Holly
“You haven’t even eaten any of the appetizers,” Bryn says. “Do I have to start worrying some alien pod-peopled you?”
“Admirable use of pod-people as a verb, but no,” I say. “I’m saving the action for dessert. You got me excited about those pies.”
I’ve wandered over to the windows of the great room, overlooking the long, curving driveway. They have a beautiful house, Rory and Bryn, but I guess that’s what you get for being a billionaire. It’s not unusual for me to want to look at the view. I mean, that’s some view. And if it so happens that I’m in a prime spot to see a car driving up, well, all the better.
Rowan approaches us with a plate of appetizers stacked so high, they’re in danger of tumbling onto the plush rug, and asks, “What types did you get?”
God, he’s either super adorable or super annoying, I can’t decide which. When we were kids, there was only ever one pie—pecan. Mind you, my grandmother makes a mean pecan pie, one of the only compliments I’ll willingly give her, but she would only ever make one, and she’d always caution us girls that we should never have more than one piece.No one wants a woman who doesn’t have a goodfigure, she’d say, always looking at me, the curviest of us girls, as she said it. A true peach.
“Pumpkin, obviously.” Rowan makes a face, and she nudges him. “It’s Rory’s favorite.”
“That doesn’t make it any better.”
“The man has a point,” I interject. “Pumpkin pie is a glorified vegetable.”
“Any objections to apple and pecan?” she asks, her mouth forming a sassy twist. “Or how about chocolate cream pie?”
“So youdolove us,” I say with a grin. I’m not really feeling the grin to be honest, but you’ve got to overplay a smile if you want it to look less fake.
Maybe I’m wrong about that, though, because Rowan gives me a funny look and says, “You look like the Joker before he kills someone.”
“Are you sure you want Cole here?” Bryn asks, her brows knitting together. “I can tell Rory to forget it.”
After issuing Cole his marching orders, Rory took his father to the library—yes, the man has a library in his home—to show him a new program Byrne Systems is working on.
After Matchmake Me is up and running, when it needs maintenance and not development, I think I’ll ask my brother-in-law for a new assignment. Matchmaking may be in my blood, but I can winnow it out, can’t I? I can blaze a new path.
“Or you can wait until he shows up, and we can summon Rory’s security guys to throw him out on his ass?” Rowan suggests. He seems a little too gleeful about it, to be honest. Then again, he’s witnessed a lot of wallowing over the last couple of days and, champ that he is, he’s participated in some of it.
Still, I don’t want him to get any ideas, so I grab a bread roll off his plate and throw it at him.
“Hey,” he says.
“No, there will be absolutely no hazing of Cole. He’s here as Rory’s guest, which is why I insisted that he come.”
Rory doesn’t know the whole story, but he does know that Cole and I were involved, so he asked me point blank if I wanted him here.
I said I did.
Ido.
I need to know if that bonehead is Hot Rod.
I think. I...
God, Ineedit to be him. I need to know that he’s reached out to me in some way, even if it’s under a stupid-ass name, because “Asshole: Do Not Answer” hasn’t called or texted me since Tuesday afternoon.
I’ve tried to get him to admit it. I’ve even dropped details about Cole to Hot Rod, hoping he’d feel the natural male inclination to defend himself.
But here’s the thing. Even if itishim, it doesn’t magically make everything okay, because it would mean he’s still hiding.
I’m sick of being a secret. Of being hidden away in a little pocket of his life. Of being a collapsible box on his phone screen. Being with Cole this month—coming to terms with my feelings for him—it’s made me realize that I don’t want to settle. And I’m not going to. Not even for him. I deserve more than that.
I mean. EvenHoraciohas been texting me. According to him, something screwy is going on at the Labelle house. While he was there, he noticed stacks of boxes, things being carried down to the basement. Are they selling more of their shit for money? Are they up to something else?
He doesn’t know, being that he’s a terrible detective, but he must really want that job at the NSA, because he even sent me a few blurry photos.
