As if he senses the awkward pause, he clears his throat. “You are a lot of things, Cristin. Tedious isn’t one of them.”
That was nice to hear. “Thanks.”
“So, when’s the next date?”
“With Clark?” I ask, mildly alarmed. His answer pleases me.
“Hell no.” He gestures with his empty fork. “I mean the next date from your app.”
The his girl comment was clearly a throwaway if he’s so eager to share me with someone else. I try not to let the idea irk me. “Oh I don’t know, maybe in another two years or so.” I offer a demure smile before eating another bite of my delicious dinner.
“You can’t let this stop you. Also, did you say his name was Clark? No wonder he was a dud.”
“Clark Kent wasn’t a dud. He was secretly Superman.”
“Wrong. Superman was secretly Clark Kent.”
“I don’t know how you can pick on anyone’s name, Benji. You are named after a dog.”
He lets out a big, appreciative laugh. The lightness I’m feeling makes tonight’s debacle worth the trouble.
“What I’m saying,” he goes on, “is you can’t give up because some moron says dating is tedious. Plus, you have me. I can give you a few more pointers for your next one—”
“Don’t you dare. I don’t need any more of your input beforehand. It made me a nervous wreck.”
“After, then. We’ll do a postmortem on your next few Friday nights. You can come here after your date and give me the play-by-play.”
“And then what?”
“I’ll tell you if or when you can improve, though most likely I’ll point out why the guys you’re choosing aren’t worth your time. Other than me picking your dates for you, that’s the best way for me to help.”
“You are not picking my dates for me,” I tell him sternly.
Hands up, he declares his innocence. “Understood.”
Benji
Well. That was quite the suggestion.
And not one I planned on making. I hate the idea of her believing she’s not worthy of choosing where to eat, or worthy of having dinner with someone decent—a complete dinner. Including dessert. Instead she had to settle for half of my carryout.
A dating app, though? Could there be a worse way to meet someone? I bet I could find five better candidates with my eyes closed. Not that I would dare set her up. I would be too picky. Nobody is good enough for Cris.
“You’re serious?” she asks, sounding both curious and interested. “About the postmortem thing?”
“Absolutely,” I answer, as far from absolute as can be. “I’m your best friend. That’s my job.” Technically, it’s true. My job as her best friend is to be there for her. She didn’t ask me to be her wingman, but I refuse to let her fly solo. She hasn’t dated in years. I date like it’s a sport and I’m preparing for the championship. Reason being, I’m not the marrying type. Companionship must be found in spurts.
I understand why it’s been a long time since she’s gone on a date. Between work and home, she doesn’t have a lot of free time. Hell, I take up a lot of it by asking her to attend various functions with me after-hours. Awards dinners, company hobnobbing, etcetera. For years, her excess free time was spent taking care of her brothers. Whether they lived with her or not, when one of them needed her, she answered the call. Always. Cris is reliable to a fault.
“As your life assistant coach, that’s technically my job.” She flutters her lashes. She looks cute when she does that. I mean, she looks cute when she does anything, but especially cute when she’s trying to look cute.
“Fine. You can charge me.” Before she can argue, which she is poised to do, I add, “If you make it through dinner with your date we’ll have a nightcap. If you don’t, I’ll have carryout at the ready.”
She blows out a sigh that sounds more like capitulation than refusal. “Why?”
“Why?”
“Yeah. Why not let me do this myself?”
Because she’s tender and vulnerable. Because the idea of one of the guys she dates insulting her or manhandling her makes me want to howl. Because I want her to have a safe refuge in case she’s angry or sad, or if she’s happy. All of that sounds too mushy so I answer, “Because I’m a pro.”
“You know what? I don’t have the strength to argue with you.” She lifts her glass. “I have just enough strength to finish this delicious dinner and wine. And then we’ll talk strategy.”
