Page 22 of Fake Shot
“Is it a problem ... you going alone?” I ask, taking half a step closer so I’m standing right next to her.
“No. He just makes me a little uncomfortable.”
My chin tilts down as I look at her, trying to force her to make eye contact so I can get a sense of what she’s feeling, but she doesn’t look up. “And why are you meeting with him on a Saturday night?” I ask again. Most men I know don’t take a woman out on a Saturday night because they want to talk business.
She sweeps her hand through the air. “Something about traveling for work, and this was the first available time when he was back in town.”
“Sounds like a date to me.”
“He probably hopes it is,” Audrey teases.
I don’t think she notices the way Jules tenses up again, but from where I stand, looking down at her, I see the way her shoulder muscles stiffen and her jaw clenches before she relaxes enough to say, “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a business meeting.”
“Let me know if you need someone to go with you.” My words are quiet, so low I don’t think Audrey can hear them from a few feet away, and Morgan’s already turned and is talking to Lauren and Jameson.
Jules finally glances up at me. “It’s. Fine.” There’s barely any sound as the words leave her lips, and I understand that she’s asking me to drop this. She probably doesn’t want Audrey to feel bad about not going.
I give her a curt nod before saying, “Okay, so you want to head out?”
“Yeah, can you just help me carry what’s left of the food down?”
“Sure,” I say. “I’ll take care of it so you can say goodbye to everyone.” In my experience, the Flynns take freaking forever to say goodbye when they’re leaving a party—they’ve obviously never heard of an “Irish goodbye.” Which is fine, because it will give me a little physical distance and a few minutes to process why I’m so keyed up about Jules going to this dinner.
“You want to help me carry the food?” I ask Jameson as I leave the dining room.
“Sure,” he says, giving Lauren a quick kiss on her forehead before he turns to follow me to the kitchen island that divides the two rooms.
We grab two of the insulated food carriers, and as I trudge down the stairs in front of Jameson, he asks, “So, how’s it going living with Jules?”
The skin on the back of my neck prickles as I pray he isn’t asking because he noticed how I was looking at her a minute ago. “She hasn’t killed me yet, so I think we’re good so far.”
His low rumble of laughter sets me at ease. “She’ll warm up to you being around. Just don’t piss her off.”
“I’ve been pissing her off for over a decade; it’s kind of my thing.”
“Nah, trust me. If you actually pissed her off, you’d know it.”
As we reach the bottom of the first floor, I look over my shoulder and am about to respond to his comment, when wehear Drew’s voice from above us. “Why didn’t you idiots take the elevator?”
“It’s not like we’re carrying furniture,” I say, the sarcasm heavy in my voice. We look up and watch Drew as he comes down a flight of stairs, around the landing on the third floor, and down the next flight of stairs, carrying one of the insulated food bags we must have missed.
“I just thought with your old knees, you might need to take the lift down.”
“The lift? Are you fucking British now?” Jameson says.
I half-listen as they give each other shit while we walk a block over to where Jules parked her truck, but I’m mostly in my own head about why I’m suddenly noticing Jules in a very non-sisterly way. When we get to the truck, I realize that I didn’t get the keys from her. I set the bag on the sidewalk and pull out my phone to call her, but then she’s sidling up next to me, the blue fabric of her sundress flowing around her muscular thighs.
“God, you guys walk fast,” she says, her chest heaving in a way that makes it impossible for me not to notice the swell of her breasts above the low neckline of her dress—again. I glance up quickly and Drew’s smirking at me. He clearly just caught me checking her out, but thankfully, Jameson doesn’t seem to have noticed.
Shit. What the hell is wrong with me? This is not who I am. She’s my best friend’s little sister, for Christ’s sake. Maybe it’s just been too long since I had sex? I wasn’t planning on calling Bambi in response to that text she sent earlier, but ... maybe I should? Maybe then I wouldn’t be keyed up and noticing Jules like this?
I busy myself loading the bags as she says goodbye to herbrother and future brother-in-law, and then we hop into her truck to head home.
Needing some air so I’m not surrounded by her sweet scent—she smells like vanilla or a cupcake or something—I roll down the window. The car is quiet as we drive, both of us seemingly lost in thought, until her phone rings. She glances at the screen briefly, her eyebrows raising when she sees the name Rosie Perot.
“I have to answer this,” she says before accepting the call. “Hey, Rosie! What’s up?”
“I got your text.”
