Chapter 2 #2
Adam winks at me, and I grin conspiratorially, thankful for his interruption.
Our end of the table goes gravely quiet amongst the clatter of silverware and pleasant chatter coming from the other end.
To get my mind off the tension buzzing between the few inches of space separating Brandon and I, I study Adam.
We don’t see each other often. He’s in the office while I’m out visiting clients most days.
I can’t help but admit he looks nice. Normal.
He’s wearing a thick cable knit sweater with a fat, smiling pumpkin on it.
His shiny blond hair is combed neatly to the side, his milky skin aglow with a healthy flush.
Objectively speaking, Adam is handsome. His once boyish features have sharpened over the years, and his clear complexion has the rugged hint of a five o’clock shadow.
He’s a man now. Still, it’s hard to see him as anything but my childhood best friend—the same kid who used to ask me if he could eat my boogers.
My eyes pan right, sensing someone’s gaze.
Mrs. Smart is staring at me, her lips pinched tight in a bitter frown.
I narrowly resist sticking my tongue out at her.
She has never liked me, but after ending my engagement with Adam .
. . Well, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if my face ended up on the back of a milk carton.
Dana leans across Brandon suddenly. “You’ll love this, Evie.” She waves Brandon onward as she pours herself a glass of Merlot. “Go on, tell her.”
Brandon’s eyes slide to mine. He winks at me, and I know it means less than nothing, but it makes my heart flutter all the same. “I fired my assistant.”
I raise an eyebrow. Again?
Dana takes a sip of her drink, casting me a loaded look.
As well as being Brandon’s twin sister, Dana is the accountant and billing specialist at his psychiatry practice.
She’s been known to spill the tea that goes on between Brandon and his administrative assistants.
He and his business partner, Gladys, are high maintenance and can’t seem to hold on to their help.
“Oh, come on,” Brandon defends. “You have to admit the whole thing is absurd.”
“She was great, Brandon.”
“Hardly,” he argues, lifting a crystal tumbler to his mouth. Mesmerized, I watch as he presses the glass to his lips, following the smooth line of his throat as the liquid slides down. “She took pet bereavement, Dana.”
“So?” I challenge. “Sometimes pets are all people have. If her dog died, then I think it’s totally reasonable that—”
“Her gerbil,” Brandon interjects. “She took the week before Thanksgiving off because she wanted to grieve the loss of her dead gerbil.”
Laughter rings throughout the table.
“Her . . . gerbil?”
“Her gerbil,” Brandon affirms. Suddenly, I feel his hand brush up against my knee, and without thinking, I stab him with my fork. He winces and retreats, coughing as he jerks forward. “So I fired her,” he concludes, rubbing the back of his hand beneath the table.
Whoopsie. I just stabbed him.
But he deserved it.
“A bit harsh, no?” Jamie asks before popping a bite of mashed potatoes into his mouth. At first, I think he’s talking to me, but he’s looking at Brandon.
Brandon shrugs. “I need someone who takes the job seriously. Someone who will be as committed to being available to my patients as I am.”
My heart glows with admiration, despite my better judgment. Brandon is as dedicated to the needs of his psychiatry patients as I am to those of my home care clients, and I admire him greatly for it. He is a wonderful doctor.
“What do you mean?” my sister-in-law, Rebecka, asks.
“I’m on call twenty-four seven,” Brandon supplies.
“My assistant screens my phone calls and forwards the messages to me if it’s an emergency.
Sometimes, patients will call in the middle of the night or on weekends or holidays.
” He takes another drink. “And if she’s taking her PTO to grieve a gerbil two months into the job, then it wouldn’t have worked out long-term. ”
“What relationship of yours lasts long-term anyway?” Dana quips.
Water spurts out of my nose. Jamie guffaws.
Brandon’s eyes narrow as everyone laughs at his expense.
Where Brandon’s dating life is concerned, Dana has hit the nail on the head.
He goes through personal assistants like he goes through women.
Back when I paid attention to his dating life, it wasn’t uncommon for him to have a new woman hanging from his arm like he was their own personal jungle gym almost every other week—if not more frequently.
Women have always come and gone out of Brandon’s home like they’re passing through a revolving door.
He’s what Jamie calls a womanizer.
