10. Milo
10
MILO
I’m not going to lie. I’m more than a little concerned we’re going to be the youngest people here. By a long shot.
Because this could end up being a really bad idea.
I couldn’t resist though. It was just too perfect. Kismet, really.
Pulling into the parking lot of The Rustic, a local farm to table restaurant over in Tifton, my nerves ease a little as I survey the parking lot, seeing mostly new model cars and trucks. There are a couple of stereotypical grandpa-mobiles, but they are certainly the minority. A very good sign.
“The Rustic,” Brenna says, looking up at the large, hand-painted sign on the old Victorian home they converted into an eatery. “It’s adorable.”
I smile back at her, letting my eyes dance up and down her body, helping her out of my truck. She’s adorable in her rose-colored sundress, that looks almost like it was modeled after a 1920s flapper dress. Which is more fitting than she knows right about now.
I lick my lips, drinking in her beauty as she moves. It’s the kind of dress that shows off just enough, leaving most of it to the imagination, stirring all those secret desires in you. Thanks to our little mishap—which neither of us has felt the need to bring up, thankfully—I don’t have to rely fully on my imagination. But I’m not going to admit that’s where my brain is going.
“They opened up a handful of years ago, and feature Hayes products regularly.”
“Peaches, peanuts, and pecans?” she jokes, eyes going wide, with a smile to match.
“All three, every season. Plus, they were one of the first places to have Southern Brothers on tap.”
“Does that mean I’m walking in on the arm of a celebrity tonight?”
The smirk she gives me makes me want to kiss it right off her. This isn’t that kind of date—despite how my chest tightened when I opened our front door to pick her up or how squishy my insides felt on the ride over—so I hold out my arm instead for her to loop hers through.
“Hardly. They deal with Rose for all that stuff, so unless she’s showed off our photos, they've never laid eyes on Brandt or me. No, that’s not true—we did eat here once. We wanted to see our name on the menu, so we came over for lunch. But that was years ago, so I highly doubt we’ll have the same waitress tonight, who, by the way, totally judged us for day drinking on a Thursday.”
Brenna shakes her head, that wide smile never wavering. I can tell she’s holding back from commenting that she wouldn’t judge us, so I nod a silent thank you. Being with her is easy, making this feel a lot less date-ish than normal. Not that it’s a real date, at least for me. But I want it to feel as real as possible for her.
I slip away from her for a second, just long enough to open the door to the restaurant, gesturing her inside. The door isn’t all the way closed behind us, the warm summer air still sneaking in the small gap while the air conditioning escapes, when Brenna gasps.
Grabbing my arm tight, her fingernails dig into my skin, the slight pain from them sending a rush through me.
“Milo…”
There’s excitement and hope in her voice, letting me know that I got this right. Phew!
Brenna looks at me, and then back to the large poster propped up on an easel at the bottom of the staircase that leads to the banquet room on the second level. I wait for her to say something, my eyes scanning the poster.
Death, Deception, and Disorder!
A roaring ’20s murder mystery night at The Rustic
“A murder mystery dinner? Are you serious?” Brenna asks, fingers still firmly in place.
I nod. “I know how much you love Sherlock Holmes and all those crime novels, so I figured this would be fun. I hope. Could be a total flop.”
Truth be told, I got lucky with the theme night. My original plan had simply been a nice dinner, and The Rustic was the first place I thought of. Simple, easy, good food. A place where we could relax and talk, not feel any pressure to make this something it’s not. But when the slide showed up on their website as I was going to make reservations, I knew it was too good to be true. Brenna has loved Sherlock Holmes and Nancy Drew since she was little and has never passed up a whodunit movie.
What kind of brother would I be if I passed on the chance for her to join in one? No, what kind of date would I be ?
“No, it’s perfect.” A giggle escapes, her excitement palpable. Which ups mine in turn.
The host takes our name, verifying our reservation before leading us upstairs, leaving the din of the dining room behind us. At the top of the stairs, we’re greeted by a man in a tux, complete with white gloves, who is clearly the ringleader for the event. I have to hold back on making a Tim Curry butler joke.
“Welcome to Death, Deception, and Disorder. I’m Edgar Carillo, manager here at The Ditzy Raven,” he greets.
He’s already in character. Okay then…
“So, not a butler? You’re not going to buttle?” I joke, unable to hold it back. I can see Brenna roll her eyes next to me, but I know she secretly loves it. Here’s hoping this dude has a sense of humor.
The corner of his mouth twitches, and I can tell he wants to joke back. He doesn’t break character though.
“No, sir. Club manager.” Okay then. “Welcome to the Ditzy Raven. Inside you will find appetizers and champagne, but shhhh, we don’t want the authorities to know we’re serving.”
