Brynn squeals, so I feel the need to add, “But only because he offered to arrange a music lesson, and Harper insisted I accept the favor, so don’t get any ideas.”
“We’ll see.” She grins, and there’s something about the way she swivels on the barstool, her legs swinging, that reminds me of when we were little girls.
We used to tease each other about our Hollywood crushes. She fangirled over Orlando Bloom whereas I pretended to daydream about Chad Michael Murray rather than admit the real object of my infatuation. And now that I know how she feels about friends pining over her brother, I’m glad I kept it a secret.
While we’re on the topic of Javier, I’m tempted to ask Ethan about Harper. They seemed to hit it off, although I’m not sure if they exchanged phone numbers. But if they did, do I really want to know?
Deciding to change the subject, I ask Brynn, “Are you ready for our art class today?”
“Do you mind if we reschedule?” Her tone is apologetic as she explains, “A coworker asked if I’d help him out at the office for a few hours. He’s stuck sorting piles of crumpled receipts for a client, and I feel bad for him.”
“Not at all. Next weekend is fine.” I sip my coffee, intrigued by her sudden fascination with the label on the maple syrup bottle.
I honestly don’t mind postponing. It’s a free, low commitment paint-in-the-park class being taught by art students every Saturday. And I can just as easily check it off my Christmas Commitments list next week. At the moment, I’m much more interested in the blush dappling Brynn’s cheeks.
“So, this coworker… does he have a name?” I prod.
“Of course he does.” She grabs her knife and fork and starts cutting her remaining pancake in an even grid. “Doesn’t everybody?”
“And would you care to share it?”
She shoves a forkful of pancake into her mouth, then mumbles, knowing full well we can’t understand a word she’s saying. I’d be annoyed, except I evaded her string of questions not five minutes earlier.
“Is it Oliver?” Ethan asks, scooping the last pancake onto his own plate.
Brynn gags on her massive mouthful and gulps her orange juice until she can breathe again.
“Who’s Oliver?” I ask. “And why does the name sound so familiar?”
“Because he’s the coworker Brynn’s always talking about. I think she’s into him,” Ethan says.
“I am not!” Brynn protests a little too adamantly.
“Then why does your face get all red whenever his name comes up?” Ethan brandishes his fork like a laser pointer, drawing attention to her heated complexion.
“It doesn’t.” She presses both hands to her flushed cheeks, but she’s not fooling anyone.
“I don’t know, Brynn,” I say with a teasing smile. “Ethan has a point. I think you might like this guy.”
“Well, you’re both wrong. And I have to get to work.” She slides off the stool with a huff.
“And see Oliver?” I playfully purse my lips into a kissy face.
Brynn rolls her eyes as she sets her plate in the sink, but her fair skin is flaming. “Aren’t you both adults?”
“Do I have to come down to your office and demand to know his intentions toward you?” Ethan asks, ignoring her rhetorical question.
“He doesn’t have any intentions. We’re just friends.” Brynn shrugs on her coat. “Unlike Javier, who’s made his intentions toward Quincyveryclear.”
That sufficiently silences us both, and she throws one end of her scarf over her shoulder with a triumphant flourish before gliding outside.
An uncomfortable silence permeates the kitchen, only disrupted by the background noises of Wilson and Whiskers roughhousing in the living room. And by roughhousing, I mean Wilson lies on his back and lets Whiskers pounce on him while he pretends to swat her away.
I flip open my laptop, then—purely for the sake of filling the void—say out loud, “Since we aren’t going to the art class until tomorrow, I guess I should finally settle on which language I want to learn. I’m wavering between French and Italian.”
“What about coding?”
“You mean like computer programing?” I ask. “I’ve never thought of coding as a language.”