Page 43 of Best Served Cold

The part of my cheek that had been kissed by Sophie had kept me up half the night. It had felt like I could still feel her lips pressing against my skin. Still smell her sweet perfume…

The other half of the night, I’d spent raging about my brother, who’d also apparently been thinking about Sophie.

I hadn’t gotten more than a couple of steps into my apartment last night before my phone started buzzing with pissed-off texts from Jonah.

Stay away from Sophie.

Stop lying to her.

I know you still have your panties in a twist about what happened, but it was years ago, and it was an accident.

Grow the fuck up, and be a man.

Oh, the irony.

The real wonder was that I didn’t get any icy calls from Patricia or my father. Jonah was thirty, sure, but it had never stopped him from tattling to Mommy and Daddy before. Maybe it was because he’d done something shitty and he knew it, and he was afraid even his mother would catch on eventually.

I could have taken the high road and left his unhinged texts unanswered. Instead, I told him to go fuck himself with a smiley face, and informed him that Sophie had a subzero interest in receiving a grand gesture from him.

He didn’t respond, which doesn’t mean he’s not going to show up at Buchanan Brewery with a seven-string orchestra.

So I’d tried to go to sleep, mostly failed, and spent the morning keeping busy so I’d stop thinking about Sophie and the Jonah problem. I met Emil at the park with one of my extra guitars, as was our habit, then met up with the guys for band practice. It had almost been working when I’d received her text:

If it’s not too much trouble, could you possibly give Dottie and me a ride back to my place from The Ginger Station?

A Pollyanna message, but not a Pollyanna mission.

Why she’d wanted to go back to that brewery so soon after the little scene we’d fled from was a mystery—until Sophie and Dottie, who were both slightly tipsy off of one drink, didn’t hesitate to tell me everything.

I wasn’t sorry Sophie had asked for my help. It had felt good, like confirmation she didn’t think I was the same as my brother. Ilikedthat she trusted me. That she didn’t care if I saw the parts of her that weren’t always idealistic and upbeat—like the Sophie who went to a brewery in the middle of the day with her elderly neighbor, playing private investigator.

She was charming like this, even though she looked like she hadn’t done much sleeping or paid any attention to the shirt she’d pulled on, from a fun run calledThe Fun Onions!More proof that she didn’t care what I thought of her. Part of her charm, honestly, even though it was a reminder that I was background noise for her.

After we had sat for a while and talked, sipping our drinks, we’d left the brewery. Sophie had started in with the endless thanks before the car even left the lot, thanking me both for paying for her drinks last night and coming to pick them up. They didn’t stop even when I pulled into her driveaway.

I’d had to leave band practice to pick them up, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. She’d probably just end up thanking me again.

“I already said you didn’t have to thank me.” I put the car in park and turn toward her. Dottie had insisted on giving her the front seat. Nothing else would do. “The first forty-nine times were more than adequate.”

“Give him one of your cookies, dear,” Dottie says. “Go on.”

“Oh, no,” Sophie says, with a look of genuine horror. “I left them in my car at The Ginger Station. Do you think they’ll be okay?”

“I don’t think they’re going to get up and walk away, if that’s what you’re concerned about,” I tease.

“We’ll get Bear to drop us off later so we can reclaim the car,” Dottie insists. “Those cookies can withstand a hot car. They’re filled with love. Love can withstand anything.”

“Even being eaten?” I ask, and Sophie gives a delighted laugh. Even tired and hungover, she’s hard to look away from.

Sophie holds my gaze and says, “Seriously, thank you, Rob.”

“I’m going to start charging you for every tipsy thank-you.”

“Money?” She cocks her head, her honey-brown hair spilling over the sleeve of her T-shirt.

“Stale car cookies.”

“Oh, you,” Dottie says sweetly. “Well, children, I’d better get home to give my lovehiscookies. But first, I wanted to give you this, my dear Sophie.”

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