“We’ll never get picked.”
“That’s not the kind of attitude I like to hear. We must manifest this shit. Come on, we were born to be on Family Feud. You and me during fast money? We’d annihilate. Steve Harvey wouldn’t know what to do with himself because we’d destroy it. And who knows, I’m not opposed to paying people off to get on the show.”
“I told you, we’ll get on the show on our own merit, not what number you can write down in your checkbook.”
“Yeah, but the checkbook would be a surefire way to make it happen.”
“Where are your morals, Breaker Cane?”
“Iffy at best when it comes to Family Feud.”
“I can see that.” Growing more serious, she says, “Thanks for hanging out with me tonight, and being my own personal hype man about my hair and my outfit. It truly did make me feel special.”
“Well, you should feel special. Because you are. I’ll hype you all day, every day.”
“And that is why you are my best friend,” she says.
Yeah, if only I was so much more.
Chapter Thirteen
LIA
Lia: What are you doing?
Breaker: Staring at my ceiling, dreading having to go to my brother’s house.
Lia: Sunday brunch?
Breaker: Yes, but all they’re going to do is fawn all over their wives while I sit there with a mediocre Bloody Mary in hand, watching them.
Lia: Oh, funny thing . . . I like mediocre Bloody Marys.
Breaker: Is this your way of inviting yourself?
Lia: I need more friends! I need girl friends, to be precise. Lottie and Kelsey seem cool, and if they’re going to be on our Family Feud team, then I need to get to know them.
Breaker: So you are inviting yourself?
Lia: Please . . . Pickle.
Breaker: Ugh, fine, but I swear to God, Lia, if you start spouting off embarrassing shit about me like you did at the last brunch before the wives were around, I’m going to kick you right in the crotch.
Lia: Oh no, not a kick to the crotch. shivers
Breaker: Yeah, a giant old foot right to the camel toe.
Lia: I had a camel toe ONCE! Do not use that against me.
Breaker: I can still see it like it was yesterday . . .
Lia: And you were saying you don’t WANT me to say anything embarrassing about you to your brothers . . .
Breaker: Oh, would you look at that? The camel-toe image vanished.
Lia: Funny how that works. When do I need to be ready?
Breaker: I leave in twenty. Dress slutty.
Lia: Slutty? Why?
Breaker: Might be fun to send Brian another picture.
Lia: Too soon, Breaker, too soon.
Breaker: LOL, noted. See you in twenty.
“I need to buy some of your cologne,” I say as we pull up to Huxley’s place, a large white coastal-style house with black-framed windows and accents. It’s beautiful with its manicured lawns and fresh flower boxes under the window. Picturesque. The type of house I’d want one day.
“Why do you need to buy some of my cologne?” Breaker asks as he parks in the circular driveway.
“It smells sublime. I think I want it for myself.”
“You can’t wear my cologne,” he says, giving me a strange look.
“Why the hell not?”
“Because we can’t smell like each other. Besides, I like the smell of your perfume. Viktor & Rolf really suits you.”
“It’s scary how you remember my perfume. I’m not sure Brian could even describe the scent to me if I asked him.”
“A subtle combination of rose, jasmine, and orchid,” he says, his eyes landing on me.
And then we stare at each other for a few seconds, in the car, with the world whipping around us. How does he know that? I wouldn’t be that precise with the way it smells, yet, Breaker knows everything.
Every last thing about me.
He knows that when I get my period, I get horrible migraines, and he’s always there with Ibuprofen, caffeine, and Sour Patch Kids.
He knows that I’m not that big on working out, but that sometimes I get in moods of wanting to work out, so he always has a variety of classes I can join when I come to him. He keeps them in a note in his phone.
He knows that without even having to ask, he buys Comic Con VIP tickets for us and thinks up our costume ideas because I love going. Still, I can’t handle the stress of it all, and I’d rather be told what to wear and when than to figure it out myself.
And apparently, he knows exactly what I smell like. Notes and all.
Not sure I could say the same about Brian. Then again, like Brian said, we have our entire lives to figure it all out.
So why does that sentiment feel sour on my tongue now?
“Come on,” he says while opening his car door. “I’m starving, and they’re serving make-your-own breakfast tacos.”
Shaking my head from any thoughts of Brian, I open my door as well, just as Breaker moves around his car and grabs the door for me.
“What are you doing?” I ask, looking up at him as my hand slides into his.
“Helping you out.”
“Why would I need help?”
“Uh, I don’t know . . . you don’t wear dresses often, so I wasn’t sure if you knew how to walk in one.”
I press my palm to his face, which causes him to laugh and pull away. “Can’t a guy be a gentleman without being chastised about it?”
“Can’t a girl wear a dress without being teased about it?”
His teasing falls flat right before he says, “You can, and if I didn’t say it before, you look beautiful, Lia.” Those bright blue eyes stare back at me, sincerity so heavy that it almost feels . . . real. Like him holding my hand is real, and his words are spoken from a different place, a place that isn’t just friendship.
“Thank you,” I say, waiting for him to guide us to the door, but he doesn’t.
He stays put, standing in front of me, his eyes scanning the navy-blue maxi dress I paired with a few gold necklaces. I styled my hair with some soft waves like the hairdresser did yesterday and added a heavy dose of mascara to make my eyes pop.
His hand reaches up to my hair, where he twists a few strands between his finger and thumb.
And for some reason, my breath catches when his eyes meet mine again.
“You don’t need a dress to look beautiful. You’re beautiful in just your flannel shorts and T-shirt, but you also look great in this.”
I swallow hard, my nerves feeling frayed because, what’s going on? It’s like a switch has been turned on in him . . . or turned off, and he’s more . . . affectionate. His compliments seem more intimate. And the way he looks at me has some hunger to it.
Before I can process anything, he slips his hand back into mine and tugs me toward the front door.
“Have you ever seen a breakfast taco bar?” he asks as if he didn’t just stare into my soul with his commanding eyes.
“Uh . . . no.”
“It’s fucking mouthwatering. Huxley gets it catered. There are mimosas, Bloody Marys—mediocre ones, of course—a giant fruit display, plus a variety of croissants that I’m pretty sure will rock your world. They’ve rocked mine a few times.” He pats his stomach.