Page 6 of Best Served Cold

Okay, fair enough.

“Yeah, Jonah told me where you live,” I say, shoving my hands into my pockets. “He said there’d been some mix-up, and you have his phone. He?—”

“Did you know?” she snaps. Her sharp tone is like a jolt of caffeine to the system. I stand a little straighter. Study her more closely. Sophie usually looks soft, like the kind of woman an enterprising guy might pick up in the baking section at a grocery store, but there’s something different about her today. Her hair is pulled back in the same ponytail as usual, and she’s already dressed in a Buchanan Brewery shirt and khaki shorts, even though her shift is probably hours off. The expression in her eyes is almost feral, though, and her posture isn’t gentle and accommodating but confrontational.

She also smells a little like…

“Have you been drinking?” I ask.

It was clearly the wrong question, because she bristles and spreads out her arms, taking up more of the doorway, as if she’s worried I might barrel my way into the house. “Yes, Rob, I’ve been drinking. The last time I checked, it’s perfectly legal for me to drink in my own home whenever I please. What are you going to do, tell on me?”

“Uh…no.”

Her cousin Otis appears in the doorframe behind her and gives me a cautious wave. “Hey, what’s up, man? Nice day, huh?”

It’s not overly hot for early June, but he’s practically sweating through his shirt.

Sophie’s lips firm, and she shifts in the doorway, keeping her hands extended. “Robhas come for Jonah’s phone.”

“I know we weren’t gonna give it to Jonah,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “But what about Rob? He’s a solid?—”

“Rob is here on Jonah’s mission of sin,” she hisses.

A single bark of laughter escapes me. It’s the phrase more than the meaning.Mission of sin. I’m guessing it’s something her great-aunt says, and it’s funny coming from a woman who hasn’t clocked thirty.

Her eyes swivel to me, full of anger but also…

I’ve seen that look in a woman’s eyes before. Sophie’s sad. Heartbroken, even.

Suspicion bites between my shoulder blades. It probably would have come sooner if I weren’t still tired.

Jonah would only ask me for a favor if he were truly desperate. Would he care this much about ruining a surprise for Sophie? Sure, he likes making his big gestures and getting the ego stroking that results from it, but I’m guessing Sophie would normally do him the favor of still acting surprised.

No, now that my brain’s more fully awake, I can tell something else is going on here. My half-brother did something bad, again, and now he’s panicking because he got himself caught and cornered.

“What’d you find on his phone?” I ask, my voice sounding harsh.

My anger is directed at my brother, but she turns back toward me and plants a hand on her hip. Otis is frozen in the background as if he’s forgotten how to move.

For a second I’m distracted by the sight of Sophie’s hand curled around her generous hip. Then she clears her throat, and I meet her gaze. “Are you pretending you don’t knowexactlywhat’s on there? This is why you’ve been such an asshole to me, isn’t it? You knew what Jonah was doing. You’ve probably known all along.”

“He’s cheating on you?” I ask. It’s not the only bad thing I can imagine him doing, but I doubt she’d be this worked up over him lying on his taxes or stealing something from the grocery store to get a dopamine rush.

“Youdidknow.” The hurt in her gaze overpowers the anger, and she slumps against the side of the doorframe. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

I open my mouth to say something, maybesorry for the Price men. I hate all of them too, mostly, but she saves me from myself by adding, “Iwould have warnedyou.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend right now,” I point out. Again, the wrong thing to say.

“Of course you don’t,” she says tightly, shaking her head. “I’ll bet you’re out with a new woman every night.”

I lift my eyebrows, letting her realize it herself. Jonah’s the one who’s been stepping out, not me.

And I instantly regret it, because her lower lip trembles. Shit. I can see tears welling in her eyes.

“Sophie?” Otis says, and when she turns toward him, he takes two steps backward, colliding with a wall and nearly taking down an aggressively ugly painting of a shepherd herding sheep that look like llamas. “Oh no. We need to get you back to the anger thing. The anger thing was good.”

“Iamangry,” she insists in a wobbling voice.

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