“We won’t tell,” Brenna whispers conspiratorially, already getting into the event.
“Thank you, madam. Now, before you continue on inside, I must ask, will you be participating tonight?”
My stomach flips. Oh boy. Yes, the event page said it was interactive, but I thought that meant they would ask us to shout out answers. Like on Whose Line . I didn’t realize that meant us actually participating.
Brenna doesn’t hesitate to answer though, that palpable excitement now sheer joy that is radiating off her in waves. Tidal waves.
“Of course! ”
“Wonderful,” Edgar responds. “And I have just the role for you, madam.” He hands her an envelope, the name Anna Caggiano printed across it. “And you, sir, tell me, what do you do for a living?”
“I own a brewery.”
“Oh, how fortunate. I have something extra special for you.” He gives me a wink as he hands me an envelope matching Brenna’s, mine reading Oscar Buchanon. “Enjoy the evening.”
The banquet room is set up similar to a wedding, with a large parquet floor in the center, a bar off to the far side of it, and tables of all sizes surrounding it. A band sits in the corner, playing twenties jazz, a tall, beautiful Black woman in a sequined dress crooning softly. Her voice reminds me of Ella Fitzgerald—maybe better—giving the room the perfect ambiance.
“Who are you?” Brenna asks, about to burst out of her skin.
“Ladies first.”
“Anna Caggiano. Wife to Leo Caggiano Jr., or Junior for short, the club’s owner, and daughter-in-law to Leo Caggiano Sr., infamous crime boss.”
“Oh, well, it’s nice to make your acquaintance, Anna,” I play along. “I’m Oscar Buchanon. Bootlegger, responsible for supplying not only your husband, but most of the speakeasys here in town.”
I leave out the special note at the bottom of my card, not wanting to give away the surprise. It’ll come out in time. Plus, I’m sure Brenna has info on hers that’s top secret as well.
Brenna giggles, bouncing up and down. “OMG, that’s so perfect.”
“It is. Drink? ”
“Yes, let’s. Lead the way, Oscar .”
I hold out my arm again, leading the way to the bar. Grabbing our drinks—a Party Mode for me and a mojito for Brenna—we mingle with the rest of the group, everyone already in character, getting to know each other based on what our cards say. In total, there are about twenty guests, a wide variety of ages. The oldest couple here, a Mr. And Mrs. Walsh, who are playing the roles of Leo Caggiano Sr. and his wife, Lucy, have a few years on Auggie and Miss Belle, but there are plenty of others closer in age to Brenna and me.
“Welcome, welcome,” Edgar greets once everyone has arrived. “As all of you know, this is a murder mystery party. During the party, you will be playing the roles of staff, entertainers, and guests at a private club in 1920s New York. All of you were assigned a role when you arrived and have a character sheet that details special knowledge that only your character has, along with certain instructions for ways that your character should respond to specific situations. Other than that, there are no specific instructions for the night. So, let me get started by introducing you all.”
He works his way around the room, introducing each character, which includes not only those we were told about at the start, but a Broadway producer called Henry Palmetto, a club singer who goes only by Etta, a loan shark affectionally called Al the Bookie, and three members of the Caggiano family organization, Mushy, Fingers, and Bumbilino.
“Wow, they went all in on the funny names,” I mutter so only Brenna can hear me.
“You know these are really someone’s family’s names and that they are laughing every time this gets played.”
I shake my head, because she’s probably right. Although, Lord help whomever it is out there who has an Uncle Mushy.
Edgar continues, setting the scene. It is the height of Prohibition, with plenty of bootleggers and gangsters afoot. Fashion, music, and morals are all changing at a lightning pace. Club owner Leo Caggiano Jr., the son of successful bootlegger and crime boss Leo Caggiano Sr. —and a successful businessman himself—is throwing this private party for a group of select friends.
But then, he ends up dead.
Found in his office, a drink still in his hand and a wound to his head, Junior’s body is slumped against his desk. But who could it have been?
Brenna starts to buzz with ideas as we’re instructed to continue to mingle, working in the information that we were given on our sheets, while appetizers are passed out by waiters. It’s all I can do to concentrate on my character. Not because the idea of pretending to be a bootlegger isn’t fun or interesting—especially with the secret I’m hiding for the sake of the game—but because I can’t look away from Brenna. Every other second, she’s stealing my attention.
The light radiating off her is bright enough to blind you. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen her this happy, and I can’t help but feel more than a little proud that it’s me making her feel this way. Or at least my date idea. She moves gracefully from person to person, gathering her clues and making little notes on her paper. I’m not sure where she even found a pen, but I shouldn’t be surprised.
