Kar-ma, I sing to myself before continuing toward the kitchen in search of something greasy to settle my stomach.
The eggs are cracked, and the bacon is sizzling in no time. Then the quest to find painkillers begins when a deep, familiar voice catches my attention.
Turning down the heat on the stove, I try to look busy by turning my over-easy eggs into scrambled with the spatula while shamelessly eavesdropping on the tail end of River’s phone conversation as he paces near the entryway.
“You spoke with him? Brett Carter? What did he say?”
A pause.
“Seriously?”
Pause.
“That’s awesome. Thanks again for showing him my portfolio.”
Pause.
“So, I’m officially on his books? Do you know who he wants me to do the shoot with?”
Man, I’d give anything to hear the other end of this conversation.
“Seriously? Olivia Porter?” River asks in disbelief.
My stomach drops. Olivia Porter is freaking gorgeous. She models for almost every major designer in the industry and has been crowned the sexiest woman alive by multiple magazines.
“You’ve already set it up? It’s official?” River prods.
Pause.
“Yeah. Of course. I’ll do whatever it takes. Let’s just make sure to keep this quiet for now, okay? I don’t want anything to get out before they officially make any announcements. And that’s if they pick me at all.”
I glance over my shoulder. River is still busy pacing in dark jeans and socks without a shirt on. Shocker. For some reason, the socks make me smile. He just looks so…casual without shoes on. Human, maybe? Instead of the put-together Adonis I’ve grown accustomed to having around. Yet somehow, he still manages to look damn near lickable.
Attractive bastard.
And he’s going to be doing a photoshoot with freaking Olivia Porter?
Why, hello, insecurities. Nice to see you again.
The girl is so hot that even I have a crush on her, and I’m straight. There’s not a chance in hell I could compete with a girl like that. Not that I’m trying to compete, but…
River’s gaze catches mine, and he cocks his head to the side.
Dammit! I’ve been caught!
Turning back to my botched eggs, I frown. They’re going to taste like rubber. I guess I deserve it for eavesdropping on a conversation that doesn’t involve me. But it’s River. He’s always been good at piquing my curiosity. However, there’s a saying that I’m pretty sure I should have tattooed across my forearm. Curiosity killed the cat. And I don’t feel like being roadkill. The salvageable bacon is shoved into my mouth before I dump the eggs in the sink and start over.
“Yeah, Gina. See you then. And thanks again for this. I know you didn’t have to––”
His voice trails off for a few seconds, then his footsteps fade away and are replaced by a pair of heavy black boots pounding against the staircase.
“Hey, whatcha makin’?” Gibson asks as he enters the kitchen.
My gaze narrows as I turn to the culprit. “You’re in the doghouse this morning.”
“I am?”
“Yup. You woke me up.”
His concern transforms into relief as he strides closer and glances into the frying pan. “Eggs? For lunch?”
“Hey, it’s only lunch if you’ve had breakfast already. This”––I point the spatula at the freshly cracked egg that’s bubbling in the bacon grease––“is breakfast because someone woke me up this morning.”
“You mean they woke you up this afternoon,” he corrects me. “And I’m glad I was finally able to confirm you’re still alive and didn’t die from alcohol poisoning last night. Milo was pissed at me this morning when I saw him. Said I should’ve cut you off earlier.”
“You know Milo, always looking out for his little sister,” I quip while sprinkling a little salt and pepper on my freshly cracked egg.
“I can see that,” he notes before grabbing my wrist and twisting me until we’re face to face and he has my full attention. “I need to ask you something.”
“What is it?”
“And I want you to tell me the truth,” he adds.
“Okay, shoot.”
“With your parents’ history, are you okay voicing your own limits, or do I need to keep an eye on you at SeaBird?”
My parents’ history. Yeah, I remember their history. Empty beer bottles scattered along the floor. Soiled carpet beneath my bare feet. The stench of vomit and piss permeating the air. Milo’s bruised face when our dad was feeling particularly angry for no reason at all. It’s funny how something like alcohol can be so addicting for one person yet doesn’t affect someone else to the same degree.
Sobering slightly, I murmur, “I know my own limits. Thank you for asking, though.”
He raises his chin in acknowledgment then lets me go. “Don’t mention it. Speaking of SeaBird…”
“Yeah? What about it?” I ask, dishing up my breakfast onto a white ceramic plate.
“They’re hiring.”
My jaw hangs on its hinges, and the fork in my hand clatters on the plate. “I’m sorry…what was that?”
Don’t get your hopes up, Reese. Don’t you dare get your hopes up.
“SeaBird’s hiring,” Gibbs repeats. “Would you be interested? I know you were looking for a job––”
With my breakfast and headache forgotten, I jump into Gibson’s arms and give him the biggest bear hug I can muster.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” I chant. “You are the best person ever, Gibbs! Seriously. You have no idea how much it would mean to me if I could find a freaking job.”
A throat clears near the entryway and breaks up our little celebration. As soon as my bare feet touch the cool hardwood floors, Gibson’s grasp disappears. I tug my sleepshirt down and awkwardly wave my hand at the latest visitors for the day. Jake and Milo. They’re each sporting a pair of basketball shorts and white T-shirts with their hair slightly mussed from their workout. And even with all their similarities, they still manage to be total opposites like the yin and yang of an unbreakable friendship.
And right now, they’re looking at me like they just caught me with my pants down when I was simply chanting yes and hugging my roommate. Totally typical behavior for a Saturday afternoon.
“Oh. Hi,” I greet them. My smile is tight, though I have no idea why.
“Don’t mind us.” Milo’s tone is snarky as hell with a silent challenge on his tongue. “Please. Continue.”
“I was just telling her about an opening at SeaBird,” Gibson explains like he’s used to Milo’s tantrums. “Do you want a water?”
“I’ll take one, Sonny,” Jake pipes up before striding toward the kitchen island. Gibson opens the fridge and tosses him a reusable bottle filled with ice-cold water they keep stocked in the fridge. Untwisting the cap, Jake takes a swig then he asks me, “How are you feeling? I heard you had quite the evening last night.”
“And which little bird told you that?”
His mouth quirks up, but he doesn’t answer me.
“Ya know,” I continue, “if I’d known I was moving in with a bunch of mother hens, I might’ve reconsidered my options.”