“We’re out of booze.”
I roll my eyes at Evan, who’s sprawled on the living room couch with one arm flung over the edge. The coffee table I built last weekend is already stained with beer and covered with cigarette butts. Someone must’ve knocked over the overflowing ashtray last night, during another one of Evan’s impromptu parties.
“It’s noon on Sunday,” I tell my brother. “You don’t need booze. Chug some water, for fuck’s sake.”
“I’m not saying I want a drink right now. But someone needs to make a beer run. We’re hosting poker night tomorrow.”
By “someone,” he clearly means me, because he promptly closes his eyes and says, “Take Daisy with you. She likes riding in the truck.”
I leave Evan to his beauty sleep and whistle for the dog. I don’t normally let my brother order me around, but truth is, I’m feeling stir crazy.
I didn’t join in on last night’s drunken festivities. Instead, I spent most of the night in my workshop, went to sleep before midnight, and was abruptly awakened at seven a.m. by a disturbing, X-rated dream about Mackenzie. I was in bed with her, on top of her, thrusting deep while she moaned against my lips. Then I lifted my head and Mac’s face transformed into that chick Sutton’s face, which jolted me right out of slumber.
Swear to God, this girl has wreaked havoc on my brain. Doesn’t matter if I’m asleep or awake—thoughts of Mackenzie Cabot poison my consciousness and drum up a whole slew of emotions I’d rather not feel.
Anger, because she’d chosen Kincaid over me.
Frustration, because I know there was something real between us.
Guilt, because my original intentions had been shadier than shady.
And for the past couple days? Disgust. Because, in order to divert her friends’ suspicions that we might know each other, she forced me to pretend to be my twin brother—and then had the nerve to bitch about me hooking up with another girl. Not that Sutton and I even hooked up. We went for a walk and then I put her in a cab. But still. Mackenzie had no right to be pissed. She’s the one who kissed the hell outta me and then bid me fucking adieu.
“Come on,” I mutter to Daisy. “Let’s go buy some beer for your boyfriend.”
When she sees me reaching for her leash, the golden retriever dances happily at my feet. We head out to my truck, and I open the passenger side door so Daisy can jump up. She only recently learned how to do that. Before, she’d been too little, but now her legs are in that gangly teenager stage, giving her enough leverage to leap higher. She’s growing so damn fast.
“Too bad Mac can’t see you,” I muse to the dog, whose curious, excited gaze is glued out the window. Each time the wind tickles her nose, she releases a high-pitched yip. She derives joy from the simplest pleasures.
In town, I grab a few cases of beer, along with a bottle of tequila and some snacks. As I stow my purchases in the cab, someone calls my name.
I turn to see Tate striding down the sidewalk toward me. He’s holding aviator sunglasses in one hand, and his keys and phone in the other.
“Hey,” I greet him. “How’s it going?”
“Good. I’m meeting Wyatt at Sharkey’s for lunch if you want to tag along.”
“Yeah, I’m in.” The last thing I feel like doing right now is going home and cleaning up the mess Evan left. “Lemme grab Daisy.”
“Oh, hell yes,” Tate says when he notices the dog’s head poking out the passenger window. “Bring the chick magnet.”
Most of the bars and restaurants in the Bay are dog friendly—particularly Sharkey’s, where the staff brings out water bowls and treats for canine guests. Once Tate and I climb the rickety wood staircase up to the second floor of the bar, Daisy is treated like the queen she thinks she is.
“Oh my goodness!” the waitress up front exclaims, pure delight in her eyes. “Look at this cutie! What’s her name?”
“Daisy,” Tate answers for me, then takes the leash from my hand as if to claim ownership of the puppy. “And you are?”
“Jessica,” chirps the waitress. Now she’s all starry-eyed, because she notices Tate’s golden-boy looks. Dude has the infallible ability to dazzle every woman he meets.
This isn’t to say I don’t attract my fair share of attention. It’s just a different kind of attention.
When women look at Tate, they’re struck with romantic notions of weddings and babies.
With me, they see raw, dirty sex. Joke’s on them, though. Tate is the biggest slut in the Bay. Jessica must be new in town, otherwise she’d be well aware of this fact.
“Let me show you to your table,” Jessica says, and then she, Tate, and my dog saunter off.
With a grin, I trail after them, silently betting that Tate will have secured her number before we even pick up our menus.
I lose. He doesn’t get it until she delivers our waters.
“Good job, partner,” Tate tells Daisy, who’s sitting at his feet and gazing up at him adoringly.
Wyatt arrives about ten minutes later. Since Ren isn’t with him, I assume they’re still broken up.
“No Ren?” Tate wrinkles his forehead. “She hasn’t taken you back yet?”
“Nope.” After greeting Daisy with a pat on the head, Wyatt plops himself on the stool across from me and grabs a menu. Then he sets it down without reading it. “Who am I kidding? We all know I’m getting the fish sandwich.”
“What’s taking Ren so long to forgive you?” Tate asks, grinning. “Your epic reunions usually happen fairly fast.”
“She’s dragging it out this time,” Wyatt complains. “She went out with some meathead from her gym last night and sent me a selfie of them watching The Bachelorette together because she knew it’d piss me off.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Why would that piss you off?”
“Because it’s our favorite show, dickhead. She’s goddamn TV-cheating on me with a guy who wears mesh tank tops.”
Tate snickers. “Are you more upset about the fact that Ren’s watching a dumb reality show without you, or that she might be banging a gym bro?”
Wyatt waves his hand. “She’s not banging him. It’s just revenge dating. Like when I went out with that chick who works at the surf school after Ren threw out all my band shirts without asking.”
“Didn’t you end up screwing the surf school chick?” Tate says in confusion.
Wyatt stares at him. “That was you, dumbass.”
After a few seconds of pensive recollection, Tate nods decisively. “Oh yeah. You’re right.” He grins. “That chick was wild. She convinced me to try Viagra for the first time. Long night.”
Laughter sputters from my throat.
“You took Viagra without me, bro?” Wyatt accuses.
I laugh even harder. “Since when is it a team activity?” I howl at Wyatt.
Jessica returns to take our food orders and proceeds to flirt shamelessly with Tate. “Does this cutie like walks?”
He winks. “This cutie loves walks.”
“I meant the dog.”
“So did I,” he says innocently.
“I’m off in about an hour. Why don’t you and Daisy meet me on the beach once you’re done eating and I clock out?”
Before I can remind Tate that Daisy isn’t his dog, he flashes his dimples at the waitress and says, “It’s a date.”
As Jessica saunters off, I roll my eyes. “Are you seriously using my puppy to get laid?”
“Of course. I told you, puppies are chick magnets.” He shoves a strand of hair off his forehead. “Just let me borrow her for a few hours, dude. You know I’m good with dogs. I’ve got three at home.”
“Fine. But I’m not hanging around town on your account. Drop her off at my place later. Her dinnertime’s at five. Don’t be late, asshole.”
Tate grins. “Yes, Dad.”
“You think if I had Daisy with me when I go to see Ren, I’d have a better shot at winning her back?” Wyatt asks thoughtfully.
“Definitely,” Tate says.
Wyatt’s head swivels toward me. “Can I borrow her tomorrow?”
My friends are idiots.
Then again, so am I. Because when my phone buzzes and Mac’s name flashes on the screen, I don’t do the smart thing and ignore the call.
I answer it.