She lifts her glass and I clink mine against hers, but my “cheers” doesn’t feel celebratory. I tell myself I’m doing what any good friend would do, but I’m not sure a “good friend” would root against her.
Like I said, no one is good enough for Cris.
Chapter Four
Cris
Date numero dos happened the following Friday, aka tonight, at Benji’s urging for me to “get back out there.” He insisted a delay would make me more skittish. I figured since I was as skittish as a rabbit who’d encountered a cat in the carrot bed on my date last week—and ran away like one—he had a valid point.
“I can’t even call it a date,” I comment, half humiliated and half relieved. I’m at Benji’s, bellied up to the kitchen counter, my shoes tossed onto the floor, and a margarita glass in my hand. I lick the salted rim and take a tart, cold drink as he portions out shredded-chicken enchiladas, smothered with the amazing white cheese sauce the local Mexican place is known for, onto our plates. He sets foil containers filled with Spanish rice and refried beans between us so we can serve ourselves. Before he takes his seat next to me, he tops off our margaritas and tears open the paper bag of tortilla chips for easy access.
“Maybe I’m cursed,” I say as I scoop rice onto my plate.
“You’re not cursed.” He takes the rice and trades me for the beans.
“He texted me twice to say he was on his way. Twice!” I point to him with the spoon and then set the container aside. “Did you order guacamole?”
“What am I, an animal?” he asks rhetorically before handing me a small Styrofoam container loaded with rich, yummy green guacamole. “Extra spicy.”
I almost blurt “I love you” to express my appreciation for the guac, but I bite my tongue, suddenly feeling awkward.
I cut a corner off a steaming enchilada. “I don’t know why he texted me twice and didn’t bother showing up. Unless he was in an accident.” A scenario flits through my head but I promptly dismiss it. I have that bad habit with my brothers too, but they’ve earned my worry. This jerkwad is not going to raise my cortisol levels.
Benji halts my fork’s incline. “What are you doing?”
“Eating?”
“If you put that into your mouth without salsa, I’ll have to report you.”
Properly corrected, I lower my fork and wait while he dollops fresh tomatillo salsa on top. “I was remiss,” I say after I swallow the bite. I wash it down with my drink. “This is a good margarita.”
“I can’t cook but Archer taught me how to mix a cocktail. Or was it Nate?” He regards the ceiling for a second before giving up. “I don’t know. One of them.”
At the mention of the Owen brothers, I smile. The Owens have been good to me. I’m lucky to have piggybacked onto a family with healthy parental units. I didn’t have great examples growing up, what with my mom gallivanting off with a revolving door of deadbeat husbands.
To be fair, Dennis’s dad was a great guy. When Mom moved to Vegas, Dennis was nine years old. His dad had died at work the year prior. Heart attack. I always thought, had he lived, Larry Brunswick would have supported his son when Mom didn’t. He was very involved in Dennis’s life.
Manuel, my oldest brother, has a father who isn’t a deadbeat but definitely isn’t involved in a personal sense. Jake L. Rivera is a criminal defense lawyer. An incredibly successful one. He’s sent money over the years, and he paid for Manuel’s college, but beyond that he doesn’t believe he has parental duties. Now that Manuel has graduated with a bachelor’s deg
ree in business and has opted to pursue his master’s, attorney Jake L. Rivera can’t be bothered with paying for more school.
Timothy is my youngest brother and might be the most brilliant. His father, Clay, lived with us until Timothy was born. One day he went out for cigarettes and never came back. Timothy doesn’t remember his father, which is probably for the best. Almost one hundred percent of his four-year college plan has been paid for by scholarships. He’s taken two quarters so far. He’s always been easygoing and rarely caused problems, which might explain why I didn’t lose my mind trying to raise him alongside my other two (more headstrong) brothers.
My own father’s identity is a mystery. Mom described him as the “most attractive man on the planet.” After he knocked her up, he left and she never saw him again. Sometimes I wonder if he was the one who drove my mom to marry and marry and marry again, as if searching for that kind of elusive first love.
