Page 5 of Most Likely to Deny Love

“I don’t know what Grandma did to get two such raging assholes for daughters, but here we are.” Emily set down her phone with deliberate care. “I’m going to go back to my painting now, where colors make sense and nothing hurts my soul.”

I caught her hand before she could leave. “Hey, seriously. We can bail on Wednesday. Make up some work emergency.”

Emily squeezed my fingers, her expression softening. “That would cause more drama than it’s worth.”

“True.”

“Besides,” she added, “I’ve been practicing my ‘yes, Mother, I love that bridesmaid dress’ smile.” She demonstrated, a terrifying rictus that made me snort wine through my nose.

“Perfect. You’ll fit right in with the wedding photos,” I said, grabbing a tissue to dab at my shirt.

Emily grinned and headed back toward her studio, pausing at the door. “We’ll survive. We always do.”

As she disappeared I turned back to the baking show, trying to ignore the knot forming in my stomach. The wedding planning dinner loomed like a storm on the horizon, but at least I wasn’t facing it alone.

JACK

Ieased my Audi into the garage and shut off the engine, letting the darkness wrap around me. For a long moment, I sat in silence, fingers still wrapped around the steering wheel, listening to the engine tick as it cooled. The tightness in my shoulders had followed me all the way from the office, an unwelcome companion after a day filled with disappointing reports and mounting challenges.

I reached for my briefcase and pushed the car door open. The automatic lights in the garage flickered on, harsh and sterile. Fitting for the end of a day that had left me feeling scraped raw.

The door from the garage opened into a mudroom, and as I stepped through, the house’s smart lighting system detected my movement, illuminating my path through the hallway toward the open-plan kitchen and dining area at the back. A soft clicking of claws against hardwood announced Pickles before I saw him. The black and brown Doberman padded around the corner, his entire back end wiggling in greeting.

“Hey, boy.” My voice softened automatically as I set my briefcase on the kitchen island. “How was your day? Better than mine, I hope.”

Pickles nudged his massive head against my hip, nearly knocking me sideways as I bent to scratch behind his floppy ears.

“Outside?” I asked, and those ears perked up, his head tilting slightly as if to say, “Obviously.”

I slid open the glass door to the backyard, and Pickles trotted out into the darkness, immediately on patrol around the perimeter of the yard. While he did his rounds, I opened the freezer and pulled out a single-serve lasagna. The irony wasn’t lost on me. I had a gourmet kitchen that most amateur chefs would kill for, and I primarily used it to heat up frozen dinners. My mother would be appalled. Another point in its favor.

I popped the tray in the microwave and pressed start, the mechanical hum filling the quiet house. My phone chimed with a text message. Speak of the devil.

Mom:Your brother is about to announce his engagement. Don’t make a fuss.

No “hello.” No pleasantries. Just straight to assuming I’d cause problems. Typical.

My blood pressure spiked, a familiar heat creeping up my neck. The history with my brother was one I preferred not to unpack tonight. Or any night. I set the phone down harder than necessary, the sound sharp in the quiet house.

At the sliding door, Pickles sat expectantly on the other side, tail sweeping a small arc across the deck. When I slid it open, he trotted inside, giving himself a full-body shake before padding toward me. He must have sensed my mood shift because he pressed himself against me with a gentle weight that anchored me to the present moment.

“I’m fine,” I told him, though the tightness in my voice contradicted my words.

Pickles wasn’t buying it. He nudged his head more firmly against my leg, and I stroked the sleek fur between his ears, the repetitive motion soothing us both.

“You’re right,” I conceded, scratching that spot behind his ear that made his back leg twitch. “It doesn’t matter. She’s always taken his side.”

The microwave dinged. I retrieved my dinner and set it on the dining table, turning my phone face down and pushing it away. Pickles padded to his plush dog bed in the corner, circled three times, then flopped down with a dramatic sigh, resting his chin on the edge while fixing me with his steady gaze.

I pulled Mia’s reports toward me and began reading through her analysis again, taking a bite of mediocre lasagna. I noted the careful attention to detail, the lack of exaggeration or excuses. She’d identified problems I hadn’t even spotted yet and proposed solutions that were both creative and practical.

Mia Harris was good at her job. Exceptionally good. And I was starting to suspect she was exceptional in other ways too. Ways I had no business thinking about as her boss.

Pickles shifted, settling more comfortably in his bed as if sensing I’d found my distraction for the evening. And if my thoughts occasionally drifted from spreadsheets and projections to soft eyes that occasionally haunted my dreams, well, Pickles wasn’t one to judge.

MIA

Wednesday. Hump day. Halfway through the week and all I could think about was dinner with my mom tonight, looming over me.

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