“Had to throw in that Central Park location, huh?” He winks and takes a big bite of his salad.
I run my tongue over my teeth, counting to ten. “You know what we can talk about, Bram?”
His eyes light up, as if I’m about to tell him a deep and dark secret. “What?”
I level my gaze on him, not even blinking once as I say, “Let’s talk about why you lied to me.”
“Lied to you?” he asks so casually. “Tell me more about this.”
I have an incredibly strong urge to throttle him right now.
“Right before I got here, I got off the phone with Rath who told me I was right. This whole need for you to find love is a bet. So drop the act, Bram.”
With a tilt of his lips, he says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Bram, you either tell me the truth, or I send Linus the picture of you sleeping on a pile of feminine products, one hanging out of your nose from college, and ask him to spread it to your entire company, including investors.”
“You still have that picture?” This is Bram Scott. Of course I have that picture. For a moment just like this. I almost cackle. But, that’s not me.
“Marked it under my blackmail folder.”
He slowly shakes his head. “You are ruthless.”
I fold my arms over my chest and wait.
He lets out a long, heavy sigh and finally says, “Okay, fine, it was a bet I lost. But,” he adds before I can cut in, “I would have never have said yes to the bet if it wasn’t something I was serious about taking on if I lost.”
“Meaning?” I ask him, skeptically.
“Meaning even though I lost the bet, I want to be here.” And even though he jokes around ninety-nine percent of the time, right now, I know he’s telling the truth. It’s the way his eyebrows lower and fall softly over his eyes.
Damn it.
“Why now, why my program?”
He sets his half-eaten lunch on the coffee table and leans back on the couch, his gaze moving forward as he speaks. “A few months ago, I was out at High Nine with Roark, drinking, having a damn good time with some girls we met at the bar. It was a typical Friday night for me, but that night, I saw something that made my gut clench.”
Hating how invested I am already in his story, I ask, “What was it?”
“It was a couple sitting in a booth. A married couple. They were out on a date. I couldn’t keep my eyes off them, the way they laughed and teased each other. The way they snuck in glances, or touched, or hell, just made out in the booth. I realized in that moment, I wanted what they had. I want someone I can take out and know they’ll be coming home with me. I want someone I can joke around with, someone who will like me for who I am and not the type of suit I wear. Hell, I want someone I can text at night other than your brother.”
That makes me snort.
He brings his soulful eyes to mine, and they’re full of so much depth. Any woman would get lost in them if they stared for too long. Which is why I avoid long moments of looking into his eyes. “I want to find a partner in life, and when we made this bet, I knew if anyone could help me find that, it would be you.”
And just when I was trying to hate him, he says something like that. Damn him.
I let out a long sigh. “You’re annoying, you know that?”
“Why?” He pokes my shoulder playfully. “Because I made you feel something other than distaste for me?”
“Exactly.”
He lets out a full belly laugh. “Get ready, Jules, after all is said and done, you’re going to like me a lot more than you’re expecting to.”
Ha.
“Yeah, we’ll see about that, Romeo.”
Chapter Five
BRAM
I stare at the bible in front of me, thick, waiting.
The cool bottle of beer in my hand goes straight to my mouth. Another swig.
And another.
One more for good luck.
. . . and one more for courage.
Christ.
I flip open the first page and inwardly cringe, hating everything about my Friday night. Rath and Roark are at our favorite bar right now, High Nine, having the time of their lives as I sit here, low-calorie beer in hand—my housekeeper thinks it’s funny to buy this piss water—and Julia’s questionnaire in front of me, aka the bible . . . because it’s so damn thick. We’re talking three hundred questions.
Yes.
Three hundred fucking questions.
Why the hell wasn’t this done electronically? I have to fill out a bubble sheet with a goddamn No. 2 pencil. Guess who didn’t have pencils lying around his penthouse? This guy.
I had to make a special trip to the CVS around the corner to pick up some pencils. And fuck if I can’t go into CVS and not end up getting at least five other things that I don’t need.
Pencils.
Red Bull.
Chips Ahoy Chocolate Chip Cookies.
A deck of Knicks Basketball Cards.
A eucalyptus-mint candle.
And a Home and Garden magazine, because even though Rosemary buys me shitty beer, I still like to keep her happy by leaving around little presents for her like the magazines she likes. The housekeeper is the holder of all rich men’s secrets. Keep her pleased and your secrets are safe.
My secrets including when she caught me dancing in boxer briefs to Taylor Swift once, thrusting the air and belting my heart out. It’s a moment we don’t talk about, but a moment I know she’s keeps locked up in her toolbox, ready to use on a rainy day.
Candle lit—that motherfucker smells like a dream—cookies on a dainty plate because if anything, I’m classy, and pencil poised, I dive in.
Question number one. A gorilla steals your lunch but doesn’t punch you in the process. Instead, he stealthy sneaks it past you without you noticing. What do you do?
I blink a few times. What?
A gorilla?
That can’t be right.
I take a sip of my beer, set it down and bring the test into view while leaning back on my couch. Giving the question one more read through.
Hmm . . . yup, it’s asking me about a gorilla stealing my lunch.
