Sophia turns back to the rack of clothes, slowly rifling through it as I inspect the blouse further, now for myself.
It’s her twenty-first birthday on Monday, and I promised her a shopping spree to celebrate. She’s being surprisingly picky for a no-holds-barred shopping spree. I return the blouse to the rack and continue my perusal.
“So,” I say, “What’s going on with you? Any good restaurant gossip?”
She smirks but doesn’t look up when she answers, “One of the dishwashers got caught snorting Adderall in the dish pit.”
I snicker as I pick out a pair of jeans to inspect. I show them to Sophia, and she takes them to have a closer look.
“I meant more like —” I waggle my eyebrows to convey my meaning instead of finishing my sentence.
With all the stories I’ve heard from Jamie, the restaurant industry is just as messy as the world of acting: Toxic flings, cheating, andsomuch drama.
Sophia puffs out a laugh. “I mean … Yeah, I guess.” She turns a little shifty, avoiding eye contact. “I’m kind of hooking up with the day bartender.”
“You bitch,” I hiss playfully, slapping her with the shirt I’m holding. “And you led with the dishwasher story? Classic Aquarius, keeping the best secrets for themselves.”
She giggles, placing the jeans back where I found them. “It’s part of my allure.” She strolls to another rack of clothes, her hand idly dragging against the fabrics. “It’s no big deal, really. He’s so full of himself.” She makes a face, and I can tell I won’t like what she’s about to say. “And thirty-three.”
My jaw drops. “Sophia.”
“It’sfine,” she says, elongating her last word as if it’s going to help ease my shock.
I stare her down, but her attention is on a blue baby tee. Finally, she looks up and cocks her head to the side, shooting me an unimpressed look.
“Please,” she says, “As if you weren’talsomaking dumb decisions at my age.”
I puff out an irritated sigh. “Yeah, and look where it got me. Twenty-nine and single.”
Sophia flings the baby tee over her arm, the pile of clothes she’s chosen to try on finally getting bigger.
“You’re being dramatic,” she deadpans. “Anyway, enough about me.”
She narrows her eyes, and my stomach drops. I know that look: She knows something.
Oh god.
She knows something.
Never the one to skirt around a subject, she goes straight for the kill, her smirk never wavering. “So what’s going on with you and my brother?”
I hate how she used the wordbrotherinstead of his name. It feels deliberate, and I hesitate for a few seconds too long, which only cements the suspicious look on her face.
I shrug my shoulders and look away. “Nothing, we just work together.”
She stares at me, and I pretend to be focused on a lace top that would never go with my complexion. She lets out asarcastic hum, and I start to sweat, hoping she’ll drop the subject. Why would she? I wouldn’t.
“You know he watches your stories, like,allthe time. I think he’s kind of obsessed with you, actually.”
She says it much too casually, but her words feel like a bomb detonating inside my chest. It’s a confusing reaction, especially since I’ve been aware that Huxley has been watching my stories. I only noticed it when I came back for the holidays and wonder if it’s been happening for much longer than that.
But obsessed withme?
That’s a stretch.
Not to mention that the little shit hasn’t followed me back on Instagram yet. I know it’s a tactical move. And a great one at that because I check every day to see if he has. I was so sure I had him hook, line, and sinker when I sent him that nude two days ago.
But he stayed infuriatingly silent about it. Then, I thought I’d seesomekind of tell when I picked him up the morning after, but his poker face was rock solid. He just handed me a coffee and put on a playlist he’d been working on.
