order. She nods, and a few minutes later, she’s pouring a line of tequila shots for us.
