Page 5 of Bordeaux Bombshell (Sunshine Cellars #3)

Sydney

A truce? He wants a truce? Is that not what we’ve had since he came back?

Maggie: Mutually assured destruction is not the same as a truce.

I love my almost sister-in-law, but I hate it when she’s right. I throw my phone down and flop back on the bed. Turning my face, I scream into the pillow, releasing a hair of the rage that never seems to go away these days.

Why couldn’t he stay in France, where I didn’t have to see his stupid face at every holiday and family gathering? Where I didn’t have to choose between my family and the man who makes me see red simply by breathing within fifty feet of me.

Who used to be like a brother.

And then my best friend.

Then more than a friend.

And then a ghost.

I scream into my pillow one more time for good measure, then pick up my phone.

Me: If I didn’t love you so much, I would be a brat about this.

But since I love you and I love my brother, I promise to play nice until the wedding is over.

But playing nice doesn’t mean I have to seek out his company.

It means I will be civil and polite when we are in company. That’s all I can promise.

Her reply pops up almost instantly.

Maggie: And you haven’t been a brat before now?

This is followed by a series of raised-eyebrow emoji. I roll my eyes because I can’t deny it, but that doesn’t mean I’ll admit it out loud. “Whatever,” I say to the ceiling. “Maybe having a sister isn’t as great as I thought it would be.”

I slip into the warmth of my bed, the sheets gliding over my skin.

Buying two high-quality sets of sheets was my one splurge last year, and I haven’t regretted it a day since.

No man has ever slept on these babies, and I intend to keep it that way, even if my family and friends are convinced otherwise.

My home is my sanctuary. Out in public, I put on a show. I’m loud, I’m difficult—the badass-bordering-on-bitch everyone expects to see. But here, in my home, and especially in my bedroom, I get to fall apart. I can be cozy and soft because no one is demanding I be anything else.

Of course, with the quiet comes the memories. Memories Nate did his best to stir up when he showed up here unannounced. I need to remember to murder Kel for giving him the idea that we needed to be on speaking terms again.

Speaking is not required for the role he plays in my life now.

Annoyed and angry all over again, I grab my phone and do what I always do when I need a distraction from myself—I open up one of my dating apps and start swiping.

Which is ruder? To make disgusting wet noises as you vacuum tiny bits of meat off chicken wings? Or to walk out of the date because the teeth-sucking sounds gross you out?

Asking for a friend. Who is me.

I should have canceled the date when he suggested the restaurant, but even though I hate chicken wings, I figured there had to be something else on the menu I could eat.

My salad and onion rings are surprisingly good, but the sounds this man is making while he slurps minuscule bits of meat off the bones pinched between his fingers are ruining my appetite.

I didn’t even set up an emergency bailout with Payton because I was too distracted thinking about the way Nate’s lips had almost brushed against my ear the other night.

Stabbing my fork into the salad and silently cursing myself for swiping while angry, I let the din of the other diners drown out my date’s nasty eating habits.

“You sure you don’t want one?” He waves a chicken wing toward me, his sauce-covered fingers making it look twice as big. “I don’t mind sharing.”

Rolling my eyes at his exaggerated wink, I concentrate on chewing my mouthful and swallowing. “It’s fine, really. I don’t like chicken wings.”

My date goes back to sucking his food. “How can you not like wings? That’s so un-American of you.”

“Not wanting to eat something because it’s too much work is actually the most American thing ever,” I argue back. “They’re too much work for such a small payoff. And I’m pretty sure people have been eating wings for as long as there have been chickens—which definitely pre-dates America.”

Gavin, Brent—or maybe Travis?—barks out a laugh that turns into a choking cough. Still hacking, he points at me between rounds of thumping a fist against his chest. I assume he thought my comment was hilarious, which is true, but his red face and short breaths aren’t enough to hold my attention.

My gaze wanders over the decor as I wait for him to get it together.

Families and groups of friends are scattered around the brightly lit restaurant.

Our booth is off to one side, by the kitchen.

Nothing about this place is romantic. I’d give him a pass for the lack of charm if he had put more than thirty seconds of thought into planning this date.

And if his eyes hadn’t been glued to the TV behind me for most of the evening.

With one last wet gasp, GavinBrentTravis manages to get himself under control. “You’re really funny, you know that?”

“I do, actually.” I pause to sip my soda. “But thank you.”

“For a gir—wait. Did you just say you know?” GBT gapes at me.

I lean back in my seat, tired of this game already. Damn me for not setting up a way to bail ahead of time. “Yes. I know I’m funny. Is that a problem?”

“Um, I guess not.” He frowns, and I bite back a snarky reply while he takes a pull of his beer. “Girls just usually don’t say things like that.”

