Page 23 of A Favor Owed

“Just kicked everyone out about an hour ago.”

I laugh. “You know how to throw a party, Brady. I’ll give you that.”

“It was more fun when you were there.”

“I doubt that.”

“You seem to doubt a lot of things, Angie Pines.” He opens my door for me. “Like me saying I’ll pick you up from work.”

I climb in without saying anything, and he shuts the door.

“I had to call so many Ubers for drunk partiers that I got upgraded to like diamond status or some shit,” he says. As I listen to him chat away about his party, I get that warm, safe feeling again, like nothing can go wrong if I’m with Brady McDaniels. His easygoing, effortlessly happy personality makes everything seem okay in the world, even when so many things are not.

When we get to his place, he parks in the garage, and we ride the elevator up to the fourth floor. I like his apartment. It’s cleaner than I expected a boy’s place to be (sexist, I know), and it’s furnished sparsely but nicely, with matching furniture and things like accent pillows.

“Did you pick all your stuff out?” I ask, taking another look around once we’re inside.

“Nah, my ma and my sister did,” he says. “They ordered everything online, and it showed up here about a day after I did.”

“They did a nice job.”

I can just imagine what my mom would think about my place. Actually, she probably wouldn’t think. She would just have an aneurysm and a heart attack simultaneously.

“You want that sambuca now?” he asks, heading to the kitchen area.

“I thought you didn’t have any.”

“I had to do a BevMo run after dropping you at work, and I picked some up.” He pulls a bottle of sambuca and a bag of espresso beans out of the fridge and holds them up.

“You remembered the espresso beans?” I exclaim. “How can I say no?”

He pours me a glass and drops three beans into it, then cracks open a room-temperature Guinness for himself. “Go get changed and we’ll drink ’em by the pool. Your stuff’s in my room at the end of the hall.”

I go down the hall to his bedroom. It’s just as nicely furnished as the rest of the apartment. He has a desk with his laptop and books on it, a California-king-size bed (I hope because he’s so big and not because he frequently has company in it), and a dresser with a mirror.

My tote bag is on his bed. I go to pull out my bikini and realize it’s not where I thought I had packed it. I dump everything out on the bed and find it was at the bottom, even though I remember packing it last, on top of everything else. My heart freezes. Did he go through my stuff?

Stop being paranoid, Angela, I tell myself.That’s ridiculous. Why would he go through your stuff? Even if he did, it’s probably because he was being a perv and wanted to see your panties.Is it a problem that the likelihood of that scenario comes as a huge relief?

I take a couple of deep breaths to calm my racing heart and quickly change out of my beer-splashed, sweaty work clothes and into the bikini. Navy-and-white striped with the top tying around the neck and the bottom folding over my hips, it’s a holdover from my old life that cost as much as my current monthly rent. I tie a sheer, navy-blue sarong around my body, knotting it over my left shoulder. There’s no way I’m just going to saunter into his living room wearing practically nothing.

“Wow, Pines,” he says when I walk in. “Looking good.”

“Thanks.” I take my sambuca from him and take a long, blessedly cold drink.

“Oh, hey, I meant to tell you,” he says. “Your bag fell off my bed, and everything fell out. I stuffed it all back in without looking, so it was probably a mess. Sorry.”

Thank God, thank God, thank God.I hadn’t realized how much I’d been worried about it until he explained what happened. “No problem. Thanks for being such a gentleman.”

“Don’t tell me I missed out on a black silk thong or something.”

I smirk. “Red lace.”

“Jesus Christ, Pines,” he mutters. He takes a gulp of his beer.

We head down to the pool with our towels. I thought it would be trashed after what had gone on here until just a couple of hours ago, but everything appears to have been set to rights. The jacuzzi looks inviting, gently lit with steam rising from it and bubbles murmuring. The thought of soaking my bone-weary body in it is irresistible.

I set my sambuca down by the side of the jacuzzi and start to unknot my sarong. It’s resistant, in part because I tied it too tight but mostly because I’m nervous. I’ve just given up and started to slide it down over my shoulder when Brady appears in front of me.

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