Three's A Crowd: A Best Friend's Older Brother Rom Com (Love in Apartment #3B Book 2)

by Everly Ashton

  Three’s A Crowd

  Everly Ashton

  Copyright © 2021 by Everly Ashton

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Epilogue

  Deep Thoughts

  About the Author

  Also by Everly Ashton

  One

  Fiona

  Washing amniotic fluid off my hands is not how I saw my day ending. Mostly because I work at a homeless shelter, not an OB/GYN office.

  I run the day program—performing outreach on the streets, making sure lunch is served to those in need, and doing anything else that needs done. Oftentimes I’ll stick around to help our night manager, Jerica, with the dinner service. Which is what put me in the situation I’m in now.

  Very few women use our services since they can eat meals here but only men can stay overnight, so when Angela started coming in about a month ago for meals, I thought nothing of the many layers she wore. She was quiet and didn’t cause any trouble.

  Then today, I’d just served her a plate of food when she cried out, “My water!”

  Stupid me thought she’d dropped her drink, so I rushed over with a paper towel and proceeded to soak up what I thought was just water. It wasn’t until the slightly sweet scent hit my nose that I questioned whether it was actually water from her cup soaking into the paper towel.

  Spoiler alert: it wasn’t water. Well, it was, but it was her water. Turns out Angela is pregnant, and her water broke in the middle of dinner service.

  I reassured her everything would be okay, then I calmly asked Greg, one of the volunteers, to drive her to the hospital.

  And so here I am, scrubbing my hands three times over to make sure they’re clean. I wonder if I need to worry about getting a disease from this? I’ll have to ask Jemma’s boyfriend, Ollie.

  I sit on my chair in my office—the fabric worn thin—and exhale. It’s been a long day. More often than not, it’s a long day here, but I wouldn’t change it for anything. When I reflect on all the people we fed and helped today, I know I’m adding to the sum total of good in the world. That fact puts me at ease. God knows people like my father only hurt humanity.

  I make a quick call to the women’s shelter to inform them about Angela, knowing that social services will intervene. Maybe they’ll give Angela some assistance to get her life back on track and give her and her child a fighting chance to stay together.

  I lean back in my chair and close my eyes, using the deep breathing exercises I usually do during meditation to relax my body and release my anxiety.

  The door of the small office opens and Jerica pokes her head in. “That was enough excitement for tonight, huh?”

  I peek one eye open. “Says you. I didn’t see you elbow deep in amniotic fluid.”

  She chuckles and leans against the door frame, her jet-black hair pulled back into a ponytail and covered in a hairnet. Which reminds me, I’m still wearing mine. I pull it off my head, and my shoulder-length blonde hair falls around my face when I lean to the side of the desk to toss it in the garbage can.

  “Somebody had to keep feeding everyone,” she says, a sheepish smile tipping the corners of her lips.

  “True enough.” I stand from the chair. “You good if I go then? I have to make a couple stops on the way home.”

  “Ohhh, is one of those stops at The Grocer’s Mart? Say hi to Adam for me.”

  I roll my eyes while I unlock the desk drawer to grab my purse. “Please.”

  “Please nothing. You can deny it all you want, but he’s into you. Why else would he deliver the food here sometimes rather than making you pick it up?”

  “Maybe he’s just a nice guy?” I stick out my tongue.

  She pushes off the door frame. “No one is that nice. At least not to homeless shelters.”

  She’s not wrong. We beg, borrow, and beg again for most of our funds to keep this place running. The government kicks in with various grants, but it’s not nearly enough. Our director, Sheila, is always schmoozing someone or other.

  “Touché.” Looking to change the topic, I ask, “How are the numbers looking for tonight?”

  Her lips tip down, giving me the answer. “I think we’re going to have about twenty to twenty-five percent vacancy tonight.”

  My shoulders sag. “We need to find a way to convince more people to use our overnight services. They’re staying on the streets and that worries me.”

  “Me too.”

  “I guess that’s a problem for another day though. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon when you get in. Call me if you need me tonight.”

  “Um, no. You’ve done enough for one day. Go enjoy your own life.”

  What life? With my crossbody bag secured over my shoulder, I give her a small wave and head out of the office.

  “Remember to tell Adam I said hi!” she yells.

  Without looking behind me, I raise my hand over my head and give her the finger. Her laugh rings out down the hallway.

  My first stop on the way home is at the natural health food store to grab a few things, then I head over to The Grocer’s Mart. Adam and I have our system down to a science by now, so I pull up to the back of the building and ring the bell by the door—two long presses of the button then two short ones so he knows it’s me.

