The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(53)

“New York, yes. I promised someone authentic black and white cookies. At your place? No. They’ll know I spilled the beans on your mom’s boyfriend. Hence why I couldn’t say anything last night. Too many witnesses.”

If he didn’t have my full attention before, he has it now. “What’s this gonna cost me?”

“Two meet and greet tickets to your holiday special in Chicago.”

“For who?”

“Not part of the deal.”

Of course it’s not. That’s how he rolls. Could be planning to give them to anyone from two mega-fans that he overheard talking at a coffee shop to a couple pets from a shelter. Or he could be planning on using the actual physical tickets as a prank against someone who wouldn’t be caught dead listening to my music.

Never know.

“Done,” I tell him.

“I could go for homemade cinnamon rolls too.”

Now he’s just pushing my buttons. “So call your sister. Hers are better.”

“She doesn’t do the orange marmalade ones.”

“You hate those.”

He doesn’t crack a smile, but he doesn’t have to. Of the five of us who left home to tour the world as Bro Code, Davis was always the most dangerous when it came to pranks.

Mostly because he looks so serious and above it all.

I scrub a hand over my face.

Yep. Totally caving to his demands, even suspecting he’ll be using them for evil. “Do you need them today?”

“By Christmas is fine.”

“Anything else?”

“Don’t flash me when you sit down.”

I tighten the tuck on my towel and roll my eyes. “Who’s she dating?”

“Stan Sheldon.”

It takes me a full second before I figure out why I know that name. “The car guy?”

“That face is exactly why she didn’t tell you.”

“My mother’s dating a used car salesman.”

“She’s dating a tycoon.”

Fine. Yes. She’s dating the guy who owns basically the entire Copper Valley new car sales industry. If there’s a car brand to be sold, he owns a dealership that sells it. It’s not the same as the used car market. And I shouldn’t judge used car salespeople. Just because the guy who sold me my first car sold me a lemon and knew it doesn’t mean they’re all corrupt assholes.

“The look on your face right now is why she hasn’t told you.”

I consider flashing him, even though he’s right. “So when is she going to tell us?”

“My sources say when she decides if it’s serious or not. He’s not the first guy she’s dated.”

“Good for her.” The words practically choke me. My mother’s been dating. And I didn’t know it. “Does Tripp know?”

“I’m a good friend, not a masochist. Telling Mr. Overprotective is a job for little brother.”

Or not.

Davis pulls himself off the couch. “Besides, you can hardly blow your temper on your mom for dating when you’re hooking up with a single mother yourself.”

“What the fuck?”

“You went to a book club. The store’s owner is the only person working there who’s both single and into men.”

“Maybe I was doing research.”

He smirks. “And that’s why you let her come to your place with cookies after her daughter gave you a concussion.”

“You have your own mother. Quit kissing up to mine for information.”

“Filling in for you, bro. Your mom misses you.”

And there goes the guilt again. “We took her out to dinner last week, and I’m taking time off for the holidays.”

He snags his book, then grabs a jacket off my chair. “Yeah. Noticed, with that holiday mini-tour you’re doing through half of December.”

“It’s five shows.” And I’m doing two charity concerts, and a couple virtual fan meet-and-greets for super active members of my fan club, now that I’m thinking about it.

And then there’s the shoot for the—huh.

Also, dammit.

I’m not taking time off.

I won’t see Mom. I won’t see Tripp and Lila and the kids, or anyone else from the neighborhood.

I won’t have time to see Ingrid.

Davis shoves his inked arms into his army green jacket. “Is it serious?”

“Is what serious?”

“You and Ingrid. I like her. She has spunk.”

“You—tell me you didn’t pull the mysterious overbearing stranger routine.”

He grins and snags his book.

His book. Did he get that book at Ingrid’s place?

Where’s my phone?

Bedroom. I texted Ingrid a picture. It’s in my bedroom.

“Me and Ingrid aren’t a thing.” The words choke me.

Davis knows it too. He’s giving me the all-knowing man-bun eyeball of liar. “Fake, secret, or blackmail?”

“Always one of those three, isn’t it?”

“You picked the life, dude.”

I did, and this is exactly why I haven’t gotten serious with anyone.

Infatuated? Yeah. Hard-core infatuated? A time or two. There’s a reason my mother hates Violet, my most notorious ex, the way she does. But every reason Ingrid gave me for not wanting to date me is exactly the reason I’ve never been willing to settle down myself.