Then he shrugs. “I just . . . I don’t want to see you get hurt, Sofia. However . . . unintentionally it may happen.”
Brent’s a playboy, but he’s not a shit. He’s had casual lovers or girlfriends who were ready to take things to the next level, when he preferred to remain at their current cruising altitude. When those relationships ended, and emotions inevitably bruised, he’s always felt bad about it—guilty, even.
I tug at his sleeve affectionately. “I appreciate that, but it’s all good. That’s the beauty of friends with benefits—no one gets attached.”
Brent returns my smile and we’re back to jogging. “On a purely selfish note, it’d suck if our unit at the office got screwed up.”
“Our unit?”
He nudges me with his elbow. “Yeah—we’re kicking ass and taking names. We’re like the Avengers. The good ones, anyway.”
“Ooh!” I gasp, playing along. “Can I be Thor? I always liked the hammer.”
He pats my head. “No, you poor, foolish girl—you’re Black Widow, Jake’s the Hulk, Stanton’s Captain America.”
“And who are you?”
The metal of his prosthetic pings as he flicks it with his fingers, grinning. “I’m Iron Man.”
I raise a suggesting finger. “Just a thought—you might have better luck not getting hit on by high school girls if you gave up references to comic book superheroes.”
He purses his lips, considering. “Yeah, that’s not gonna happen.”
With another laugh, I concede, “Facial hair it is then.”
? ? ?
On Sunday morning, I get up early and make a big batch of p?o de queijo—Brazilian cheese rolls. I try to make them every week—with their light flaky outside and warm, gooey middle, they’re perfect for breakfast.
I take a hot cookie sheet out of the oven and put it on the counter to cool, when there’s a knock on the door. I open it to find Stanton—with a brand-new golf club over his shoulder—and Jake standing on my front steps.
“Hey,” I greet them, opening the door wider.
“Ready to school me, hot teacher?” Stanton asks as Sherman rears, trying to lick his face off.
“Ready, willing, and able. Are you coming golfing with us too, Jake?”
“No, I’m just here for the cheese balls.”
As I pour coffee for Stanton and Jake, there’s another knock at the door—this time it’s Brent.
“Hi.”
“Good morning.”
He walks into my living room, and though I already suspect the answer, I ask anyway. “What are you doing here so early?”
“It’s Sunday,” he explains, like he’s stating the obvious. “Cheese balls.”
And this is how traditions become traditions.
We sit around the table, finishing breakfast, when Stanton tosses a roll in the air for Sherman to catch. “Your dog’s getting kind of fat, Soph.”
I rub Sherman’s back and come to his defense. “He’s not fat! He’s just . . . big boned.”
Brent cocks his head appraisingly. “I don’t know, I think Stanton has a point. You may want to up his exercise regimen. You don’t want the other dogs at the park bullying him—calling him Fatty McChub-Chub.”
I frown at them both. “I have a dog walker come by three times a day.”
Jake chimes in. “I don’t think you’re paying her enough.”
Men are harshly straightforward. Mean, even. In a courtroom, these three guys are capable of being the epitome of tact and charisma. But among friends—they’re sledgehammers. Maybe it’s because I grew up with brothers, maybe their thought process rubbed off on me, but there’s something about that honesty that’s appealing. Comfortingly simple.
It’s that XY chromosomal directness that brings on Stanton’s next comment. “Did anyone else notice that dipshit Amsterdam staring at Sofia’s ass at the softball game yesterday?”
“I did,” Jake says, raising his hand.
“Like it had the cure for cancer written on it,” Brent adds.