Page 87

“You’re disgusting,” I mutter.

“And yet, you’re here,” she sing-songs, not even glancing up as she adds a coat of glitter to Lynsie’s ring finger. “Which means I’m not wrong.”

“I’ll start,” Lynsie volunteers, her smirk practically weaponized. “Joely’s in love.”

I choke on my own spit. “Wow. Just straight to the slander.”

“She’s been in love since grade school,” Lynsie continues, holding her finger up to admire the sparkle. “And now, she’s climbing ladders and rearranging signage like she’s auditioning for a Hallmark movie calledLove in All Caps.”

I blink at her. “Okay, first of all, amazing title. Second, rude.”

“Third,” Gisele chimes in, “accurate. You’ve been a hot mess since the Slammer’s party.”

I drop my head back and groan. “Because the party was… athing. And afterward was definitely athing. And now everything is different, and he keeps saying he needs time because of his contract. Which I understand, but it feels like my heart’s on a bungee cord and he’s holding the other end.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Gisele whistles low. “Shit.”

“Yeah.” I scrub my face. “That’s the problem. I think I’m in over my head.”

“You’ve been under for years, sweetie,” Lynsie says, no heat in her voice now. “You just finally surfaced.”

Gisele sets down her polish and walks over, leaning a hip on the counter. “You want my unsolicited opinion?”

“No,” I say.

“You’re getting it anyway,” she says. “Brogan Foster might be built like a Norse god and have abs that deserve their own calendar, but he’s emotionally stunted and dumb as a bag of pucks when it comes to love.”

“I’m not arguing,” I sigh.

“But,” she continues, “he lights up when you walk into a room. And he’s never once looked at a puck bunny the way he looked at you when you wore that dress.”

I flush. “That was just—”

“That wasnotjust anything,” Lynsie says. “He stared at you like you’d personally invented cleavage.”

Gisele nods. “Girl. That man’s soul left his body. He had to reboot. You think he wants time? Please. He wants forever. He just doesn’t know how to admit it without screwing it up.”

I sit here, heart pounding, torn between hope and panic.

“What do I do?” I whisper.

“Keep showing up,” Lynsie says simply.

“And maybe,” Gisele adds, “don’t use coasters next time. Just write it on his damn forehead.”

Lynsie giggles. “That would be funny.”

“Okay.” Gisele settles on the arm of the chair like the queen of sass she is. “Let’s rank the Slammers. From Most Likely to Be a Secret Romantic... to Most Likely to Use Axe Body Spray as cologneandforeplay.”

“I’m scared,” I say. “But also—I’m listening.”

Lynsie perks up. “Okay, Heath’s secretly a romantic. I don’t care what anyone says. My brother blushes when you say the word ‘feelings.’ And he blasts Alanis Morissette whenever he’s drowning in unrequited love.”

Gisele points a glitter-tipped nail. “Agreed. Heath has major cuddler energy.”

“I think Gage writes poetry in a leather-bound journal he hides in his sock drawer,” I add.