Kiss Her Once for Me (67)

Andrew grabs me by the elbow and bodily yanks me even farther down the bar, farther out of earshot. “I’m doing this for my family.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. Your family is disgustingly rich.”

He sets the pitcher down on the corner of the bar, pours himself a glass, and takes a long drink. “I’m doing this for Jack,” he confesses finally, his shoulder sagging in relief.

I stare at the stress-V forming between Andrew’s sleek eyebrows. “For… Jack?”

“The money. Jack, she—” He takes another drink and shakes his head. “I should have told you everything from the beginning, but I’m honestly so ashamed of my family. The money… my sister… the trust…”

Andrew fumbles for a second before he finds his verbal footing. “You know how my sister is opening a bakery? Well, she took out this huge business loan to do it, mostly because she believed she had this cushion to fall back on.”

“The trust your grandpa left you,” I say, remembering the Christmas cookie conversation.

Andrew nods slowly. “Yeah. We were both supposed to inherit one million dollars when he died….”

“But your trust is two million,” I correct him, even as the truth becomes so fucking clear. Of course. “Your grandpa wrote Jack out of the will and left all the money to you.”

“The fucker,” Andrew spits. “He used to go on these rants about how Jack would squander her money, used to try to manipulate her into going back to college, but that never worked on Jack. But once he realized she was content working at a bakery, he wrote her completely out of the will. I don’t think he told anyone, not even Lovey. I only found out when the executor called to tell me about the new stipulation before submitting the will to probate court.”

I catch Andrew staring in the direction of his sister. It’s difficult to make her out from this far away in the dark, hazy bar. Just the length of her neck and the outline of her shoulders are visible. She flicks her chin, and I feel a sharp tug in my chest. Her grandfather wrote her out of his will because she didn’t live up to his expectations for the family name.

“It takes about four months for the court to settle a will, so no one else in my family will know about the trust until then,” Andrew explains, hushed and urgent. “And my sister will never have to know the truth if I can inherit the two million immediately and just give Jack her half.”

For the first time since Andrew drunkenly put two hands flat on a table and asked if I would marry him does this whole absurd scheme make sense. “You want to protect your sister from knowing what your grandpa did.”

“Yeah.” He exhales, his eyes wide and glassy and so fucking full of love. Andrew is willing to marry an absolute stranger, not for himself, but for his sister. He’s giving up what he may or may not have with Dylan for his sister.

And it dawns on me. How none of this is about me and the two hundred thousand dollars. If I tell Jack the truth—if I act on these feelings, even for a second—I’m costing her one million dollars.

I turn back to the lip ring bartender. “Yeah, I’m going to need a Moscow mule, actually.”





Chapter Eighteen


New goal for the night: don’t kiss Jack again.

I am crushing this goal. After my first Moscow mule, when Dylan insists on us playing a round of pool, I do not try to kiss Jack when she shows me how to hold my cue stick like we’re in a Carrie Underwood song. When Dylan gets so drunk they go on a rant in Spanish about Phoebe Bridgers and bottom prejudice and skinny jeans (from what I can infer based on my AP Spanish skills), I don’t stare at Jack’s ass as she leans across the table to line up her shot. Not even for a second.

When Andrew switches to cheap shots of Fireball whisky (his go-to, apparently) and bats his eyes at the bartender so she puts on a Christmas playlist, I do not put my hands on Jack’s hips during the conga line that forms for “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” I don’t lean into her back or press my cheek to the rough fabric of her Carhartt jacket. When Andrew and Dylan get sloppy drunk enough to entertain the entire bar with a rendition of “All I Want for Christmas” sans karaoke machine, I don’t watch Jack sway to the music, don’t watch her lick beer foam off her lips after every sip, don’t watch her flick her chin to get her hair out of her face.

And when Jack shimmies up to the bar for another drink, I tell myself not to follow her. And then I totally do.

“You look like you’re having fun!” I shout over the Christmas music. Andrew and Dylan have now pushed aside enough tables to make a dance floor. The owner of the bar seems wholly unfazed by this development as tourists and locals alike fall under the hypnotic spell of Andrew’s charm, gathering in the middle of the bar to dance out their holiday cheer.

“I am.” Jack smiles at me, her hair sweaty and stuck to her forehead. She leans back against the bar on both elbows, and I don’t kiss her. I’m so impressed by my own self-restraint. “I needed this. Tonight,” Jack says. “I needed to get away from that house, from all the—” She cuts off mid-thought, and I watch her face, knowing her mind has gone somewhere I can’t follow.

Lip ring bartender comes over. “What can I get you?”

Jack comes back into focus and orders another IPA. Against my better judgment, I order another mule. Jack watches me, something distracted in her expression. “Are we ever going to talk about it?” she asks, and I’m struggling to connect the dots amidst the leaps her drunk brain seems to be making.