The only thing that does surprise me is the pang I feel as I watch her flirt. It hits me out of left field, same as it did the other night watching her with Nick Scarborough. The guy playing Al the Bookie is closer to Brenna’s age than mine and good-looking. Really good-looking. Actually, in the words of Zoolander, this guy is really, really ridiculously good-looking. And I don’t like how he’s looking at her.
She’s not yours to get jealous of…
She’s not. At least not in the way I’m jealous. These are not big brother, overprotective feelings. They’re keep your hands off my girl feelings. Same as they were at Pour Decisions. No matter what I try and tell myself.
“If you will all find a table and take a seat, dinner will be served momentarily,” Edgar announces.
I leap at the chance to intervene, sliding my hand into Brenna’s like it’s my job. Oddly enough, with our palms pressed together like this, they do feel like they belong, a fact I ignore as I lead her over to a table for two.
“Milo, thank you so much. This is…this is a dream,” Brenna gushes as we sit.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.” And I am. Thrilled, actually. The whole point of this was to make Brenna happy. To show her what being appreciated by someone can feel like.
“So, so much. I have so many theories. There are still a couple of people I need to talk to, and others I need to circle back to, because I have questions.”
I chuckle. “You seem to be spending a lot of time with Al the Bookie. Flirting.”
My tone is accusatory, even though I don’t mean for it to be. I meant for it be light and teasing. Ooops.
“Jealous?”
“What if I am?”
Yeah, what if I am?
Brenna shakes her head, smiling. “Don’t worry, I’m still all yours. At least in real life. In the game, however, I was instructed to flirt with him.”
Oh, well then. Knowing that makes me feel better. A lot better.
“Can I ask you something?”
Her question catches me off guard. Mostly because I don’t know why she would ever think she couldn’t ask me something.
“Always.”
“Do you always go this big for a first date? ”
“Not even close. It’s usually just dinner. I don't put this much effort into a date unless she’s—” I cut myself off. We don’t need to go there. Especially since I don’t know the last time I put this much effort in. Or if I ever have.
“Unless she’s…”
You…
“Special.”
Brenna’s eyes go soft, her whole body relaxing in her seat. “You think I’m special?”
Our server shows up, setting down two very full plates of chicken and veggies. They smell amazing, but I can’t dig in quite yet. I need to walk through the door I just opened.
Reaching across the table, I take Brenna’s hand, squeezing it. “Bren, of course I do. And before you dismiss it, I don’t just mean little sister special. I mean actually special. You are worth being treated like this, whether it’s by me or any other guy out there.”
As if I stole the voice right out of her, much like Ursula did Ariel in the Little Mermaid, Brenna simply mouths “thank you.” Mimicking her, I mouth back “welcome,” then nod to her dinner. She’s silent for another moment, surveying her plate, but quickly launches into all her theories about the whodunit. I nod along, pretending to follow her spiderweb of a thought process. I didn’t pay nearly as much attention as she did. I was too busy watching her shine.
Before I know it, dinner is over, and we’re back for Act Two, with more questions and monologues from the characters. This time, me included. I have to admit, this is fun. Certainly not something I’d sign up to do weekly, but I can see why these types of events are popular.
With the party winding down, Edgar instructs us to make our final guesses. Brenna leans against a high-top cocktail table, bottom lip caught between her teeth as she thinks. For a second, I think about cracking a joke about it or telling her how cute she looks while she thinks, but then I think better of it. I don’t dare break her concentration.
“There are just so many options,” she admits, looking up at me. “We can rule out Senior. He wasn't happy with Junior for wanting to finance Henry Palmetto’s play, but he admits that it was Junior’s money to do with what he wished. I also don’t think that Mushy, Fingers, and Bumbilino have it in them. Mostly because they only do things if Senior tells them. And I mean, it could be Palmetto, and he does have that cut on his hand, but I feel like he’s too obvious a choice.”
My insides clench, unable to handle the cuteness. She’s so into it, it’s hard to think of anything else.
“Follow the money. Isn’t that what they always say? Well, love or money.”
“Love or money…Milo!” Brenna exclaims.
“What?”
“That’s it! I know the answer.” I raise my eyebrows, not sure how what I just said gave it away. At least, I hope it didn’t give it away. “I could kiss you!”
I laugh, trying to hide the fact that no part of me would turn that down. Brenna might be my best friend’s little sister, but she’s also one hell of a woman. One I really want to let kiss me right now. Because if this was any other date—if she were any other woman—I would have kissed her hours ago.
Fuck, I would have kissed her a week ago.
Still, I hold back, scribbling my own answer onto the card as she writes her answer then scurries off to turn them in.
“Alrighty!” Edgar gathers everyone together. “I hope you all enjoyed playing detective this evening and helping us solve the murder of Leo Caggiano Jr. However, only one of you sleuths was able to determine the correct killer! Congratulations to Brenna Rawlins!”
