His brown eyes glow with the kind of warmth that makes him one of my favorite people. “Aw, not next to you. You okay? Didn’t get any on you, did you?”
She shakes her head.
“D’Angelo, this is my friend, Brianna.” I smile at both of them.
Brianna gapes.
“Hey, Brianna. Nice to meet you.” D’Angelo smiles back, and I congratulate myself on my instincts.
Brianna needs the kind of guy who’s a little protective, a lot of good humor, and a dash of hard work, and D’Angelo has been bemoaning his lack of courage to talk to girls lately.
They’ll become friends, realize they like each other as more, and boom.
It’ll be my first all-organic match, no side scheming required.
He tilts his head at a stunning woman behind him. “And this is Willa, my girlfriend.”
Girlfriend?
Girlfriend?
Since when does he have a girlfriend?
“We hooked up last night,” he adds in a whisper to me.
Oh, fuuuuuuuck.
Muff Matchers fails.
Again.
I’ll find a guy for Brianna.
I will.
My bad for thinking this time might be easier.
8
Tyler
In the three days since I told Muffy I’d be her date to this thing, I’ve almost backed out twice an hour, but my dick is still playing dead, and Nick cornered me after the game last night and told me Kami doesn’t have details, but some shit happened to Muffy to make her leave medical school, and if I do anything to make her life difficult today, I’ll wish getting an atomic wedgie on my way to a swirly of death was the worst thing looming in my future.
So here I am, pulling up to a two-story house with faded siding and patchy dead rose bushes in need of pruning in an older neighborhood in Copper Valley, hoping Muffy comes running out so I don’t have to talk to Aunt Spanky-Spanky—ah, I mean Muffy’s mom, who has an unfortunate self-given nickname in the locker room—before I play the gallant gentleman who saves the woman who faked it the one time we hooked up.
Yeah.
I want karma points for my dick.
My overnight bag is in the trunk. Coach let me out of practice tomorrow after making me do extra sprints and shooting practice today and promise I’ll be there for every charity event he wants me to do in the next month. I’m in a suit, as requested, since we’re apparently going to a pre-ceremony reception tonight basically as soon as we check in, and I’m ignoring the bruise on my side from a puck that snuck between my pads at the game last night.
The front door opens as I’m stepping out of my car, and—shit.
It’s Muffy’s mother.
I scramble for my phone, put it to my ear, and make the one minute gesture.
My phone screams out an old Bro Code song in my ear, and I drop the damn thing.
Jesus.
Do all my sisters have to have awful timing? I fumble with it again, drop it twice, and then send the call to voicemail.
Staci can wait.
Also, for the record, I don’t usually listen to boy band songs. It’s simply an appropriate ringtone for my sister.
Muffy’s mother is marching down the steps.
Shit again.
I give up pretending I’m on the phone, retrieve it from the asphalt, and stand back up to look at her over the roof of my car.
Best to leave the beast between us. “Morning, Ms. Periwinkle. Muffy ready?”
She’s in knee-high leopard-print boots, baggy black leggings, and a ruffly orange blouse that she’s belted at her waist. She’s making pouty lips as she reaches my car and strokes the hood of my red Maserati GT convertible. “My, my, you’re certainly taking Muffy out in style today, aren’t you?”
“I—yeah.”
My phone dings six times in rapid succession, which means my sisters have re-activated our group chat text. The call from Staci—who doesn’t usually participate in the group texts—probably means I’m on a gossip page somewhere.
Awesome.
And by awesome, I don’t actually mean awesome.
“Ooh, it’s a four-seater.” She peers in the window. “I could come along.”
The last time I was around Hilda Periwinkle, she asked if she could get a selfie with me licking her face so her online friends would know that she wasn’t lying when she told them that she got busy with half the Thrusters in the off-season.
And I didn’t know if she was joking or not.
I do know that hanging out with Hilda Periwinkle will not improve my broken dick situation. And neither will any of the text messages continuing to blow up my phone. “Is Muffy ready?”
“She’s still in the shower. Why don’t you come on in? I did a boudoir shoot with my dear friend Aubrey Innsbruck, and I got the proofs this week. You could help me decide which one you like the best?”
You have to admire her confidence.
But I still don’t want to see anyone’s boudoir photos. Not Hilda’s. Not any of my sisters’. Not my mother’s.
Again with the not helping the broken dick situation.
“I—I’m sorry, Ms. Periwinkle.” I wave my phone at her in the crisp morning air. “Family situation. I need to check these—”
“Mom, leave him alone.”
I can’t see Muffy, but I can hear her. She’s—oh.
There she is.
Window. Second floor. Peering through a screen.
“I don’t like you going off on overnight dates with men I don’t know,” Hilda calls back.
“You asked if he’d show you his pee-pee at Kami’s wedding last year. You should be more worried that I’m going on an overnight date with a man who knows you. He might not bring me back.”
Hilda gasps.
“I’ll be down in a minute, Tyler. Please ignore every syllable that comes out of her mouth, and do not agree to see her new pictures.”
“I have them on my phone.” Hilda circles the hood while I pretend I’m not backing away to circle my trunk and keep the car between us. “You’ve heard of Aubrey Innsbruck, haven’t you? He’s renowned in art circles for his creative interpretations of the human body.”
I don’t know what that means, and I don’t want to either. “My sister’s twins are having tonsillectomies today and I really need to check in and see how they’re doing.”
“Both twins?”
“Yep.” No. Not at all. They had their tonsillectomies about three months apart in the spring. Also, I don’t think doctors schedule tonsillectomies on Sundays. “They’re identical.”
They’re fraternal.
And hilarious for being so small.
“I didn’t see that on Daisy’s social media.”
There are a ton of upsides to having Daisy Carter-Kincaid as a sister-in-law.
This is not one of them. “There’s a lot of stuff Daisy doesn’t post about our family on her social media. We like our privacy.”
Hilda winks. “Some of you do. I saw Daisy’s boudoir photos from a few years back too. Hoo, mama. I’m lifting my weights so I can look that good.”
For the record, I don’t look at Daisy’s old boudoir photos either. My brother might have over a decade on me and be a retired Marine, but that doesn’t mean he’s gone soft.