“Keep telling yourself that.”
She’s smiling as she grabs my phone from the console. “I need to stop at Sadie’s. I’ll put her address in the GPS.”
“Now?” I sound like a grumpy troll, which doesn’t bother me in the least. “Why?”
“She’s holding something for me at the house. It’ll take two minutes.”
“What’s she holding?”
“Somethingpersonal.” She says personal the way women do when they want men to stop asking questions. It works, because I shut my trap.
I file her too-innocent expression under suspicious, but keep driving.
The Skylark exit feeds onto a two-lane road that winds past hay fields before the town comes into view. Sadie and Ian’s place is north of town, seventy-five acres of meadow and clumps of aspen backed up against the foothills. The main house sits at the end of a gravel drive—a renovated craftsman with a wide front porch.There’s a wide barn and fenced pasture to the east. Sadie’s dog training setup is visible around the side of the house: agility ramps, weave poles, and a covered arena arranged in tidy rows. A hand-painted sign near the turn-off reads Sadie Hart’s House of Dog with a paw print dotting the i.
Two cars that don’t look like they belong to Sadie or her husband, Ian, are parked in the driveway next to a truck with Molly’s flower farm logo stenciled on the side. I notice that Avah’s white BMW SUV isn’t here, then mentally kick myself in the nuts for noticing.
“Whose cars are those?”
“How should I know? Sadie’s popular. Loads of clients.” Sloane unbuckles. “Come in with me.”
“I’ll wait here.”
“I might need help carrying something.”
“Are you picking up a cinder block?”
“It’s rude to sit in the car.”
“I’m frequently rude. Ask anyone.”
“Jeremy.” She fixes me with those blue eyes that have been winning arguments since she was four years old. “Don’t make me play the cancer card.”
I bark out a laugh despite myself. “I thought you didn’t want to be treated like a sick person.”
“I use it when the occasion calls.” She flashes a cheeky grin and climbs out of the SUV. “Let’s go.”
I pocket my keys and follow her up the porch steps. Sloane knocks, and the door swings open to reveal Ian Barlowe. With his impressive height, glacial-blue eyes, and tousled hair, he has the kind of effortless good looks that landed him onGQcovers during his NFL years, and still means he has the starring role in dozens of commercials each football season. He’s in jeans and a flannel with the sleeves pushed up, looking more like a ranch hand than a retired quarterback worth eight figures.
“Hey, Sloane.” He engulfs her in a hug, then extendshis hand to me. “Jeremy. I don’t think we’ve officially met, but I already feel for you.”
My brain whirs as I shake his hand. “Feel for me?”
A small dog trots over, ugly as sin and barely bigger than a football, with a disproportionate amount of attitude in its stride. Ian scoops it up, tucking the animal against his chest. The dog—Beast, if I remember Sloane’s stories—gives me a look of supreme disinterest.
“You didn’t tell him he’s facing the Cool Girls Book Club tribunal today?” Ian asks Sloane.
“I thought the surprise would be more fun.”
“You have a sick sense of fun.” Ian laughs and steps aside to let us in.
“What is this?” I employ the controlled tone I typically save for meetings when someone presents a number that doesn’t add up. My sister doesn’t appear the least bit fazed.
“Follow me,” she says, already walking past Ian.
“I’ll see you on the other side,” he tells me, tone ominous.
What the actual fuck is happening right now?
