“His Little Brother,” Chase supplies.
“You guys have another brother?”
“No, nimrod.” Chase shakes his head. “His Little Brother, like that charity thing.”
“Where did you get a boat?” Tate demands, dealing out the river card. And there’s my flush.
“Weird Pete had one at the yard,” I tell him, watching everyone limp into the pot. “Some guy stopped paying rent a few months ago, so it’s been sitting around.”
“You do realize you don’t know anything about sailing, right?” Coop’s been paying attention, though, and he quietly folds.
“I watched a couple videos. Anyway, Riley can sail. How hard can it be?”
The regatta is an annual event in the bay. It’s a short course, the entrants a fairly even mix of tourists and locals sailing two-man crews on little boats. Some of the guys have competed for years, but this will be my first time. While I warned him we might be lucky to finish at all, Riley seemed stoked on the idea when I brought it up. I figured I ought to start relating to what he’s into if I’m going to take this Big Brother thing seriously.
“Welp,” Danny says with a self-assured grin. “Good luck with that.”
I win the pot with little trouble, the guys all looking at the table like they blacked out for the last ten minutes, uncertain how they let me run away with that one. Poker’s as much a game of misdirection as anything else.
“I hope Arlene can come out for the race.” It’s Cooper’s turn to deal. He tosses the cards at us while peering at me sideways. “I’m sure she’d hate to miss your big day.”
“Eat me.” My cards are trash. Best I can hope for is to pick up a flop pair.
Luke tucks his cards away like they tried to bite him. “Who’s Arlene?” he asks.
My brother grins broadly. “Evan’s got a stalker.”
“Jealous,” I answer.
Cooper continues, chuckling to himself. “Old lady from the nursing home got his number somehow and calls him at all hours. She’s smitten.”
“You should hit that.” Tate chucks his empty beer bottle in the garbage can and is rewarded with a glare from Cooper when we hear it shatter. “Old broads put out.”
“First, gross,” I say, stunned as I find myself with three of a kind when Cooper deals the flop. “Second, I’ve taken a new vow of abstinence.”
Wyatt snorts. “Come again?”
“Not anytime soon,” Cooper answers, swallowing a laugh. Child.
“You got the clap or something?” Danny gets some bright idea to steal this pot and splashes it with an overaggressive raise that says he’s working on a full house.
“No.” I roll my eyes. “Call it a spiritual cleanse.”
Tate coughs out a “horseshit” while folding.
“I say Evan doesn’t make it one week.” Danny throws a ten-dollar bill on the table. Dick.
“I’ll take that action,” Coop scoops up the bill, adding his own to it. “Anyone say five days?”
“I got five.” Tate slaps down his money.
“Wait, does the stranger count?” Wyatt makes a jerking motion in the air with his left hand.
“You offering?” I wink at him.
He flips up his middle finger, then places his ten-dollar bet that I won’t last forty-eight hours. My friends are supreme jackasses.
We keep playing. A few beers in now, everyone’s playing with one eye closed, fast and loose with their chips. Which is fine by me, as I take nearly three hands in a row.
“So Mac went to pick up Steph for brunch the other day,” Cooper says, contemplating his cards. “Said your car was outside in the same place it was parked the night before.” He aims the accusation at Tate. “What’s up with you and Alana?”
Tate shrugs while pretending to count his chips. “We hook up sometimes. It’s not serious. Just great sex.”
It’s been “not serious, great sex” for a while now. Long enough that some people might start mistaking habit for addiction. And addiction for commitment. Which is to say, if Tate’s not careful, he’ll find himself settling down whether he realizes it or not. It’s uncertain, at this point, whether he’s given any thought to the idea beyond the special kind of denial that is friends with benefits. Cooper found himself in a similar trap last year, which damn near split our crew right down the middle when it looked like him and Heidi were headed for war. Thankfully, they called a cease-fire before more damage was done.
Then again, there’s a lot to be said for great sex. Gen and I have great sex. Phenomenal, even. The kind of sex that makes a guy forget about promises and good behavior. But for the time being, good behavior is my creed. I made a commitment to Gen, and I want to show her I can be trusted to keep my dick in my pants. It’ll be worth it. Eventually. Or so I hope, anyway.
“Of course it’s not serious,” Wyatt says to Tate. “Alana’s just toying with you, bro. Like a lion playing with its dinner. She gets off on it.” I don’t miss the sharpness to his tone.
Neither does Tate. But rather than confront Wyatt about whatever bug crawled up his ass, Tate throws me under the bus instead. “If you wanna talk about chicks who get off on games, why don’t you ask Evan over here about him dirty dancing with your ex last night?”
Asshole. I shoot Tate a glare before turning to reassure Wyatt. “It was only dancing, minus the dirty. Ren’s just a friend, you know that.”
Luckily, Wyatt nods, unfazed. “Yeah, she’s been pulling out all the stops to get me back,” he admits. “I’m not surprised to hear she’s been flirting with my friends. She likes to make me jealous. Thinks it’ll drive me so crazy that I’ll get back with her.”
Cooper lifts a brow. “But you won’t?”
“Not this time,” Wyatt replies. He sounds dead serious, and that gives me pause. Wyatt and Lauren’s relationship had always followed a similar pattern to mine and Genevieve’s. Is he really out for good? His grim expression tells me yes, yes he is.
For a moment I entertain the idea of doing the same—extracting myself from this push-and-pull routine with Gen. Saying goodbye to her, for real.
Just the thought sends a hot knife of agony directly into my heart. Even my pulse speeds up.
Yeah …
Not happening.
CHAPTER 20
GENEVIEVE
“Okay, I’ve got one,” Harrison says as we walk past the crews rigging their boats. He’s been at this since he picked me up this morning. “Why do they put barcodes on the side of Norwegian ships?”
“Why?”
“So when they return to port, they can be Scandinavian.” He beams, so proud of his latest dad joke.
“You should be ashamed of yourself.” I don’t know where my life took a turn off the misspent youth, coming-of-age CW drama and wound up stranded inside a Hallmark movie, but this must be what blondes feel like every day.
This Sunday morning date is so wholesome it’s almost surreal. Harrison brought me out to the marina to watch the regatta. It’s a mild, clear, sunny day with a steady breeze—perfect sailing weather. I inhale the scents of ocean air and sugary confections from the carts set up along the boardwalk selling cotton candy and funnel cakes.