Fall (VIP #3)(129)

A smile threatens, and my lips wobble before I force them flat. “It’s one of his best qualities.” God, I’m going to cry. Over this strange-ass gift of beer.

Brenna roots through the box, but it’s empty. “What the hell does it mean?”

“I honestly have no idea. It’s not like I’m a huge beer enthusiast.”

“How could he not leave a note?” Brenna scowls at the beer. “His first contact and it’s to send random beer?”

Suppressing a sigh, I put the beer in the fridge. “I’m done trying to figure him out.”

Words are shallow, though; the beer haunts me as I walk away. What the hell is John trying to say? Hey, let’s have a few beers and laugh this all away? Sorry, I broke your heart, have a drink on me? Whatever it is, I find myself getting more and more pissed.

It builds as I try to lounge in Brenna’s living room, and I end up tossing the copy of Vogue back onto the coffee table with so much force, it slides right off and lands with a thump on the floor.

“You know,” Brenna says, not looking up from her magazine, “only Rye could annoy someone more than Jax. Be grateful you didn’t fall for him.”

“Tell me,” I murmur. “How much of a pain is it to fall for Rye?”

She opens her mouth, then pauses to glare at me, clearly expecting a different question from me and caught off guard. Her brows lower. “Har. You think I’m into Rye?”

My lips twitch. “Everyone thinks you are into each other.”

Brenna snorts, her attention suddenly on her ice-blue nails. “Please. He’s an asshole.”

I get up and go to the fridge for some of John’s damn beer. If we’re going to talk men, I need a drink. It’s cold enough, and Brenna accepts a bottle with a wry look before taking a long sip.

“Is he, though?” I ask, curling back up on the couch. “Admittedly, he has a pretty juvenile sense of humor, and he’s blunt, but he seems like a nice man. He clearly cares about all of you guys.”

A disgruntled sound escapes her, then she sighs and rests her head against the soft couch back. “He does care. And he is a good guy. He’s only an asshole to me.”

“He seems more like he’s pulling your ponytail for attention.”

She slides me a sidelong look.

“Not to condone such behavior,” I amend. “Bullyboy tactics should die a swift death.”

Her mouth twists with a smile. “Admittedly, I’m just as bad. I know this. It’s our personalities, I guess. We’re always rubbing each other the wrong way.”

“I wondered if it was some bad blood that never healed.”

“Oh, it’s that too,” she says with a scowl. “Incidents here and there. Nothing I want to talk about now. I’ll be in a mood all day if I do.”

“Fair enough.” I pull at the damp label on my beer. “I’m brooding enough for both of us.”

Brenna and the girls pulled me through the worst of it. For the first time in my life, I was the one who had friends force me out of the house, take me to salons for massages and facials. We’d gone to the movies, stayed in and watched movies, indulged in cocktails and ice cream—not mint chocolate chip. That was banned from the house. We’d done every clichéd thing we could think of.

And it was fun. Well, as fun as something can be while I’m walking around with what feels like a massive hole in chest. I press my hand to that spot now, surprised my skin isn’t ice cold. I’m cold all the time now. Another new and unfortunate development. If this is what love does to a person, love can go suck it.

Brenna grabs her phone and answers a few emails before tossing it down and giving me an overly bright smile. “We should order pizza to go with this random beer your man sent us.”

“He’s not my man anymore,” I mumble.

The door buzzer stops Brenna from responding. She gives me an excited look that has me flinching inside. Yep, love and hope can definitely suck it. I don’t bother turning my head to watch her open the door.

“Another delivery,” she calls from the hall.

“Seriously?” I get up. “If he sent me more beer, I’m going over there and dumping it on his fat head.”

“Maybe that’s the idea.” She frowns at the box. “But, no, this one is lighter and longer.”

Together, we open it, Brenna muttering about heads under her breath. Inside, there’s another box, this one much nicer. I lift the lid and root through the perfectly folded tissue paper and find a length of pale pink fabric. I take it out and it unfurls.

“It’s a dress,” I say, stating the obvious.

“Hot damn.” Brenna runs a reverent finger along the satin. “It’s Stella McCartney couture.”

It’s a knee-length sheath with a sort of box ’40s-style neckline and a cutout back.

“He bought me a dress? What the ever-loving hell?”

“Maybe it’s a message?” She doesn’t look convinced. “Maybe, let’s have a beer out on the town?”

With a noise of annoyance, I toss the dress back into the box.

“Hey,” Brenna protests, “don’t take it out on the dress. She’s innocent in all this.”

“She?” I laugh.