Dinner continues at a snail’s pace. Jamie drones on about his job, telling the same story he’s told a million times before about an old man who tried to steal a lawn mower from Dave’s Lawn Mowing Service—probably because it’s the most excitement this small, riverfront town has gotten in years.
“As if riding it down Main Street wasn’t bad enough, when he noticed me following him, he abandoned the mower and started running. He didn’t get very far before I managed to rugby tackle him to the ground, and then—”
“You shouldn’t have attacked the poor old man,” I mutter through my fingers, pushing my green beans around my plate. “He was clearly senile.”
Insulted, Jamie gapes. “He was a criminal, Evie.”
“Maybe he was only running from you because he was afraid of getting hurt,” I retort. “You’re pretty scary looking.”
Eventually, I get bored of the conversation and excuse myself to prepare the dessert buffet. I’m in the middle of cutting into the pecan pie when a toe-curlingly familiar voice tickles my ear. “Is that why you’re running from me, Spitfire?” he asks. “Because you’re afraid of getting hurt?”
I jump and whirl around, wielding the pie spatula I’m holding like a weapon. Brandon jumps back, narrowly avoiding the utensil as it whips in his direction.
“Whoa, there. Careful, Spitfire. You’ve already stabbed me once this evening.” He studies his hand. “Luckily, you didn’t break skin.”
My heart rate settles as he backs up a step, giving me some much-needed space, but it’s still galloping like a racehorse. It always beats a fraction faster in his presence.
He leans over the counter, balancing his dinner plate on his open palm as he browses the pie selection. “Did you make all these?” he wonders, sounding impressed. He helps himself to a slice of pumpkin pie as I return my attention to the pecan pie I was salivating over—I mean cutting.
“No. Grandma did most of the work. I just put them in the oven.” After a moment of loaded silence, I bite. “And what is that supposed to mean, anyway?” I ask, referring to his weird little comment about running from him.
“You know exactly what I mean.”
Looking totally at ease in a way that is enviably admirable, Brandon leans his hip against the counter and crosses his ankle as he cuts into his pie.
He slips the fork into his mouth, and his brows almost take flight at the first taste.
His eyes roll into the back of his head, flickering there as he makes a suggestive noise in the back of his throat.
When he notices my slack-jawed stare, he winks.
Flushing, I avert my eyes. Pervert.
Adam walks into the kitchen then. His eyes widen when they register the scene before him; me and Brandon, standing a little too close for comfort. Brandon offers an easy smile, always so self-assured. I want to slap him for it.
Adam gestures to the desserts as he moves closer. “Sorry. Was I interrupting something?”
“No.” I step aside, realizing I’m in the way. Ignoring Brandon’s lingering gaze, I head straight for the coffee pot. I’m going to need all the caffeine I can get if I want to clean up after everyone’s gone. I can already feel my body wilting under the weight of my exhaustion.
This always happens when I take a day off work. Almost as soon as my body gets a decent amount of time to rest, it feels like my muscles are beginning to calcify. If I go too long without moving, I become as stiff and unmovable as a rock. Sometimes, it’s hard to get out of bed the next morning.
By the time I’ve finished making my coffee, Adam is gone. Brandon hasn’t moved from his spot against the counter. He’s still watching me like a hawk, and I’ve had enough. Marching forward, I swipe the empty plate from his hand and stride toward the sink.
“I’ll do that,” he says, plucking the dish out of my hand as I turn the faucet on.
I grab it back and point at the dining room. “Would you go?”
He frowns as he steals the plate back. “Let me help.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Don’t be stubborn,” he says, gently bumping me out of the way to access the sink. “You need to learn to accept help, Evie. No man is an island.”
“I’ll accept help, just not from you.” I grab for the plate, but he pulls it back.
I wait a second, attempting to psych him out before lurching for it again.
We do this several times, but he manages to anticipate my every advance, retracting the plate from my grabbing hand just before I make contact with it every time. Meanwhile, he’s grinning like a maniac.
I think he’s enjoying this a little too much.
He always did like to play games.
Without warning, I punch him square in the gut. He grunts and folds, clutching his stomach as I swipe for the plate again. But he retracts it once more, and the tip of my finger slices against the chipped edge of the Chinaware.
A drop of blood drips onto the linoleum floor.
“Now look at what you’ve done,” I snap, clutching my throbbing finger.