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I swallow. “Of course I’m sure.”
She slides a shot in front of me. “Keep telling yourself that. It doesn’t make it true.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, I’m holding a drink I didn’t ask for—one that didn’t come straight from the bartender as Brendan required, because you can’t go through life assuming everyone is a rapist—and I’m talking to some guy named Jason. I assume he’s a football player, based on his size, but it hasn’t come up, and so far I’ve been pleasantly surprised. My only experiences with football players, prior to this, were with the dicks at ECU who fought us constantly for space on the track, and whose conversation at any party focused on how amazing they were.
But Jason is nice enough, telling me all about the house he’s trying to renovate in Beaver Creek. This is something I can discuss at length, since I directed most of the rehab of Rob’s place too, though I wonder, sporadically, if I should tell this guy I’m not single. I suppose I should have worn my engagement ring, but it’s been sitting on my nightstand since Rob left town. I’ve just never felt comfortable with it on. Three karats are for Kardashians, not girls who save mascara for a special occasion.
Jason and I are debating the merits of a glass-front refrigerator when a proprietary hand wraps tight around my hip, and a voice I’d know anywhere brushes my ear, followed by his lips. “Sorry I’m late, babe.”
Brendan. Who is warm and familiar and smells amazing, and when I turn is smiling at Jason in a way almost anyone would find scary—calm, self-possessed, friendly, and itching for a fight.
Jason looks at Brendan and the hand on my hip before politely excusing himself. Which I suppose means I would eventually have had to tell him I’m not single, so Brendan has spared me that awkwardness, but I’m still annoyed.
“I’m 26, Brendan. Which means I’m a little old to still require a babysitter.”
“That guy was bad news.”
“Yeah, it was super threatening the way he quietly walked off when you showed up—I really dodged a bullet,” I reply. “Why are you here? And how’d you get into the VIP area?”
“Friends in high places,” he says. “And I’m here because you didn’t answer my texts. I thought I’d better come check on you.”
I sigh and smile at the same time. Good lord, Brendan can be sweet. And also a pain in the ass. “I wasn’t checking my phone because I was getting ready, and then because I was here, doing what you’ve been telling me to do for weeks.”
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t tell you to dress like you want to get laid and go nestle up to the first football player you find,” he says, his words bitten off and unhappy.
I remove myself from his hand and take a step away from him. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
For a moment I still see anger on his face, as if he plans to defend himself. But then he pinches the bridge of his nose—the same thing his brother does every time Olivia’s frustrating him—and the anger recedes.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
I feel tears closing in and turn, walking rapidly down the stairs and toward the exit. But before I can get there, his hands are on my hips, and he’s pulling me against his chest.
“Please, Erin. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. It came out worse than I meant it to.”
I shrug him off. “Whatever, Brendan. It’s fine. I’m going home, though, so you’ve done what you came to do.”
“No,” he says. “Don’t do that. You look really good, okay? You sort of look too good. And it pissed me off because I’d been worrying about you already, and then I show up here and you look like that and that guy was looking at you like… Whatever. I just got pissed off. And I’m sorry.”
A small thrill shoots up my spine. Brendan’s opinion shouldn’t matter to me, but it always has, and I think it always will.
“Come on,” he says, pulling me toward the bar.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m buying you a drink.”
“If we’re staying, we should probably go back up to the VIP section with Harper.”
He sighs, his eyes pinching shut. “You look hot, Erin. I don’t mind throwing a few elbows, but I’m not in the mood to fight off an entire professional football team.” He orders my drink, knowing what I want without asking, and surveys my dress. “Jesus. Don’t let Harper dress you anymore.”
“I’m right on the cusp of being offended again, just so you know.”
“I’m not saying you’re doing anything wrong. I just don’t like worrying about people, and if you’re out dressed like that, I’m gonna worry.”
Stupid overprotective alpha male, acting like I’m fragile somehow and in need of his care. I don’t know why I like it so much, why it makes me feel like my heart is swelling in my chest. I guess because for most of my life it’s been me worrying about everyone else.
