Page 15 of Better Hate than Never

She lets out a weird half laugh, half choke. “Can I plead the Fifth?”

“Oh, come on. You’re not betraying Jamie by just talking about someone besides him.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “It’s not that. It’s just...” Groaning, she digs around the doughnut bag, unearths a powdered sugar doughnut hole and pops it in her mouth, then says around her bite, “It’s Christopher.”

My jaw drops. “Jamie isfriendswith that Neanderthal?”

“Since we started dating. They get along really well.”

I raise my coffee mug, my voice solemn. “To another brave soul, lost.”

She snorts a laugh and smiles. “No more talking about Jamie. Or Christopher. Today is Sister Day. Only us. Got it?”

I smile back. “Yeah. That sounds perfect.”

•FOUR•

Christopher

Fiona’s is one of my favorite pubs, so when Jamie suggested we meet there after work, I was more than happy to say yes.

As I stroll in, Fee’s familiar sounds and scents—the soccer game on TV and the Irish grandpas who sit at the bar swearing at its screen, cold foamy beer and crisp fried food—greet me like an old friend.

Jamie half stands from his seat at a booth along the wall and raises a long arm in greeting. I weave through the tables toward him, and we lean in to clasp hands, then offer each other a brisk, backslapping hug.

At six two, I’m used to being the tallest person in a social setting, stooping and bending when I greet people, but not with Jamie, who’s six four, his height emphasized by a lean runner’s build. We pull apart and drop across from each other at the booth, which is a little tight for two people our height, but we make it work, stretching our legs in opposite directions and opening our menus.

“Let’s see what there is,” he says, before clearing his throat. Twice. I haven’t known him long, but I’ve learned it’s something he does when uncomfortable or nervous.

I lower my menu, looking at him carefully. Jamie stares with deep concentration at his menu.

“Jamie.”

“Hmm?”

“Those are the desserts.”

He drops his menu like it’s burning, then snatches it back up. “Perhaps I’m craving something sweet.”

I arch an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t like sweets. Something about how they’re hard on the endocrine system.”

“Well.” Another throat clear. “They are. But I’m loosening up on that a little.”

“Wonder under whose influence.”

Bea has the biggest sweet tooth of anyone I’ve ever met. Jamie’s faint blush as he grins and flips the page of his menu confirms my theory.

“First time here?” I ask him.

“Hmm?” He glances up quickly. “Oh. Yes. It is.”

My gaze slides down the list of familiar appetizers. “The Reuben nachos are great if you haven’t—”

“Well, look who it is!” As if he’s materialized from thin air, Bill Wilmot stands beside our booth, smiling widely. Salt-and-pepper hair, deep blue eyes magnified slightly by his wire-rim glasses, he squeezes my shoulder affectionately. “Fancy seeing you here!”

Jamie drops his menu, eyebrows raised. “Bill! What a surprise! Say, why don’t you join us?”

My gaze dances between them. I have never met two more earnest men than Bill Wilmot and Jamie Westenberg. They’re up to something, and they’re doing a terrible job of hiding it.

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