  A minute later, the roll-up door opens and reveals Adam and a wide smile.

  I’ll admit he’s cute. He’s probably a year or two older than my twenty-seven, with blond hair, green eyes, and a thin build. But I don’t know… I can’t get past our mild flirting and give him the signs that I want to take it to the next level.

  I’m not completely messed up though. I know exactly why I’m this way. After watching my dad pull the wool over all our eyes for so many years, I find it hard to let anyone in. At least I’m self-aware. Bonus points for me.

  “Hey, blondie, how you doin’ today?” Adam picks up a box of produce at his feet.

  I smile and walk toward my vehicle to open the back. “Had a bit of excitement at the shelter today. A woman’s water broke and we had to rush her to the hospital.”

&nbs
p; His eyebrows shoot up. “Wow. You had a more interesting day than I did. I had to listen to my dad drone on about employee retention and training.”

  I laugh and unlock my Caravan. Yes, Caravan. It may be old, rusting, and probably one too many parts are held together by duct tape, but it runs. The fact that it’s a minivan allows me to pick up stuff for the shelter, so it works.

  “Go easy on your dad. I owe him for all the help you guys give us with the shelter.”

  Adam’s dad, David, donates products that are nearing expiration to the shelter. It saves on our food budget and makes for an interesting discussion every morning when we figure out what we’re going to make with cottage cheese, green peppers, and milk.

  “How about you sit in on one of his meetings and we’ll see if you still think that?”

  “I think I’ll pass.” Adam turns to grab another box, so I say, “Let me help you with those.”

  We each carry a box to the van and place it in the back.

  “That’s it for today. You’ve got some produce, yogurt, and baked goods in there.”

  I pull down the back door of the van, cringing at the whine of the nuts and bolts as I slam it shut. Hopefully it stays together, and I don’t need another roll of duct tape. “Thanks so much, Adam. You guys are really making a difference. Everyone at the shelter appreciates your donations.”

  “Happy to help.” He shoves his hands in his pocket and rocks back on his heels.

  We look at each other in the dark alley, a dim light hung above the back door our only source of light. For a moment, I worry he’s going to bite the bullet and ask me out.

  I break up the awkwardness. “Okay, well, I better get going. One of my roommates is moving out in a couple days and we have big plans to order takeout, drink too much, and watch bad reality TV all night.”

  He chuckles. “Sounds like fun. I’ll text you and let you know if there’s anything for pick up tomorrow.”

  “Perfect, thanks.” I walk to the driver’s side door of the van, slide in, and start the engine.

  With a wave out the window, I drive off and head home to see my girls. A sadness washes over me that Jemma is moving in with her boyfriend. It’s like the end of an era with her moving out of our little apartment 3B.

  Two

  Fiona

  “I can’t believe this is our last time.” Marlowe tilts back her wineglass and drinks a big gulp.

  “We’ll still do this. I’ll just have to come over, that’s all,” Jemma says.

  “Yeah, but there will be no more impromptu girls’ nights with all three of us.” I frown.

  I’m ecstatic that my friend has found the man of her dreams and is going to be marrying him, but I’m a little melancholy at her leaving. Her coming over here sounds easy enough, but it isn’t the same. All three of us know it.

  Jemma reaches over the couch cushion between us and squeezes my knee. “You’ll still see me lots. Promise.”

  “We’re going to hold you to that.” I give her a hug, almost dumping her wine glass.

  She giggles.

  “I think dinner must be done warming in the oven. I’m going to go check,” Marlowe says, retreating into the kitchen.

  “What did you pick up?” I ask.

  “I stopped by Keane’s work and forced him to make a special meal. I even roped him into cooking a vegan dish for you.”

  Jemma’s and my eyes widen. I’m shocked. Keane hates me. I wonder what Marlowe promised to her brother in order for him to make me dinner. Then again, I wouldn’t put it past him to take the opportunity to spit in it or something.

  Jemma and I chat, sipping our wine while Marlowe bangs around in the kitchen. After a few minutes, she reappears with pizza on plates. She sets one on the coffee table and passes the other to Jemma.

  Jemma squeals. “Oh, is this that pizza thing he made for us that one time?”

  I glance at her wiggling in her seat like an overzealous child about to blow out their birthday cake candles.

  “Sure is.” Marlowe smiles bright and looks at me. “Do you want yours on a plate or just in the takeout container?”

  “The container is fine. One less dish to wash.”

  “Okay, coming right up.” She leaves the room again. When she returns, she passes me a white Styrofoam takeout box and some cutlery.

