Chapter Forty-One

“You’re going on a what?”

Lucy is standing in the doorway of our living room with her hands on her hips. She really has the whole outraged friend thing down to a fine art these days.

“A date,” I say, stabbing my lips with gloss in front of the hallway mirror. I knew she was going to kick off about this.

“A date with whom?”

“Jake’s half-brother,” I venture, half sheepish half defiant.

“You’re unbelievable! And you don’t sound nearly as weirded out by that as you should.”

My cell beeps. “Sorry, gotta go. My cab’s downstairs.” I grab my bag and bolt for the door before she has a chance to stop me.

“Charlie, wait!”

“I’ll fill you in on everything later, I promise!”

In the cab, Brad messages me the name of the restaurant. I chuck my cell back into my bag and hope it’s not too upscale. The only swanky places I like are six-star Moroccan hotels that come with a naked Jake Dalton as standard.

Don’t go there, Charlie. Don’t go there.

I’m wearing the only decent dress I have in my closet. It’s Lucy’s black bodycon from Morocco. I managed to fix the busted zip with the kitchen scissors this afternoon, and I’m determined to ignore both history and semantics tonight.

“Can I help you, madam?” A glassy-eyed, glossy-coiffured maître d’ pounces on me as soon as I creep inside the front door. The restaurant is chic but not nauseatingly so—a buzzing boutique hot spot where a cherry-red bougainvillea and pallid-pink climbing rose have exploded over the front porch in a vapor of color.

“She’s with me.”

Brad materializes to my left, and he’s all aftershave and dynamism. He looks incredible, as usual, like a reformed bad boy who’s kept that nuance of danger and rebellion about him. He’s swapped the black puffa for a dark blue three-piece, and his blond hair has been neatly brushed back off his face. Every woman in the vicinity is pivoting in his direction.

“You look amazing,” he says, kissing me chastely on the cheek. I stiffen as his lips graze my skin. I’m dining with the enemy. I want to turn and run, but my legs won’t allow it. Fortunately, Brad doesn’t seem to notice. He takes my arm and leads me over to our table, which is easily the best in the house.

“Tell me about your movie,” I blurt out as our waiter fusses with the wine cork. Brad’s already ordered something red and expensive.

“Murder mystery,” he says, tasting the wine and nodding approvingly.

“Can I presume Cassie gets decapitated and thrown in the River Thames in the first scene? Or have you built enough contingency into your budget for a record number of takes?”

Brad grins. “You really don’t like her, huh?”

“What’s there to like?” I take a large gulp of my wine.

“You know, she’s okay once you get to know her.”

“Do you want her back?” I start fiddling with my bread knife next. I can’t believe that the blight of my love life is a famous American actress with fake tits and the likeability factor of Osama bin Laden.

“Fuck, no!” Brad laughs. “She drives me up the wall. God knows how Jake put up with it for years.”

God knows, indeed.

“That’s the big difference between you and him, right there.” I drop the bread knife and take another gulp of wine. “If I’d asked him the same question, he would have changed the subject.”

“That’s not the only difference, I hope.”

“Well, we’re not fighting with each other…yet. That seemed to be the modus operandi in Morocco.” I grimace. “Do you think I’m insecure?”

Brad picks up the menu. “Not in the slightest. You’re one of the ballsiest women I know. I think Jake made you insecure.”

I sit back to contemplate that, but end up asking, “Who’s Sienna?”

Brad pauses a millisecond too long. “No idea,” he says, his eyes flicking back to his menu. “Are you ready to order?”

“Not yet. Tell me about your mother.”

He frowns and slaps the menu down on the table. “The smoked salmon mousse here is awesome. You should try it.”

“Nice change of subject there.” I shoot him a quick grin. “Turns out, you’re more like your brother than you think.”

Indigo switches to cold, hard steel and I feel the first wave of uneasiness.

“Sorry, bad choice of words,” I mutter.

“Don’t be.” Brad picks up the menu again, his expression thawing slightly.

The waiter arrives to take our order and is promptly sent packing.

“Jake told me a bit about her in Morocco. I know she left his father to be with yours.”

Brad seems bothered by this for some reason. “So, he did share something with you.”

“I caught him off guard. It was a moment of weakness.”

Don’t think about Marrakech. Don’t think about Marrakech.

“Jake…weak?” Brad’s eyebrows shoot up. “He’s a lot of things, Charlie, most of them unpleasant, but I’d never accuse him of that.” He starts to toy with his wineglass, his finger and thumb running grooves up and down the elegant stem. “Jake sided with his father after his parents divorced. He made my life hell.” Brad grits his jaw and I watch the muscles tense beneath his golden skin.

I can’t imagine Jake being vindictive. It’s not his style. He’s more a cold shoulder, leave-you-out-in-the-freezing-wilderness kind of a guy. Then again, he stole Cassie from Brad, which fits with the whole jealous older brother thing.

I glance up to find Brad watching me. He turns and signals for the waiter straightaway.

“Check, please.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, relief washing over me. “I’m in too much of a reflective mood to do this restaurant any justice tonight.”

He nods. “I think we both just lost our appetites. Let’s go find a bar instead.”

Outside, I brace myself against the breeze that’s whipping up the streets of East London. I’m used to the desert temperatures of Morocco, and I’m shaking like a leaf in Lucy’s dress.

“I’m sorry about dinner.”

He frowns and wraps his navy mohair jacket around my shoulders. “Don’t sweat it. Talking about Jake tends to turn my stomach, too. Let’s go lose ourselves in a bottle of something really expensive.”