I shrug. “I always had to keep up with my older brother and his friends. I learned early to be funny if I didn’t want to get left out. And I’m a fully grown woman, not a girl.”

“Uh. Right.” GBT leans back, copying my pose by crossing his arms over his barrel chest. After a second, he grimaces, then pulls out several napkins from the holder on the end of the table. He tips his undrunk glass of water over the pile, then wipes his hands with the wet napkins.

Against my better judgment, I compare them to Nate’s long fingers. There isn’t a chance in hell I would let those sauce-covered digits anywhere near my pussy. I’d probably end up with a yeast infection.

We limp along for a little while longer, the conversation stilted until the server catches my look of desperation and brings us the check. As we sign our receipts, we mutually agree this isn’t going anywhere, that we won’t call each other, and there will not be a second date.

Stupid fucking Nate is still on my mind when I pull out of the parking lot.

Is it more unforgivable to be a coward or disgusting?

At least Nate doesn’t make mouth noises as he chews.

I slap my palm against my steering wheel with an angry grunt.

I refuse to give him mental kudos for having decent manners.

He’s still undesirable number one. Forever.

I’m halfway home when my phone lights up with my brother’s name. Answering, I grimace at my nephew’s wails coming through the speaker. “I really wish you’d called me thirty minutes ago. What’s up? Is Jordan okay?”

“I don’t suppose you could come stay here with Olive while Maggie and I take him to urgent care, could you?

I’m pretty sure it’s an ear infection, but Tylenol isn’t helping his fever, and Maggie and I would rather not drag her with us if we can help it.

” Trust Kel not to beat around the bush.

It’s easy to forget about the years he spent as an emergency room nurse before going to culinary school, but the assurance in his voice is audible even over his infant son’s wails.

“Absolutely. On my way for a sleepover with my favorite niece. Tell Olive to get into her jammies and pick out a movie.”

I hang a right instead of a left at the next intersection and pray for green lights.

The traffic gods smile at me, and I make it there in record time.

A frazzled Maggie opens the door at my knock, her brown hair tied up in a messy bun, her gray T-shirt dotted with wet spots, and a tired smile on her face.

Jordan is draped over her shoulder, grumbling and hiccupping as she bounces.

“Oh, you look nice. You weren’t on a date, were you? Oh god, I’m so sorry!”

I wave her off, stepping inside and peering at Jordan’s miserable little face. “Oh, poor thing. And you didn’t interrupt—I was already on my way home.”

I kick off my heels by the door, dropping my purse on the small table beneath the coat hooks. Right as I hang my jacket up, Olive barrels into me, wrapping her arms around my hips. “Hi, Aunt Sydney.”

Kel is two steps behind her, dropping a kiss on the top of my head.

“You’re a lifesaver, Syd.” He eyes his daughter, who’s twisting from side to side, taking me with her.

“She has some math homework to finish before she’s allowed to watch anything.

And bedtime is still eight thirty, whether we’re home or not. ”

“Ugh, not math. I hope you can teach it to me, Pickle, ’cause I’m terrible at it.

” I wink at Kel over her head, and he hides a grin, knowing I was the one who tutored both him and Nate through Algebra II their senior year.

“Go ahead, we’ll get it done and be in bed on time. I promise. Just keep me updated.”

“You can borrow some sweats if you want,” Maggie calls over her shoulder as she heads outside, Kel already opening the passenger door for her. “Clean ones are in the second drawer.”

“Thanks,” I call back, waving them off.

Olive tugs on my hand, pulling me through the house. “Come on.”

“What’s the homework?” I glance at the kitchen, making a mental note to clean up the dirty plates that are piled in the sink, along with some pots and pans.

“Multiplication.” Olive makes a face as she pulls out a chair at the dining table, a worksheet already on the table in front of her. “I’m almost done, though.”

“Do you need help or just company while you finish?” I slide into the seat beside her, peeking at the sheet. There are only two rows of equations left, and she’s already answered two while we’ve been talking.

“Just company. And maybe help if it’s a seven times table.

I always forget those ones.” Her brown curls bounce while she writes, a contrast to the sandy blond that Kel and I share.

Her mom, June, has the same hair, but Olive has Kel’s nose and chin.

And the extreme self-confidence that Kel, June, me and now Maggie have been encouraging since she was a baby.

She finishes the math problems in less than fifteen minutes, then bops over to the TV, where she subjects me to some Disney Channel show that feels an awful lot like every other show I watched as a kid, before getting ready for bed.

There was a time in my life I thought she would have a cousin or two to play with by now. Instead, the poor kid just gets screw-up Aunt Sydney, who can’t get a second date or afford a place with a backyard.

But I do killer voices when I read out loud from her book, and I stay snuggled on the bed until she falls asleep, so I guess I’m good for something after all.