Initially, when I was an intern at Owen Construction and working directly under Benji’s dad, William, I tried to manage both school and work. Something had to give. And since my quest was to raise three strong men to be good fathers and decent humans, I dropped out of school and kept what became a well-paying job.
I don’t think William or Lainey or the other Owens knew how much child-rearing I was doing back then. I didn’t share a lot of details. I worried if they found out how distracted I was at home, they’d never hire me on. I was desperate to stay at Owen Construction. I couldn’t think of any echelons higher than working for the Owen family. They’re well-known, their reputations and good works preceding them.
I didn’t expect sympathy back then—didn’t want it either. I was grateful to have a job (my internship quickly turned into a paid position), and when Benji hired me I was thrilled to have a pay raise and move to a more casual work environment—Benji’s awesome house.
Which is probably why lounging at his breakfast bar and chatting over enchiladas feels like a natural part of my day.
“Well, it’s very good,” I comment about the margarita.
“I’m sorry, Cris.” Benji, suddenly sincere, places his hand on my knee. It isn’t a sexual touch or an inappropriate one. It should be bland at worst, friendly at best. So why do I feel electricity shoot from his fingertips, up my thighs, and straight to my—
I fake a cough, moving my leg out from under his hand. He hops up to pour me a glass of water. I wave him off and take a gulp of my margarita instead. “I’m fine. Honest. And why are you sorry?”
He takes his seat and regards me like I’m daft, or suffering from short-term memory loss. “Because you were stood up.”
“Oh, that.” I momentarily forgot why I was here. I’d rather be here than out with that A-hole anyway.
“His loss.”
I offer my best friend a warm smile. He’s sweet.
“Give me your phone.” He holds out a palm.
“No.” I’m already suspicious of his motives. “Why?”
“I’ll set up your next date. I can’t bear to watch you go through this again. Maybe I can offer some insight. I am a guy, you know.”
“You are a guy,” I agree, mentally adding a few adjectives. Hot. Gorgeous. Funny. Intelligent. Good with his hands… I mean because he woodworks as a hobby, not that he—never mind.
“Show me the candidates.” He claps once. “Let’s do this.”
“Hard pass, boss. I’m not letting you choose.” I’m embarrassed about not being able to make it through a dinner. Tonight I didn’t even make it to a dinner. The last thing I need is Benji going through the candidates on the app and pointing out how small their hands are.
His turn to give me a bland blink. “Cris, it’s eight thirty at night. I am not your boss right now.”
“Don’t play the best-friend card. I wouldn’t let any of my friends choose my date.” I fold my arms over my chest in challenge.
“Is your phone in your purse?” He’s already off the stool and rounding the couch where my purse is sitting. Unattended. Rather than dig through my personal items, he plunks the bag onto my lap. “Do you need a shot of tequila to bolster your courage?”
“If I have a shot of tequila, I’ll have to sleep on your couch.” I swear I see a flash of heat…or something…in his eyes. It banks instantly when he smiles, making me wonder if I imagined it.
“No tequila. Got it.” He holds out his hand. “Phone.”
I fish my phone from my purse. I do not hand it to him. “Here’s the deal. You see only the screens I want you to see. And you can have a vote, but not the final say.”
“Deal.” He holds up a finger. “But you have to set the date for this weekend, and you have to insist on picking the restaurant. Also, if there’s a picture of his hands I want to see it.”
I burst out laughing. I knew it.
Half an hour and more laughter later, both plates of enchiladas have been annihilated and we’ve combed through the database on the app. We’ve narrowed my options down to two men. Benji approves of neither but admitted they were as good as we were going to find on the “stupid app.” He maintains this is a compliment to me rather than an insult. I remind him I know whose side he’s on.
Mine. Always. That’s how he became my best friend, after all.
“Should we flip a coin?” he asks.
