“I can’t decide if you two sometimes dislike each other or if this is a really long game of verbal foreplay,” Anker teases.
“Eww.” I wrinkle my nose.
A loud chortle belts out of him. “Imagine thehatesex, you’d have.”
No! I will not imagine that with my brother sitting a foot away from me.Also, that will never happen. Not to mention, my brother may tease, but I know he’d never be cool with the idea of his younger sister being dicked-down by his best friend, who is also his boss at the hospital where they are physicians.
“No more martinis for you. You’re clearly drunk,” I say, slipping my blazer off and draping it over the back of my chair with my purse.
“Says the woman who’s disrobing.” He leans across the table and flicks my nose. “Is someone hot and bothered?”
I swat at him but miss entirely.
“God, I love having a blind sister.” His laugh is hearty.
“Uncool.” Laughing, I kick his shin underneath the table.
“Oof… And you wore pointy shoes.”
“Serves you right.” I preen just a bit. “Also, you tease, but shall I remind you of how you freaked when you caught me making out with Everett Haney in high school?”
He makes a disgusted noise. “Fair point.”
Everett Haney is just another notch in my dismal romantic history belt. My brother discovering us beneath the bleachers—Everett’s hand up my blouse—wasn’t the most embarrassing part. It was later, when I learned that I was just a bet Everett made to prove he could get the school’s blind girl to go all the way.
To this day, Anker doesn’t know about the bet. It was humiliating enough without him learning the truth and going full vengeful older brother.
Anker, however, dated at least three of my girlfriends from high school. My brother’s typical rotating door of relationships is nonexistent at the moment. Except for texter girl, AKA Sonora Jefferies.
“Will you meet up with Sonora in New York? You know, go fullYou’ve Got Mail—minus bankrupting her bookstore?” Elbows on the table’s edge, I rest my chin on my hands and flash a cheeky expression.
“Maybe.” He draws out the word with a playful lilt.
Over the last six months, Anker struck up a flirtation with a woman from a social media guide/blind runner’s group. Running with a white cane or a dog guide isn’t ideal or safe, so visually impaired runners run with human guides to navigate the course safely. My brother, an avid runner, has served as a guide for several visually impaired runners over the last few years.
Outside of the twenty-minute jog/walk I do on the elliptical in my apartment building’s gym three times a week, I don’t enjoy the sport like my former track star brother. While running’s appeal is akin to a root canal for me, Anker did talk me into doing one 5K charity run with him. It was less running and more arguing until I skinned my knee and was carried off the course.So embarrassing.
It’s difficult to turn off my brain and let someone else take control. The entire time we’d run, anxiety pulsed through me. It’s not that I don’t trust Anker. I don’t trust me. What if I make a mistake and he gets hurt? What if I can’t keep up with him and he gets frustrated? It was all too overwhelming.
“I’m surprised you’re not serving as her guide runner for the race. Isn’t marathon running peak romance to you people?” I tease.
He tilts his head. “You people?”
“Masochists,” I sass. “Seriously, what if Sonora is the future love of your life? Serving as her guide for the marathon, combined with the Larsen male love prophecy, is Hallmark-level romance.”
“First, you don’t just guide-run a marathon at the first meeting. You know better than anyone that it takes time to build that trust. Hell, I’ve been your brother for twenty-nine years, and we didn’t make it to the one-mile marker.”
I roll my eyes. “Second?”
“Maybe you should test the theory that it’s just the Larsen male line that finds love at a marathon the year they turn thirty.”
“That sounds as appealing as a body scrub performed by a porcupine.”
Not only would running a marathon be my own personal version of hell, but I am not a devout believer in this little family myth. It’s swoony to daydream about, but even my romance novel-loving brain doesn’t put much stock in it.
“Come on. You don’t turn thirty until next year. That’s more than enough time to train,” he says.
“You have to, like, qualify for the New York City marathon. It’s at least a two-year commitment?—”
