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“It gets worse.” I mustered a smile, mainly so she could hear it in my voice. “They’re also going to leave a mark, and you know I’m the one who cleans the windows around here.”
Jokes aside, my mom had endured a terrible marriage with my father. When he passed away six years ago, I never thought she’d take a chance on love again. I was glad one of us had. Hell knew I wasn’t touching another man, ever, with a ten-foot pole.
“Are you ready for a sibling?” Cal teased. From the silence echoing around her, I gathered Row was done trying to molest his wife and was actually paying attention to the conversation.
“Thanks. I already vomited in my mouth.”
“I’d say you might be pregnant, but I’ve met nuns who get more action than you.” Cal laughed. “Didn’t she know you were coming?”
“I was supposed to do a double shift, but it was a slow night, so Dahlia sent me home early.”
“Where are you now?” Cal asked.
“Seeking refuge in the comfort of Jimmy.” I reached to wipe a thick layer of dust from the dashboard. “But the driver’s door just fell off, so I’m not even cozy and warm.”
“This is definitely not your day,” my bestie said sympathetically. “I’m sending cake.” Pause. “And a charger for your Magic Wand, because I know you keep losing yours.”
Row gagged in protest in the background. Good. I’d had to see and hear him defiling my childhood best friend on a monthly basis ever since they got together. The least I could do was inflict my own damage back.
“Chargers have legs,” I protested, forcing out a laugh that felt metallic and rusty in my throat. “There’s no other explanation as to why they keep disappearing. So are you in Cannes now?”
Row and Cal split their time between New York and London. Row had Michelin-starred restaurants in both cities, but they liked to travel all over.
“Yup. We’re going back to London tomorrow morning, probably for a good stretch of time. Row is opening a new restaurant in Edinburgh. He’d like me and Serafina close by.”
Serafina was my niece. She’d just turned two and had her mom’s huge blue eyes, her dad’s wild onyx curls, and the neighboring opera singer’s lungs. The girl could scream her way to a catastrophic earthquake.
“Dylan…” Cal hesitated. “I have an idea.”
She and Row always had ideas. All of them revolved around trying to fix my fucked-up life. Not that I blamed them. My existence was the kind of pitiful that demanded intervention.
“No,” I sighed, using the bases of my palms to rub my eye sockets. “All I have left is my pride.”
“You sure you still have that?” Row drawled sarcastically.
“Ha-ha. Fuck you.”
“No thanks, Dyl. And for the record, your standards have plummeted in the past few years. Incest is not a cute kink.”
“Shuddup, shuddup, shuddup.” I kicked my gas pedal, wanting to kill someone.
“We’re going to need someone to house-sit our New York apartment,” Cal plunged on, ignoring our antics. “Why don’t you do it? You’ve always wanted to live in New York.”
Yes, but that was before.
Before I realized I’d never go to college.
Before I got knocked up and had a kid at twenty-three.
Before the baby daddy left me publicly for the town’s crooked mayor, with whom he had an affair.
“Dude, what are you talking about? I can’t afford life in New York.” I barked out a laugh.
“What’s to afford?” Row butted into the conversation, his voice dark, gruff, and perpetually sneering. “We’re going to hire someone anyway. You won’t pay rent, because you’ll live in our apartment. Groceries are taken care of—they’ll arrive at your door twice a week. You just need to clean up the fridge and the pantry. Utilities are also included. I’ll throw in some admin work for you and put you on the company’s payro—”
“No.” A panicky squeak wrestled its way out of my throat. “I don’t want to be another nepo hire of yours.”
Ambrose “Row” Casablancas loathed most people, so when he stumbled across someone he didn’t completely hate, he tended to hire them on the spot. That was how he’d ended up working with his childhood friend, Rhyland, for half a decade before they parted ways. It was why he became good friends with his business partner, Tate. Why he let Mama work for him as a “social media influencer” for the crazy sum of $250K a year, even though he didn’t have any Instagram, TikTok, Facebook, or X accounts.