Harper looks up, guilt laced in her eyes. “Nope.”
Sitting taller in my chair, I say, “Do you know something?”
“No,” she says way too quickly.
“You do know something.” I’m practically out of my seat now. “What do you know, Harper?”
“Nothing.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “And I would appreciate it if you didn’t interrogate me. I’m sensitive with all the wedding planning. The last thing I need is a little brother asking me questions. Now, can we please focus on the rehearsal dinner, the reason we’re here?”
I don’t believe her.
Not one bit.
She’s hiding something, and I’m bound and determined to figure it out.
“Fine, we can get on with the rehearsal dinner, but you’re not off the hook. I’ll be figuring out what you’re hiding from me.”
“Good luck,” Rogan says and pulls out a notebook from his back pocket. “Let’s get on with it.”
“What the hell, Ruth?” I say when I walk inside the Parlor and see the walls completely covered in the white paint we picked out yesterday. “I thought I was going to help you.”
She sets down a roller and wipes the back of her hand over her forehead, brushing away some loose hairs. “I got a jump start and then just thought I would do the whole thing. Wasn’t bad.”
“Did you prime?”
She gives me a get real look. “Of course I primed.”
“How on earth did you do it all without me?”
“I’m not incapable, Brig.”
“That’s obvious.” I sigh, looking over all her work. “I’m sad.”
“Sad?” she asks, brushing her hands off on her shorts, and that’s when I catch those denim shorts again. Although, her legs are more toned from our morning runs. “Why are you sad, Brig?” She goes over to the register countertop and pulls out a tray of sandwiches from underneath. “Don’t be sad when I have things for you to taste test.”
That’s one way to perk me up.
“Are you serious?” I ask, far too excited.
“Yeah, it’s why I got this done ahead of time. I wanted to surprise you, to spend the rest of the day going over samples of what I’ll be serving. Heard you’re a sucker for pastries.”
“Are you saying there’s more than just sandwiches hidden under the counter?”
“Possibly.” She eyes me playfully. “Are you still sad?”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “Not even a little. You can paint all you want. Give Daddy the goods.”
“Oh my God, please don’t ever call yourself that.” She chuckles and moves to the back room where she brings out two chairs and a folding table.
“What’s this?” I ask, watching as she creates a cute dining set for us. Not speaking a word, she moves back to the counter, pulls out a tablecloth and sets it on the table, followed by a bud vase with a single wildflower in it. Teacups, dainty plates, and a thermos are added to the table next. When she’s done, she looks at her display in appreciation and then back at me.
“Care to join me?”
“Fuck yeah.” I take a seat and try not to knock the table with my legs as I get comfortable.
She takes a seat as well, unveils the sandwiches and starts divvying them up.
After our run, I spent all morning helping my parents with some projects around the house while the boys took care of the garage. At this point, I don’t do much work there unless I want to. I expected to come to the Parlor and paint, not sit across from Ruth and taste test sandwiches, but I’ll tell you right now, I’m not mad about it.
“How do you have time to do it all?”
“Woke up early, did some things before our run.”
“So you’re trying to tell me you’re superwoman?”
“Maybe.” She smirks, glancing at me for a second so I can catch the smile in her eyes.
It’s endearing . . . charming.
There’s something about Ruth that I can’t quite figure out. Something . . . I like. Her naturally blonde hair looks silky soft, the cute slope in her nose highlights a light splattering of freckles under her eyes, and her lips . . . they’re, hell, they’re full and pouty but not on purpose. Just naturally pouty.
Do I . . . hell, do I find my friend attractive?
As she delivers tea to each of our cups, I scan her once again.
She does have great tits; I’ve stared at them enough to know that. Her smile captures me, makes me smile as well. And those eyes of hers. Call me an asshole, but I’ve always been into blue eyes. But brown, deep, sultry brown with thick black lashes, now there is a pair of eyes I could—
“Are you listening, Brig?”
“What? Yes. Tea.”
One of her eyebrows rises in question. She doesn’t even have to point it out anymore.
“I was admiring your freckles,” I say with a grin.
Caught off guard, probably not expecting that comment, her fingers run over her freckles as she says, “Oh . . . uh, thanks.”
“They suit you.”
“Well, haven’t heard that before. I used to get picked on for my freckles.”
I frown. “Who the hell picked on you?”
“Doesn’t matter. Let’s get to the sandwiches. Now, the circle one is—”
I place my hand on hers and ask again, “Who picked on you?”
“Brig, it was high school. It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does.” And then a sick feeling washes over me. “Fuck, was it me?”
“What?” Her eyes widen. “No. Is that . . . is that something you did?”
“No.” I shake my head quickly. “But I was also an idiot back then, still kind of am.”
“It wasn’t you.”
“Was it one of my brothers?”
“Brig, let’s drop it, okay? Let’s just focus on the sandwiches.”
I sit back in my chair and fold my arms across my chest. “Which brother was it? I will slap their balls so hard—”
“It was Tracker,” she says, exasperated.
“My friend, Tracker?”
“Are there more Trackers here in Port Snow?”
“Right.” I take out my phone from my pocket and start typing out a text.
“What are you doing?” she asks in a panic.
“Making things right.”
“No. No need to do that.” I don’t listen to her and continue to type. “Brig, I’m serious.” Still typing. “Brig.” She gets up from her chair and comes over to my side, making a swipe for my phone. Just in time, I move it out of her reach, but she doesn’t stop. She puts one hand on my shoulder and propels herself forward to reach for the phone, only to tip us both backward in the chair. My legs fly up, hit the table in front of me, scattering the delicious food and charming place settings to the ground.
Glass breaks.
The thermos clatters to the floor.
Sandwiches split open.
It’s an utter disaster.
Ruth lands on top of me, her soft breasts landing on my face.
And then she pauses.
The only remaining sound is a tray swirling closer and closer to the floor until it finally falls flat.