Page 23 of Best Served Cold

“No,” I say flatly. “Travis and Bixby won’t do it either, so don’t ask them.”

“I told you it was all a big misunderstanding. It was inappropriate for me to be texting other women, sure, but I wasn’t cheating,” he insists. “You punched me in the face for something I didn’t do. The least you could do is help me fix this.”

“No.”

“I’ll pay you.”

“No amount of money could compel me.”

Patricia apparently finds my last comment amusing, but I don’t look away from Jonah. If I can’t hit him again, I can at least tell him silently what I think of him.

My father clears his throat, and I’m embarrassed that I turn toward him with the rest of them, all of us recognizing who’s in charge. “That’s enough of that. Jonah, I expect you to make this right. Rob, you’re not a teenager. Stop acting like one.”

I’ve never wanted to throw a bread roll more in my life. But I’d prefer to leave than stay and argue. My father did me a favor; in return, I put in an appearance. Done and done. The sooner herealizes Jonah, Patricia, and I are never going to be friends, the better.

“You’re right,” I say tightly. “But I do have to leave.” I force myself to glance at Patricia. “Thank you for dinner. It’s been pleasant, as always.”

She nods primly, her eyes full of her victory, and I’ve never been happier to leave a place.

I spent most of my childhood in this big, echoey house with its pillars and sculpted gardens—when I wasn’t bouncing from one apartment to another with my mother—but it never felt like mine. The moment Patricia moved in, already pregnant, I became the visitor.

I’m in the car, on the way to my apartment, when I find myself driving to another house in the Montford neighborhood—old and blue, with windows that are likely older than my deceased grandparents.

I park on the street outside, feeling like a hypocrite. I just got done calling Jonah a stalker for planning to show up at Buchanan Brewery, but here I am outside her home. Isn’t that ten times worse?

I don’t have her phone number, though, and it would be wrong to let her find out about my little brother’s grand gesture when he shows up at her place of work with a string orchestra. Because I doubt he’s going to let my refusal stop him. He’ll probably hire an opera singer to deliver an aria while he throws roses at Sophie or jumps out of a cake, and the scene will end up on a dozen tourists’ camera phones.

Maybe it’ll be enough to pressure her into giving him a second chance.

The thought is brutal enough to propel me out of the car, even though I still don’t know what I’m going to say. I find myself reaching into my pocket for the stone. My fingers wrap around it and squeeze.

When I get to the door, I knock twice on the worn wood. It swings open, revealing none other than Dottie Hendrickson. She’s wearing a fancier dress today—silver with sequins—and a flower tucked into her hair.

“Oh good,” she says, beaming at my stupefied face. “You’re just in time, dear. We’re about to get started.”

I glance inside, taking in the sight of Otis on the couch, dressed in a T-shirt with a tuxedo design and a pair of khakis. Hannah is with him, in a green dress, and they’re drinking from flutes of what looks like champagne.

Otis grins and lifts his free hand. “Hey, man.”

I suddenly, and absurdly, feel underdressed.

The floor is covered with a red satin cloth, and flower arrangements are strategically stationed around the living room, along with paper lanterns filled with lit tea lights.

“Uh…”

Sophie emerges into the living area wearing a fitted off-white dress with a flowing skirt.

My first thought iswow. Her hair is loose over her shoulders in soft brown waves, and she’s wearing a shade of red lipstick that highlights the shape of her lips and brings out the deep blue of her eyes. The dress hugs her chest and hips, compelling attention to every dip and curve of her body.

She’s a knockout. A perfect ten. An impossible twenty. No one would look at her and think Pollyanna, because they’d be too busy gaping.

My second thought iswhat the hell?

Because it’s a wedding dress. Presumably the one she bought to marry my brother.

“Shall we begin?” Dottie asks with bright eyes.

CHAPTER SEVEN

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