1
MILE ONE
LITERARY FUCKBOY
“An espresso martini?” I guffaw, nestling against the chair’s high back.
Early 2000s pop music melds with the chatter of patrons in the bar. It’s just another happy hour at Harkey’s Hideaway. I’m nursing a prosecco as I sit across from my brother at a high-top table, teasing him about whatever fancy cocktail he’s drinking.
“Don’t be judgy, Jensen. They’re delicious.” Anker takes a long swig of his drink before letting out a contented sigh.
“If you’re a mother of two out for ladies’ night,” Garrett deadpans.
There is seldom a happy hour with my brother that his best friend isn’t at. Though the jury is still out on whether he’s the third wheel for a sibling outing, or if I’m the one tagging along to their post-work guys’ nights. Considering my social calendar, I’m sure it’s the latter, not the former.
“Ladies’ night,” Anker hums. “Where I always drink for free.”
“Of course you do.” I shake my head.
A year older, my brother is a steady current of self-confidence. He’s unabashed in his enthusiasm for the things he likes—never second-guessing anything. His career. Relationships. Himself.
Whereas I’m in a constant state of self-doubt. Aside from the thick brown hair and hazel eyes we inherited from our mother, we’re the antithesis of one another. Anker never worries about being liked, unlike me.
“You’re aware the purpose of ladies’ night is foryouto buythe ladiesdrinks?” I smirk.
“I can’t help it if the ladies love me,” he says cheekily.
Of course.A crease dips my brow. “At least, one of us is getting drinks bought for them,” I say, trying to keep the grumble out of my voice.
Unlike Anker, whose good looks are reinforced by most of my friends having crushes on him, I buy my own drinks. Not just because I’m an independent woman, but because nobody’s offering—at least nobody I want.
“No worries. Garrett’s treat.” He slaps Garrett’s back. “We Larsens are too pretty to buy our own drinks.”
My eyeroll is both involuntary and necessary.Garrett Marlowe.
Since meeting five years ago, it’s crystal clear that Garrett has little motivation to buy me a drink, unless it’s to appease my brother. If I didn’t have years of his judgmental comments or exasperated sighs, the memory of overhearing him refer to me as a “Yappy Yorkie” within an hour of meeting me has burned into my psyche how he feels about me. Garrett’s mode with me has three settings—polite indifference, best friend’s younger sister, and judgy tolerance.
“Didn’t realize I was here just to provide you and Jensen external validation of your worth,” Garrett mutters in his deep, silky bass.
Somehow, he’s gathered up all the derision in his body to infuse it into the judgmental way he says my name. It’s almost an auditory scowl…Jensen.
“Is someone just grumpy because nobody’s offering to buy them drinks?” My mouth pulls into a mock pout.
I meet Garrett’s not-so-subtle distaste for me with wry smiles and venom-laced teases. Most people like to avoid the bear, but I poke. At least, this bear. With everyone else, I worry about them liking me, but not with Garrett, since he seems to merely tolerate my existence.
It also helps me push back against the stupid, nagging little crush I have on him. Yeah, because that’s healthy. I blame Jane Austen. Just had to readPride and Prejudiceas a teenager and form a lifelong crush on the Mr. Darcy types.
Ms. Austen aside, it’s on-brand for me. I have a bad habit of liking men who don’t seem to like me back.
He clears his throat. “Some of us don’t require external validation.”
“Not all of us enjoy being an antisocial dickwad.” My coo is acidic.
“Corners, you two,” Anker laughingly groans.
“Perhaps we can find a dark corner for Garrett to sulk in because the bar doesn’t have the blood of his enemies on tap.” Smirking, I toss my long hair over my shoulder.
“Or maybe there’s a corner with a doctoral student that fancies himself the next Jack Kerouac foryouto buy drinks for all night,” he drawls.
