Page 7 of Brett and Rowdy
“So the way this works is that we have your name badge here, and everyone gets a card.”
“A card?” What the fuck?
“Yeah, we’re going to play an icebreaker game.”
He did not snarl. Nope. No snarling. He should not have done this. No way. No how. “Oh, goody. I can’t wait.”
Where the fuck was Crystal?
“So your card’s going to have someone famous on it, like oh… Brad and Angelina, or Beyoncé and Jay-Z.”
The temptation to say lube and fudge packing was huge, but he resisted because he was here for Crystal, because Crystal wanted to come, and she didn’t want to be by herself, and he wasn’t going to be an asshole. Except that he wasn’t going to play any fucking stupid games and try to talk to people. He wanted to have his fucking pimento cheese and barbecue, and then get the fuck out and go have some beers.
“Dude, you made it. I’m here.” Crystal looked cute as hell in a great big white button-down and a pair of jeans, her dark hair in a long ponytail and her eyes lined. “If I tucked in my shirt, I’d look just like you. We’re matchy matchy.” She bumped shoulders with him and then smiled at Ann Marie like a tiger baring her teeth at its prey. “Well, look at you. Aren’t you pretty, honey? I love your dress.”
Crystal was so much better at this shit than he was.
Ann Marie started going through the whole spiel of what it was that they were supposed to do, and he just put on his name tag.
He didn’t care.
He didn’t even look at the card when he put it in his back pocket.
Brett had known some of these people his whole life, in theory, and it was a shock to him how few he recognized.
He lived a pretty private life, and a good amount of it was online. That was where he did his business, that was where he did his socializing. He had Crystal here, a handful of folks that he communicated with—mainly for supplies, and a couple of guys he’d go have a beer with if he was bored. Mostly cowboys who had him shoe their horses.
No matter what, he couldn’t seem to get away from that old cowboy thing. There was something about a man in a pair of Wranglers that did it for him. Every goddamned time.
Crystal came up and hooked their arms together. “All right, I got my card. I got my name tag. There’s supposed to be a wall of photos.”
“Yay. I want pimento cheese.”
She pinched his bicep, not a bit gently. “You know what? I’m going to make you pimento cheese.”
He gagged a little bit. “Sweetheart, I love you more than I love my luggage. But your pimento cheese tastes like old ass.”
Brett gave some woman in a sundress a wink as she gasped. That was what happened when someone eavesdropped.
She arched an eyebrow at him, a wicked grin on her face, and he gave her his best smile.
“I said what I said.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Come on. We don’t have to be stressed. We’re coming for the food and the fun, right?”
Actually, no, he was here for Crystal, but whatever made her happy. She deserved this. “I am here for the food and the fun. I am not playing any kind of weird-assed game.”
“Yeah, let’s pretend like we have each other’s cards.”
Brilliant broad. “Excellent. Are you going to be gasoline or matches?”
“Dude, I totally want to be matches.” She grinned at him, tossing her hair, which had an amazing purple streak in it.
“Look at you.”
“I know. I finally talked the library director into loosening the damn dress code. I drive the goddamn bookmobile. I’m not a fucking librarian.”
He made his eyes go wide. “Are you suggesting that he’s a stick in the mud?”
