“Thought so.”
I laugh despite myself. “You know what? For a bony white girl, you have?”
“Baws?”
“I wasn’t going to say all of that. But yeah, I suppose so.”
“Why not forgive the laddie? I’ve a strong will. Ya do too. Did ye ever consider perhaps, Brody’s change of heart was out of his hands?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I mumble.
“What if we—”
Hoisting Mia on her hip, Chevelle strides back into the kitchen. “Erika, you ready? Mia’s ready to spend the night with her pawpaw and Nan.”
“Why does Mia call Nan, Nan? That’s her name, right?”
“Nan’s a nickname for an older woman, not gran or granny,” Erika says.
“Mia found it easier to say Nan,” Chevelle says.
“Also, Nan’s been old, like forever.” Erika laughs. “Please don’t tell Nan I said that. But a trillion people call her that.”
I start picking up the pens and placing the highlighters away.
“Justice, can you stay?” Chevelle asks. “I have dinner arriving soon. Le Fleur, I spent a fortune.”
I shrug a shoulder. “I parked down the street to get some exercise. I’ll drive up and help Er—”
“Girl, no. Leith can help Erika in and out of the car—”
“The feck he does . . . Och. He does.” Erika clears her throat, lifts her beer, and giggles.
“Ummm.” My eyes shift between the two of them. I smell a rat. “Last week, after bar hopping, you practically chewed us out for helping you. Besides, Chevelle, why order an expensive French dinner and leave?”
“I’m an angry drunk. Ye are the bartenders, ya know.” Erika starts wheeling out of the room.
Okay, first question answered, sort of. I glance at my best friend, who disappears into the pantry. “Chevelle, why would you order dinner and then—”
“I’m overwhelmed, okay?” Chevelle grabs the cereal box from the pantry and struts out of the kitchen with Mia still riding her hip. “I forgot about Mia’s sleepover.”
“Put the child down. She has feet!” I call after Chevelle, still perplexed by it all. I glance down at my hand, and I’m still tight fisting a highlighter. “What if I had plans tonight?” I murmur, meandering around the lengthy island to place the receipts for the restaurant décor into an accordion folder. A while later, I’m wiping down the marble counters when it dawns on me.
Sistah girl sold me out!
Cue background music, or in this case, the ringing doorbell.
“This better be overpriced French cuisine.” I stroll past the new piano in the living room and to the front door. I grip both knobs, silently sending off a prayer that my friend’s mysterious demeanor was a result of fatigue and not on behalf of Brody MacKenzie.
As the doors whisk open, I drink in dreamy blue eyes. My eyes drop to a beard that has tickled the most delicate parts of my body and arms that I still reminisce on during my withdrawals. He’s dressed in jeans, and a thermal stretches across his incredibly beefy body. Dammit. I got played.