“Lovely,” she says, still glancing down at my roommate. “And for you?”
“Old fashioned, please.”
“Sweet or sour?”
“Sweet.”
Her smile widens as she lingers a second too long before turning and gliding away, probably to go flirt with some poor hedge fund manager at another table.
Georgia takes a long sip of her water and exhales loudly to get our attention. “God, I needed this. I’ve been drowning in school and social obligations and, like—life.”
Turner laughs. “So, same old, same old?”
She flips him off with a perfectly manicured finger. “Rude. But yes.”
Then she perks up, elbows hitting the table. “Anyway. I didn’t just come to visit because I missed you—which I do. Your presence is, like, seventy-five percent tolerable.”
Turner snorts. “Wow. That’s up over the sixty percent you gave me the last time you visited.”
She fidgets in her seat. “I actually came for a reason.” Pause. “I came to tell you in person… I started seeing someone.”
His posture shifts. Not possessive. Not angry. But.
BIG BROTHER MODE: activated.
He blinks at her. “Since when?”
She waves a hand around in the arm. “Since midterms. He’s in one of my econ classes.”
“You met in class?”
His sister shakes her head. “No. We met at a party.”
Turner groans.
Georgia grins. “The theme was, ‘Anything But Clothes.’ You would have been so proud of me—I wore nothing but a garbage bag and confidence.”
My eyes get wide. “You did not.”
We never had parties like that where I went to school, and I love hearing about it when people do.
A server returns to our table with our drinks, setting them in front of our place settings, letting us know our original server will be along shortly to take our orders.
Once he walks away, Turner turns his attention back to his little sister. “You wore a literal garbage bag to a frat house and now you’re dating someone from that frat?”
She sips her Moscato. “Technically, he’s notinthe frat. He just parties there.”
“Great.” He looks physically pained. “Do I need to fight him?”
Georgia shrugs. “Only if you want to lose. He’s on the rugby team.”
“You don’t think I can kick a guy’s ass because he’s on the rugby team?”
She ignores his indignant tone. “Anyway, you’ll like him. He’s nice. Funny. Has great thighs.” She turns to me. “Oh my god, they’re so thick—they’re genetically engineered so he can carry women up mountains.”
Thick thighs.
Yum.
