America's Geekheart (Bro Code #2)(80)
She has a bookshelf next to her bed with an eclectic mix of science fiction and romance novels, all with well-worn spines, but not so worn that I couldn’t read the titles when I zoomed in on the picture. And the reading lamp suggests the books aren’t just for decoration.
There’s a painting—impressionist era—of a child in a straw field, and another of Monet’s waterlilies. Very similar to the painting I have in my guest room, which feels like serendipity.
Serendipity.
Sarah.
It’s impossible to think of her names without smiling.
Also, those fuckers who posted her picture from paint night in the gossip pages this morning speculating that she sleeps in a custom rocket ship bed with posters of David Bowie in Neverending Story and blueprints for how to get through the toughest Pac-Man levels can rot in hell.
Not that there would be anything wrong with her bedroom however she wanted to put it together, but because they’re trying to box her in with one part of her personality.
They keep trying to tear her down.
While my popularity rating keeps skyrocketing like I’m not the reason she’s in this mess in the first place.
If she’ll let me, I’m taking her to Shipwreck and away from all this once tonight’s gala is over.
Except she posted another blog this morning.
This one’s about the science of gossip, public shamings, and trolls.
My girl is hitting back. She ignored every last troll comment, but she started tweeting back to people who were talking about actual science stuff.
She’s fucking blooming.
And I haven’t seen her in too many hours.
Not even Tripp’s proposition about the Fireballs yesterday can distract me from thinking about her.
I have it bad. But in the best way.
“You never done one of these before?” Dad asks me while he’s flipping through the channels. Mom and Ellie are having their hair and makeup done in the guest room by one of my people, but Dad, Wyatt, and I don’t have to get ready just yet. Tucker’s hanging with Tripp and his kids and mom tonight, which sounds better than what we’re about to do, if you ask me.
Except for the part where Sarah’s not there.
“One of what?” I ask Dad.
He looks at my bouncing knee. “One of these benefit dinner things.”
I force myself to quit fidgeting. “Oh. Yeah. Tons. Remember, I took Mom to an awards gala two years ago in Milan?”
He smiles. “Said she couldn’t understand a damn word anybody said, but the eye candy was spectacular.”
“Pretty sure the problem’s that he’s never had a real date before,” Wyatt offers.
“Ah. That makes sense.”
I don’t argue with them, because they’re not wrong.
Not entirely, anyway. I’ve been on dates.
Tons of dates, especially if you count the ones that didn’t end with a woman in my bed.
But none where I felt like the fate of my heart rested on it going well.
And none in the last five or so years where I was willing to risk my heart for the woman who will be on my arm.
I trust her.
I trust her.
That’s kinda…huge.
“Your mother said her dress is beautiful,” Dad tells me.
“She’d be beautiful in a paper bag,” I reply.
Or preferably without anything at all.
And there I go getting stiff as a marble rolling pin again.
After a while, we pull our tuxes on, and Mom and Ellie emerge from the guest bedroom looking like dark-haired angels of mischief. Mom’s in a soft blue long-sleeve gown that I should probably be able to tell you all the technical terms for, but women’s evening wear, shoes, and purses are three places I refuse to go with my fashion lines.
Both of them have their hair curled and pinned with jewels, and Mom looks twenty years younger.
All of us stare at Ellie expectantly until she lifts the hem of her burgundy gown to reveal she’s in flats, because even though she barely has a limp anymore after recovering from her accident, we all know heels aren’t her wisest choice.
“Good girl,” Wyatt says.
She rolls her eyes, but she also smiles and presses a kiss to his cheek, then wipes the lipstick off. “I thought you were wearing your fancy uniform.”
“Didn’t want to show up your brother when he needs to look good.”
“Oh, or drag the Air Force into it if he makes an ass of himself again. Right. Got it.”
“Hush,” Mom tells her, though I probably deserved that, and it’s delivered with a teasing grin that softens the blow. “Everyone makes mistakes. Like you hating Wyatt for twenty years.”
“Totally different,” she replies with a happy smile.
“Completely,” Wyatt agrees, though he’d agree with anything she said if he thought it would get him laid.
Fucker. That’s still my sister.
“Are you all ready?” Charlie breezes into my kitchen in a slinky black dress and fancy ’do, phone clutched in her fist. “Our ride’s here. Time for Sarah and dinner.”
My stomach growls.
My cock might too at the mention of Sarah’s name, but thankfully, it’s really quiet about it. And I tell it to simmer down, because I’m not getting pictures taken of me sporting a boner on the night I’m supposed to be making the ultimate I’m sorry to Sarah and the world.