“No. I choose Dennis. Except he shares a name with my brother, which is a little disturbing.”
“Agreed. What about the other guy? What’s-his-name.”
“Rick.”
He makes a face. “If you must. Make sure he’s available this weekend. Do you need help drafting your message?”
I whip my head around. “I’m insulted. Do you know how many emails I draft on any given day? I am capable of texting coherently.”
He holds up his hands in surrender. I type in a message to Rick, telling him I’m available on Saturday. I look up to ask Benji if I should suggest Italian food, but he’s staring forlornly at his margarita glass, so I don’t.
“Done,” I say after I hit send.
“Which restaurant did you pick?” His smile appears a touch disingenuous, but it is going on eleven o’clock, so maybe he’s just tired.
“Piccoly’s.”
“Italian. Nice choice.”
“Hey, if I’m lucky I’ll get to eat there.”
His laugh is forced. I assume I’ve overstayed my welcome.
“I’m going to go. Thank you for the recap dinner.”
“Sure you don’t want to practice not blurting out how green you are at this whole dating thing before you go?”
“Absolutely not.” I shoulder my purse. “If I practice I’ll sound like I practiced. I want to be genuine and see what happens.”
“Well, we have all week.” Again with the dark, contemplative look. It’s so foreign parked on his face I don’t know how to react. He’s typically a happy person. I’ve always found it remarkable how a kid could lose both his parents and come out the other side as optimistic and pleasant as he did.
Dennis lost his parents too—though our mother is very much alive, “lost” seems an apt descriptor—and we had him in and out of school psychologists for years. Thank God I had power of attorney and no one looked too deeply into our home life. I wonder if Benji went through a dark period when he was a teenager. I never asked. It seems like I should have asked sooner since I’ve known him for ten years. We only became close recently, so now it’s like I can’t ask. We talk about current events and physical fitness. We talk about work. Talking about my dating status and how to proceed is new. And weird.
He opens the front door and I step over the threshold, turning to say goodnight. He leans one hand on the door over his head and props his other hand on his hip. His hair is stylish and messy. His eyes are tired in a good way—the way that makes me imagine snuggling against him on the couch and listening to jazz while sipping a glass of wine. Then retiring to bed for a little fun…
I stop short of imagining more, lest I have to go home and
have fun without him. It’s never as satisfying as I hope, and I usually feel guilty for objectifying him afterward.
“Night, Cris,” he says, looking tall and strong and delicious and perfect.
“Night.” I turn and walk to my car, waving one last time. He waves too, and then shuts the door.
Chapter Five
Benji
I’m carrying a bag filled with sushi rolls, hand rolls, fried rice, garlicky green beans, and various other foodstuffs from a sushi restaurant in Grand Marin. I could’ve ordered pizza, but in the event Cris’s date doesn’t work out—a high probability at this point—I want to be ready with a meal that will knock her socks off.
On my way out, I cut over to the corner where the management office is located, when I see a beautiful brunette in expensive shoes step outside. She slides her sunglasses onto her nose and rests one manicured hand on the arm of a good-looking son of a bitch with a crooked nose.
She sees me approach before he does and waves.
“How’s my favorite almost-sister-in-law?” I call to Vivian as I cross the street.
Nate dips his chin in greeting before admiring his fiancée unabashedly.
“Charmer.” She grins. She’s not wrong.
Since my brother met her, he’s been over the moon and not the least bit shy about admitting it. The cliché that the bigger they are, the harder they fall is true in his case.
“Eating for two?” He nods at the bulging bag of takeout in my right hand.
“I have extra in case Cris shows up hungry tonight. We’ve, ah, been working late nights.”
“Uh-huh.” His eyelids are at half-mast, his mouth a knowing tilt. “Vivian said she’s dating and it’s not going well.”
“Nate!” she admonishes. “That’s proprietary!”
Charmed by the Billionaire Page 3