Brenna squeals, hands flying over her mouth to help diminish the sound. It doesn’t work, but she earns herself a laugh and applause from the rest of the group. She heads up to the front, humbly accepting her prize.
“And now, will Oscar Buchanon, our killer, please step forward and explain himself!”
I do as I’m told, taking the card from Edgar and reading it out loud. I confess, I poisoned Junior’s drink, a bottle I’d told him I made special for him, because I wanted Anna all to myself. I tried to convince everyone that Palmetto had done it—after all, I had seen him hit Junior with a paperweight—but that the poison had already taken effect. Little had I known about the affair Anna and Palmetto were having and that she would never be mine.
“Great job,” Edgar says as we head out. “As a thank you for taking on that role, and effectively taking yourself out of prize contention, since you couldn’t vote for yourself, we would like to offer you this gift card, so you can bring your beautiful girlfriend back to The Rustic on us.”
Girlfriend…
I don’t bother correcting him. Now’s not the time for semantics. Plus, it’s not his business what Brenna is in my life. And an excuse to bring her back here is more than welcome.
“I still can’t believe you figured that out,” I tell Brenna as I put the truck in park back behind the Southern Brothers warehouse. She chattered the whole way home about the case. The characters, the scene, the plot itself. I let her, loving listening to her go on and on. It doesn’t seem to matter that it’s not my chosen topic—I could do this for days. “I thought I played the part well.”
“You did! You so did! I really was thinking that maybe it was Palmetto and the obvious guess was it. Until you made the ‘for love or money’ comment.”
“But how’d you know that Oscar loved Anna?”
“Because of the drink. ”
“The drink?”
I pause at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to our apartment, not wanting this night to end. We agreed before we left that inside the apartment we were roommates—Milo and Brenna, same friends as always—and that our date started and ended at the front door. That sounded good at the time. Now I wish I could take that back.
“The Anna,” she answers, walking past me and up the stairs. “Etta, the club singer, mentioned in one of her interviews that you had created a special drink called the Anna. The only reason you would do that is if you love me. Her.”
Well I’ll be damned. Guess I would have picked up on that if I had been paying attention to the game rather than the girl. Looks like Oscar and I have more in common than just our chosen profession.
“I…er…I guess this is it. The end of our date.” Her face falls as she says it, and it’s clear the disappointment that is settling in my chest is mutual. “Back to being roommates on the other side of this door.”
“Yup.”
“Thank you, Milo, for an amazing night. This was so much fun. I really enjoyed it. Enjoyed being on a date with you.”
Something rises in me I can’t name. A bold, brazen desire backed by knowledge that this is right. So fucking right.
“Me too. So now there’s just one thing left.”
Taking one large step, I erase the gap between us, one hand sliding around her waist, the other to the back of her neck, hauling her into me. A small gasp echoes into the air as Brenna grabs ahold of my biceps. I stare into her soft brown eyes for a second, silently letting her in on my plan.
But only for a second.
Lowering my head, I capture her lips in mine. Softly, gently, slow as molasses, giving her a moment. She whimpers, hands digging into my bicep the way they did earlier in the evening when she realized what our date was. The feel of her holding on awakens something in me. Something that no longer wants to be respectful.
Still, I maintain my composure.
Sort of.
I tighten my embrace, deepening the kiss. Moving my lips along hers, I let myself go. Let myself feel it. Let myself enjoy the excitement of kissing a pretty girl. Of her kissing me back. Of not knowing where this is going to lead, but wanting more than anything to find out.
My dick twitches, the excitement flowing straight to my groin. This might all end on the other side of that door, but we’re not there yet. Right here, right now, we’re on this side of the door. And this side of the door includes kissing.
Brenna whimpers again, and I know that’s my sign to step back. So I do.
Not because I’m not enjoying it. If anything, I’m enjoying it too much. She tastes sweet and spicy all at the same time. It’s new and different, and fuck, do I want to explore. I want to chase the high it’s giving me. I want her to feel the same high. And more.
I want more of those little noises I know she makes. The coos and cries she made last week when I walked in on her. But I can’t. And not just because we’re at our front door.
Brenna and I are friends. That will never change. But that’s also all we can ever be. She’s twelve years younger than I am and the baby sister of my best friend in the entire world. So yes, I have to stop kissing her.
No matter how much I don’t want to.
I need to walk this off…
I suck in a breath, trying to steel myself. Brenna’s lips are swollen, her eyes dreamy as she sighs in return. Turning to unlock the door, I open it, ushering her inside. I need space to clear my head, so I don’t follow.
“I need to check on Pour Decisions,” I say, making an excuse. “I had a lot of fun tonight. I’m glad you did too. Sweet dreams.”
“Sweet dreams,” she returns, closing the door.
Not as sweet as you…