Maybe the answers aren’t weird.
Answer A: Wave your hands in the air and scream.
Answer B: Cross your arms, sit on the ground, and pout.
Answer C: Stomp your foot three times, and scream, no.
Answer D: Drop to your knees, let your shoulders fall, and cry.
Is she fucking kidding me?
I read them over again, trying to find one that doesn’t make me look like a whiny baby, but there really isn’t a good option. This has to be a joke. There is no way she gave me the right test. Is this her way of getting back at me for the whole bet thing?
I’m not answering three hundred of these questions if they’re all like this.
Setting my pencil down, I pull my phone from my pocket and dial Julia’s number.
It rings three times before she picks up.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Jules.” I kick my feet up on my coffee table and get comfortable. “How’s your Friday night?”
“Busy.”
“Yeah? What are you doing? Wait, let me guess.” I tap my chin. “Watching reruns of Sex and the City while taking down a pint of maple walnut ice cream.”
“No, we’re not—”
“Hmm, okay. I was sure that would be the answer.”
“Bram—”
“Oh, do you have one of those facial mask things on your face? Are you exfoliating, Jules? Maybe taking a bubble bath with one of those bath bombs Rath meticulously picked out for you as a Christmas present? You know I helped him, right? So I can take credit for your smooth skin.”
“I’m not taking a bath. But—”
“Damn it, okay . . . I really think I have it this time. From the breathless tone in your voice, I’m going to guess you’re”—I smile to myself—“seconds away from solving a crossword puzzle
you’ve been working on for the last hour.”
Silence.
Bingo.
I throw my head back and laugh, joy rumbling through my chest.
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
She heavily sighs. “What do you want, Bram?”
Still chuckling, I say, “Shit, did I disrupt your concentration? I know how you are about your crosswords, Jules.” I do. Because Julia Westin’s far-too intelligent brain rarely rests. It’s one of the things I adore the most about her. She is not ashamed of her intellect. And she shouldn’t be, either.
“Can we just get on with this conversation so I can get back to what I was doing?”
“How many answers do you have left to figure out?”
I can practically feel her frustration seeping through the phone from her intense huff. After a few seconds, she finally says, “Five.”
“Five, damn, you’re so close. You must be on the edge of your seat. Do you have a celebratory cookie waiting for you?”
“You can either tell me what you want, Bram, or I’m hanging up.”
No mood to play around, noted.
“Don’t hang up. I need to talk to you.”
“I’m listening.”
I pick up the test again and study it. “These questions, are they real? Or is this some fake shit you gave me to fill out as a joke?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Jules,” I deadpan, “the first question is about a gorilla stealing my lunch.”
“And . . .”
“And how the hell am I supposed to answer this with a straight face? Or answer it at all? The answers I have to choose from are all shitty.”
“What do you mean?”
Is she high right now? She’s acting as if these questions are completely normal and valid. Other clients had to have questioned these. I can’t be the only one.
“I mean there is no way I would do any of these options if a gorilla stole my lunch. Where is answer E? Chases after gorilla like a badass and steals lunch back from the sneaky bastard.”
“There is no option E.”
“My point exactly. You can’t possibly form a dating profile from questions like this.”
“Are you telling me how to run my dating program, Bram?” Her voice is stern, and I know in this moment these questions are real, that she’s not fucking with me.
“No,” I answer quickly. “Just help me understand what a gorilla stealing my lunch has to do with who I want to date.”
“I don’t need you to understand. I need you to answer the questions. Now if that’s something you can’t do, then let me know now so we don’t waste our time going through this process.”
Did I ever mention she’s ruthless?
“Has anyone ever said you might want to work on your bedside manner?”
“I’m hanging up, Bram.”
“Wait,” I say before she can end the call.
“What?”
I bite my lip, holding back my smile. “If a gorilla stole your lunch, what would you do?”
“Bye, Bram.”
Click.
I chuckle and toss my phone on the cushion of the couch and reach to the coffee table for my bubble sheet and pencil.
Time to get to work.
* * *
Are you a history buff? Pick your favorite U.S. president.
John Hiney-Hole. Yolanda Mustard. Senior Weiner. Golden Sunny Rod.
Err . . . did Julia skip history class? Because I’m damn sure none of those names were presidents unless they were nicknames given by their parents.
I shoot Julia a quick text.
Bram: Jules, I’m concerned you know nothing about U.S. History.
She texts right back.
Julia: Just answer the damn question.
Bram: How? None of these people were presidents.
Julia: Isn’t that the point?
Bram: Uh . . . I have no idea what the point of this exam is.
Julia: Then you don’t know me at all.
Bram: Stop fucking with me, Jules. What the hell are these questions?
Julia: *Sighs* They’re personality questions. Each answer has a reason behind it.
Bram: What’s the reasoning?
Julia: That’s for me to know and for you to not worry about. Just pick the best answer in your mind.
Bram: This is trickery.
Julia: This is my dating program. You signed the contracts, deal with it.
Like I said . . . ruthless.
* * *
What color is orange?
Burnt. Rusted. Carrot. Tiny Teeth.
Tiny teeth? What the fuck is that? Uh, rusted?