  “What did he make you?” Jemma asks, peeking over to inspect.

  I lift the lid. There’s a note written in black maker on the inside flap of the container.

  You eat like a rabbit – K.

  Ugh. What a dick.

  I glance at what’s inside and sigh. “It’s a salad. Are you sure your brother is actually a chef?”

  Why does everyone think vegans all survive on salad?

  “Be nice,” Marlowe says.

  I turn pieces of lettuce over with my fork, inspecting what he gave me. Seems to bear no evidence of tampering. My stomach grumbles, so I pick up the small container of salad dressing and pour it over the salad, using my fork to move it around so it covers the entire contents.

  “Oh God, this is delicious. I could orgasm right here,” Marlowe says.

  “Ew, that’s like having an orgasm as a by-product of your brother,” I say.

  Jemma bursts out laughing, almost spitting her food out of her mouth. She high fives me for the burn.

  “That’s so gross, Fi.” Marlowe screws her face up, taking another bite.

  I spear a section of my salad with my fork and bring it to my mouth. The flavor of the dressing hits my tongue and I resist making the same noise Marlowe did. This is good. Really good, in fact. But hell will freeze over before I ever admit it, especially to Keane.

  “How’s your salad?” Jemma asks.

  I shrug. “It’s okay.”

  Marlowe rolls her eyes. Sometimes I think she finds it cute how much her brother and I get on one another’s nerves.

  We all wolf down our meals, and Marlowe pours us each another large glass of wine.

  “Tell me why we’re doing this on a Thursday instead of tomorrow night?” I ask.

  “Because I don’t want to be hungover when I move,” Jemma says with a giggle and sips her wine.

  “You’d rather be hungover with a bunch of third graders?” I laugh.

  “Precisely.” She nods, the movement a little exaggerated given the amount of wine she’s had.

  I already feel the wine going to my head. I’ve always been a cheap drunk. Though I did appreciate it in my college days. It was easy on my wallet.

  “Also, I have a date tomorrow night,” Marlowe says.

  “You always have a date on Friday night,” I say.

  She glances over with a scolding look. “That’s because I’m open to love.”

  “Yeah, how’s that working for you?” I say.

  All three of us laugh because it’s a running joke. Marlowe always ends up going on dates with guys who look good on paper but end up being a disaster in person.

  After she’s done laughing, Marlowe waves me off. “Even so, at least I’m trying.” She narrows her eyes at me.

  I roll mine in return.

  While I appreciate the gusto with which Marlowe tries to hunt down her one true love, I can’t imagine being like that myself. I’m down to sleep with a guy, but once feelings develop, it’s like a siren shouts in my brain, “Abort, abort, abort!”

  I’m not exactly Julia Roberts in The Runaway Bride, but I am a runner.

  “I’ll get around to it. Right now I’m—”

  “Busy trying to save the world,” Marlowe cuts me off.

  “She kinda has a point,” Jemma says.

  I groan. “Not you too.”

  “Well, when is the last time you dated anyone for any length of time?” Jemma asks.

  I don’t bother answering because we’re all well aware it was many years ago. And even then, it wasn’t serious.

  “Can we not do this right now? I had a hell of a day,” I say, launching into the story about Angela’s water breaking
in the middle of dinner service. It’s the perfect distraction from my non-existent love life.

  Three

  Keane

  “That was one hell of a rush.” Billy, my sous-chef, leans against the counter, his shoulders sagging.

  “You handled it well though.” I wipe the arm of my shirt over my forehead. By the end of the dinner service, it’s hot as hell in the kitchen.

  Friday nights are always crazy at Chez Jacques, our city’s premiere French restaurant. Billy hasn’t worked in this kitchen very long, but he’s a fast learner. As head chef, it’s my job to nurture him into fulfilling his potential, just as Rod did for me all those years ago. I shudder to think of where I might be if he hadn’t seen something in me and encouraged me to expand my talents in the kitchen.

  The door from the kitchen to the dining room opens and Annabelle walks through. Our hostess has long shapely legs, a trim waist, and dark hair that curls down her back. Her hips have a way of swaying when she walks that makes it hard not to watch her in a trace-like state. As much as I might hate to admit it, her physical assets help keep irate diners calm when they have to wait for a table.

  “Here comes your admirer,” Billy whispers.

  I ignore him and continue packing up the food we’ll use tomorrow to store in the walk-in freezer.

  “Hey, Keane. How’s it going?” She leans her hip against the side of my station, leaving minimal distance between us. It’s like she’s never heard of personal space. It doesn’t help that she wears too much perfume.