That Secret Crush (Getting Lucky #3)(81)

“Reid, this shade of green really isn’t attractive on you.”

“Just tell me if it was fucking Tracker.”

“Frankly, it’s none of your business.” She must hear me grind my teeth because she adds, “But just to ease the little tic in your jaw, it’s not Tracker.”

That does nothing to ease the tic—it only makes me wonder who else it could be.

“Oliver? Jake? Krew?”

“Krew? Over at the hardware store? No, but he is one tasty dish.”

“Eve,” I warn.

“What’s wrong, Reid? Weren’t you the one who wanted to split up? You can’t possibly be mad about this, right? Because that would be absolutely ridiculous.”

I lean toward her. “Are you dating to get under my skin? Is that what this is all about?”

She rolls her eyes. “I have better things to do with my life than try to get under your skin. I have a life, Reid, and unlike you, I plan on living mine to the fullest.” She puts on a smile. “Now, is there any business you want to go over before your dad and I start training? Any pressing restaurant matters that need to be addressed?”

No, she’s taken care of everything because she’s so goddamn perfect. The promo—including all graphics—the budget, the early start on staff interest, the tedious paperwork: she’s been on top of every single task that’s been put in front of her. But instead of pointing that out, I say, “Yeah, new policy: while the restaurant is being put together, we all have to be celibate.”

She laughs, her head dropping back a few inches, exposing her neck. “Okay, Reid.” She slaps me on the back as if we’re old pals rather than exes. “Good one.”

Heat scorches my face, lighting up my cheeks as I lean in closer and whisper, “Are you having sex?”

Before she can respond, my mom and dad walk into the kitchen hand in hand with giant smiles on their faces. I glance over at Eve, who has the same smile passing over her seductive mouth. Great. Glad everyone is so fucking happy around me because I’m pretty sure I’m about to jump into the harbor—with weights on my legs.



“Why do you keep looking out the window?” Brig asks. “I didn’t even invite you over, and now you’re ignoring me. That’s fucking rude, man.” He knocks me in the arm. “Your soup is getting cold, and I worked hard on that shit.”

“You put too much salt in it,” I say, still peering through the blinds.

“The fuck I did. Your snobby taste buds just can’t stand the fact that I’m actually good at cooking.”

I snap the blinds shut and look over my shoulder. “You made a kale-and-bacon soup from scratch. It’s actually really gross. I was being nice with the salt comment.”

He shakes his head. “You will just take any chance you can get to cut me down, won’t you? Trust me,” he says, jabbing his finger on the table, “if I showed this to Eric, he’d be asking for the recipe.”

I turn back to the window. “Give me a Tupperware full of it, and I’ll pass it along.”

“Oh, nice try. You would tamper with it before he even got a shot to try. No fucking way. I say we have a blind soup-off. My kale-bacon soup against your vegetable soup that you think is so goddamn delightful. See which one people like better.”

“One hundred percent mine without a doubt, no questions asked. Don’t embarrass yourself, Brig.”

He huffs behind me and mutters something I can’t quite make out, but I really don’t care. I’m on watch. I heard from Rogan, who heard from Harper, that Eve was going out on a date tonight, two weeks after her last one—first guy must not have been a winner—and they were going to go to Franklin’s for a sandwich. So fucking lame. Taking Eve Roberts out on a date to Franklin’s, who does—

Holy shit.

Of course they’d go to Franklin’s. It’s the town’s gossip cesspool, accompanied by deli meats and cheeses . . . and one of the best mustards I’ve ever had.

And how convenient that I have the perfect view of Franklin’s from Brig’s apartment on top of his garage. And Harper just happened to slip up with the date info? I’m smelling a setup.

I whip around to Brig. “Did you all plan this?”

“Plan what?” He slurps up a huge spoonful of soup. My spine quivers. Seriously, that soup is positively vile.

“Getting me here, giving me the perfect view of Franklin’s—is this all a setup?”

“I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about, but I hope you’re gone by nine because The Bachelorette is coming on, and I swear to Satan himself that if she gives that motherfucker Tag a rose, I am going to scream like a lady. Straight up scream.”

“Jesus. Christ,” I mutter, turning around. I have no idea how we share DNA. I part the blinds and try to peer through the glass again, but a layer of grime makes for a foggy view. “Why don’t you get your windows washed every once in a while? It’s almost impossible to see anything past the dirt and water spots.”

“Sorry that I don’t make it a habit to creep on people.”

“That was a passive-aggressive apology.”

“It was meant to be.” Slurp. Shiver. “What the hell are you looking at anyway?”