He shakes his head. “Right. I, uh, I should get going, too.”
Using my peripheral vision, I watch him smooth his hands down his thighs and give them a hard pat before he slowly rises from his chair.
“You’re probably leaving this place ten pounds heavier,” I quip, hoping to break the growing tension between us. Frankly, I want it to go back to wherever it came from. It isn’t welcome.
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” he says, his eyes flickering with good humor.
“Oh, before I forget,” I say, snapping my fingers. “I can’t leave here without getting a few of their milk chocolate truffles. They remind me of the brigadeiros my mother and aunts sell at their store.”
He walks with me to the counter, his steps less bouncy than they were when he first arrived. “They own a store?”
“Yeah, mostly Brazilian goods. But it’s a mishmash of items. I used to kid them about it all the time. Jokingly renamed the place Food, Flip-flops, and Flooring. They were not amused.” To the woman at the counter, I say, “Four milk chocolate truffles, please.”
After I’ve paid and she’s handed them to me in a small white bag, I eagerly remove one of the truffles and bite into it. I roll my eyes as I chew, not bothering to finish before I speak. “So good.”
Max studies me as I eat, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Wait a minute. I thought you said you’re lactose intolerant.”
I finish the truffle and lick my lips. “I never said I was lactose intolerant.”
“Yes, you did,” he says, his eyes widening as he stares at me incredulously. “That’s why you asked me to be Dillon’s second taste tester. And that’s why I’m feeling like someone’s kneading my stomach with a rolling pin as we speak.”
I shake my head. “No, all I said was that I couldn’t help him choose a cake. And I mentioned that lactose intolerance is a pain. And it is.” I shrug. “For the people who suffer from it, I suppose. Besides, you watched me eat a ton of chocolate for dessert when we met for lunch. I can’t help it if you jumped to a conclusion.”
With his head cocked, he licks the front of his teeth and nods as though he’s seeing me with fresh eyes. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, Ms. Santos, but let’s not lose sight of the big picture. If we get this pitch right, by working together rather than at cross-purposes, a dream job—your words, not mine—awaits. It’d probably do you some good to remember that fact if you’re still hell-bent on pranking me.”
He isn’t telling me anything I’m not fully aware of. But I must admit, I haven’t had this much fun doing my job in a long time. Besides, preparing the pitch and pestering Max needn’t be mutually exclusive. I can see Natalia’s point now. What’s he going to do anyway? Tell on me? And to whom? Giving him the broadest smile imaginable, I roll up my bag of truffles and wink at him. “Thanks for the reminder, Max. But don’t worry. I’m in full control of the situation.”
As I precede him through the door, he says, “Some people eat cake. Others eat their words.”
I turn my head and pin him with a humorless stare. “Is that a threat of some kind, Max?”
He places a palm on his chest and scoffs. “I’d never.”
The haughty tone he injects into his voice is a nice touch, I’ll give him that. But he’s wrong. There’s no way I’m eating my words. I will retain control over the situation. Neither of the Brothers Karafuckoff will ever get the best of me again.
Chapter Eleven
Max
“Heads up, dude!”
Too late. The basketball hits the back of my head with a thwap that makes everyone on the court turn in my direction and wince sympathetically. “Fuck.” I lean over, clutching the spot I already know will be sore the rest of the week.
My best friend, Dean, jogs over to me. “Damn, man, you okay?”
I straighten and shake out my limbs. “I’m fine.”
Dean angles his head as he scrutinizes me, a look of suspicion dominating his sweaty face. “What’s going on with you today? You’ve been in your head this whole time. These guys will smoke you if you’re not on top of your game, and you’re at the bottom. Way bottom.”
He’s right. My brain’s so scattered I’m useless on the court. “I’m calling it quits.”
Dean walks over to the guys hovering nearby and lets them know we’ll no longer be playing. They readjust to a four-on-four game before we even leave the gym. We’re at the Columbia Heights Community Center, a place we frequent when we’re in the mood for a quick pickup game. I’m not the best player, but I’ve never performed as poorly as I did today.
After a brief stop at the restroom, I meet Dean outside, where we squint at each other before we both throw on our sunglasses. Physically, we make an interesting pair. His dirty blond hair is never out of place, whereas my dark hair exists in organized chaos. I try to get away with a five o’clock shadow as often as possible; Dean carries a travel shaving kit in his briefcase. He’s fucking tall as hell, too, towering over me by at least three inches, an asset we typically use to our advantage on the basketball court—when I’m not playing like a scrub, that is.
“You want to stop by my place and hang?” Dean asks. “The shower’s all yours if you need it.” He inches closer and sniffs the air. “And you definitely need it.”
I shove him away. “Nah, I should get going. Tomorrow’s going to be a busy workday.”
Dean lives nearby, in a renovated loft that he purchased with his ridiculously comfortable salary as a law firm associate. His house has more bells and whistles than mine—and a high-tech television that’s so advanced I’m sure it’s going to kill my best friend in his sleep one day. I should be disgusted with his excess, but Dean deserves his toys. The man works about sixty hours a week, evenly splitting his time between private and pro bono work in a sweet arrangement with his firm.
“That’s a half-assed no if ever there was one,” he says. “Just bring your butt to my place. You know you want to talk about whatever’s got your brain fuzzy.”
I can’t argue with that. My brain is fuzzy, and Dean’s probably the only person in the world I’d feel comfortable talking with about the source of my confusion. We met in college, didn’t see each other much for a few years—I was in New York and he was in Philadelphia for law school—but then picked up where we left off once we were living in the same area. He’s that friend you always find your way back to, the one who knows all your secrets and doesn’t care that you’re flawed, the one who’s seen your “before” pictures because he’s in them. “Okay, I’m biking over. Meet you there in ten.”
Fifteen minutes later—I’m more out of shape than I thought—Dean buzzes me into his building. I lock my bike in a storage area past the elevators and climb the three flights of stairs to his condo.
I arrive at the threshold and find the door open, so I stroll inside. Dean’s at the fridge guzzling a gallon-size container of water. He wipes his chin. “Took you long enough.”