Passion lives in your soul, hatred lives in _______?
Your liver. Your bladder. Your phalanges. Your kneecap.
If this were a SAT question, I would be in my living hell right now. I drag my hand over my face. Phalanges is a funny word, but hatred . . . it’s got to be bladder because a lot of people piss it.
Ha, take that, Julia.
Which one of these is NOT an Italian dish?
A Big Mac. Wanton Soup. Potato. Falafel.
Christ. All of these are the answer. Is she trying to frustrate her clients? Because let me start a slow clap. It’s fucking working.
If I have to choose, a Big Mac. It’s the only answer from a restaurant.
Describe the sport of baseball in two word.
Tiger Stripes. Dragon Breath. Mountain Peak. Third Nipple.
I drop the test to my lap, let out a long, heavy sigh and then pick it back up, checking out the answers again. This is so ridiculous.
Cleary baseball is described as third nipple by every red-blooded American who bleeds stars and stripes. Duh.
Cue giant eye-roll.
Would you ever consider having sex on the first date?
Okay. Mentally rubs hands together, here’s a question I know how to answer. I check out the options, looking for the one that means YES.
Six. Square. Purple. Apple.
Annnnd, I’m done. I toss the test on the coffee table and go to my fridge for another beer. Time to get drunk.
* * *
“Come in.” I motion with my hand to my open apartment. “Shots are on the counter. I’ve had four”—hiccup—“already.”
“Four? I can beat that,” Roark says, stepping into the apartment and going straight to the bar where he starts downing shots. The Irishman is living up to his heritage, as he likes to put it.
Rath steps into the apartment with two six-packs in hand and a bag dangling from his fingers. “Beer and Doritos, we’re set.”
“I have three wagyu rib-eyes with truffle butter on their way up from the kitchen. Should be here in—”
“Mr. Scott, your dinners.” A server walks to the open door wearing a three-piece suit with a trolley in front of him. “Shall I roll it to your usual spot?”
“That would be great. Thanks, man.” I pat the fella on the shoulder, not remembering his name even though he’s brought me many meals before. “Steve, is it?”
“Eric.” He smiles politely.
I slap my knee in disappointment. “Damn, so close.” I yank my wallet off the side table and pull out a one-hundred-dollar bill and hand it to Steve, I mean, Eric, as he walks out the door after dropping off our food. “You’re a good man, Eric.” I give him another pat on the shoulder and as I start to close the door, I say, “Make smart decisions.”
Door shut, I turn toward my friends who are already popping open beers and sitting at the dining room table, steaks in front of them, Doritos—three different flavors: Nacho Cheese, Cool Ranch, and Poppin’ Jalapeno—in giant bowls already being consumed.
Before taking my seat, I grab another beer, some cloth napkins, and the test—the main reason why we are gathering tonight.
Beer held out to my friends, I say, “Gentleman, thank you for coming to my rescue tonight.”
We clink beers as Roark says, “We knew it was bad when you said bring the trif
ecta,” aka, the three flavors of Doritos. Try eating one chip of each flavor at the same time—talk about a party in your mouth. In college, we survived off Doritos and we still do. Old habits never die.
We dig into our steaks, the meat slicing like melted butter. “It’s bad.” I turn to Rath and very seriously ask, “What’s wrong with your sister?”
His brow furrows, his defenses rising. “What the hell are you talking about?”
I plop a chuck of meat in my mouth and then set the test next to him. “Read question number thirty-six to the group please.”
Eyeing me for a second, he shakes his head in annoyance and picks up the test. “How well do you know your math? Please solve the following problem: What is two plus five?” Rath glances up at me. “Dude, it’s seven. What’s the problem?”
With my fork, I point to the answers to choose from below. “Read the answers.”
Rath turns back to the exam and clears his throat. “Answer A . . .” He pauses and brings the test closer for further examination.
“Study the words all you want, dude, the answers aren’t going to change.”
“Is seven not on there?” Roark asks, leaning over and trying to look at the test.
“It’s not.” Rath sets his fork down and rubs the back of his neck.
“Is it a typo? What are the answers to choose from?”
Perplexed and confused, Rath gives me a look, making a rumble of a laugh pop out of me. “The answers listed are Oprah Winfrey, Adolf Hitler, Lady Gaga, and Peter Pan.”
Silence falls over us as Roark pauses mid chew, his head tilted to the side. “What the fuck? Are you serious?”
To confirm, Rath turns the test toward Roark who snatches it out of Rath’s hands and starts examining it. Finally, “Dude, your sister is crazy. How is our lad here supposed to answer these questions? Like this one. Beyonce originally started her career with Destiny’s Child. Where did Michael Jordan start his career? A flower field, eating peanut butter, petting puppies, or making deviled eggs?” Roark sets the test down and digs into his steak. “That’s fucked up.”
“See,” I practically whine, thank you, shots. “What the hell am I supposed to do? There’s been one question where I’ve felt like I’ve used some sort of logic. One. The rest I’ve been guessing, and at this rate, Julia will match me with someone from the South who collects voodoo dolls and is looking for her next victim.”
The Secret to Dating Your Best Friend’s Sister Page 4
