Page 39

“Ew. Why?”
“Promise you won’t say ew again.”
“I’ll try not to.”
I took a deep breath. “We, uh, had sex while we were in California.”
She didn’t react.
“He didn’t tell you, did he?”
Tara opened the oven door. “This will cook faster if we broil it. But then, it will probably burn.” She closed the door. “Listen. It’s obvious to everyone, even Ava’s husband—who I sometimes wonder if he’s really a spy—that you and Brand are crazy about each other. I’d go so far as to suggest you’re in love. That you had sex doesn’t surprise me. That he’s staying on the fifth floor does.”
The timer went off on the bread. “We’ll have to continue this conversation another time.” I carried the bowl of pasta to the table and asked everyone to be seated.
I’d intended to wait until every guest found a spot, but when Brand pulled out a chair for me, it would’ve been rude to not accept it.
Conversation flowed easily throughout the meal. The only person who needed to be coaxed into participating was the guest of honor. While he wasn’t the least bit surly, he was reserved. He smiled easily and complimented the “perfectly prepared entrée.” Our arms occasionally touched, but otherwise, he kept his hands to himself.
A couple of times, I caught him looking at the envelope his father had handed to him earlier but suggested he open in private. That, along with my mixed messages, must have had him perplexed—intricately so, as Tara had said. I snickered, remembering her words.
“What’s funny?” Brand leaned over and asked.
“Something your sister said.”
“She’s humorous, that one.”
I laughed again when he rolled his eyes.
“I’m curious,” he added.
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Yes, later. We have much to talk about later.” He shifted in his chair, facing me with his back to the rest of those seated at the table, and leaned closer so his mouth was near my ear. “Is it terrible of me to be anxious for them all to leave?”
Before I could respond, he faced the table once again and asked Aine, who was seated on the other side of him, to pass the garlic bread.
My friends insisted on helping clean up at the conclusion of our meal to give me time to put the finishing touches on dessert—a Swiss meringue celebration cake. I hadn’t made it myself; there wasn’t time, but the baker, who delivered it personally, made sure I knew the correct placement of the sprinkles and made me promise not to spoil it with more than the one thin sparkler he left with me.
“Can someone please dim the lights?” I asked once the candle was shooting sparks in every direction. I held the cake out in front of me and carried it to the counter where Brand stood.
Rather than the obligatory birthday song, we all wished him many happy returns and watched as he attempted to blow out the candle I wasn’t certain could go out without a fire extinguisher.
“I hope you made a wish,” said Tara after he was successful.
Brand raised his head and looked into my eyes. “It’s the same one I’ve wished for every year since I was eighteen.”
“I thought you didn’t celebrate birthdays,” I said softly.
“I still made a wish.” Our hands were resting close enough on the counter for him to brush mine with his little finger. “What about you, Butterfly? What do you wish for?”
“If you tell someone, it won’t come true.”
He leaned closer so our arms touched. “You can tell me. I’m the one with the power to grant it.”
He was certainly right about that, but would he?
Fearing Brand’s mother and father might linger after the others left, I suggested we all walk out together. Brand retrieved his mother’s coat, and I handed Richard’s to him.