Page 34 of My Brother's Roommate (Frisky Business 2)
“What? Uh, yeah. I’m fine,” he grumbles, one hand rubbing the tension from the back of his neck. “Totally fine.”
He’s obviously not fine. How am I not supposed to be worried about him when he’s acting completely deranged?
I side-eye the hell out of him. Connor’s easygoing charm is nowhere to be found, and it’s more unnerving than I expected it to be. He’s always been the glue that holds our crew together.
The last few years of starting a business together hasn’t always been easy, and there have been times when tempers flared and testosterone-fueled arguments broke out. Connor’s good-natured reliability always got us through. He was the one to step in, putting himself in the middle of any disagreement. He’s the person you can count on one hundred percent of the time to be calm and collected. Levelheaded. Chill.
But right now, that guy is gone. And in his place is a man I don’t recognize. It rocks me to my core.
But before we can get any deeper into it, the bell on the door chimes, and in walks a customer. A middle-aged woman with a brunette bob, her winter coat zipped up to her neck. She gives the four of us a quick smile before shuffling back toward the couples’ corner. It seems like she knows what she’s looking for, and thank fuck for that, because Connor is the one who usually makes the sales pitches around here.
I reach for our speaker system and dial up the volume on the ambient music. Just two notches, enough to hopefully drown out this conversation.
“Hey. What’s going on with you?” I shoot Connor one of my no bullshit looks. I’m not messing around here. There’s something up with him, and we’re not going to make it through a full workday if our top salesman is as useless as a one-legged cat.
Connor stuffs his hands into his pockets, barely managing half a shrug. “Nothing much. What’s up with you?”
Fucking hell. I don’t have the patience for this today.
I sigh, folding my arms over my chest. “No, I mean what’s going on with you? You look like shit.”
He scoffs. “Thanks, jackass. You don’t look so hot yourself.”
“No, I mean you look like a zombie with a third-degree hangover.” I raise one eyebrow at him for emphasis.
I should know. I’m nursing a mild hangover myself. I may have gotten a third glass of Jameson last night after Tessa told me off.
Between proving to both Penelope and myself that I’m too much of a mess for her and swerving my ex-hookup at the bar, there was a lot of edge to take off.
And to be honest, I’m still reeling. Not so much from Tessa, but from Penelope. I hurt her, and that’s bothering me. But I’m not going to let that show. And that’s more than Connor can say about whatever’s eating him up inside.
“I’m fine, okay?”
His voice is louder this time, strident enough to get the attention of our newest customer. She snaps her head toward the register, frowns at Connor, then goes back to reading the ingredients on the lavender massage oil in her hand.
Gripping Connor by the elbow, I pull him into the back office and bark at Hayes to man the register, tugging the door shut behind me. Connor flashes me an uncertain look but it’s too late. I have him cornered.
“C’mon, dude.” He groans, trying to maneuver past me, but I counter, anticipating his every move. When he steps left, I step right, blocking him with squared shoulders and a tight frown.
“I’m not letting you leave unless you agree to go back home and straight to bed.”
He levels me with a glare. “I don’t need to go home,” he forces out through gritted teeth, but his stern look quickly fades away to worry. “I, uh, actually . . . if I’m going anywhere, I need to go to the car dealership.”
I flinch back an inch. The car dealership? Is this the same Connor who once told me he’d sooner lick the floor of the train station than pay for a vehicle sticker just for the privilege to park in the city?
“The dealership? What, does your motorcycle need work?”
He swallows hard, slowly shaking his head. “Nope. Sold it.”
All right, now I’m positive he’s sick in the head. No fucking way did Connor Blake sell his baby. He cares more about that thing than any woman he’s brought back to our apartment in the last year and a half.
I squint at him, assessing him for signs of sarcasm, but I come up empty. All I can do is call his bluff. “You’re lying.”
“Why would I lie about that?” He frowns, his eyes brimming with something close to . . . sadness? Like he’s grieving a loss. And in many ways, he is, if what he says is true. That bike was like his trophy wife.
