Page 2 of The Merger

Except me.

Tate and I are more like brother and sister than anything. I love him as much as I hate him sometimes. He’s my partner in crime and the person I’d call if I had to bury a body, but the thought of anything remotely romantic with Tate makes me want to gag.

When we first met in college, I thought something would bloom between us. We were both young, good-looking, and available. He’s charming, and I’m a barrel of fun, so it felt inevitable. But the more time we spent together, the more we realized we weren’t a match—not like that.

He likes tall, thin brunettes. I’m five six, curvy, and strawberry blond. I like broody, emotionally unavailable older men. Tate is a golden retriever who falls in love fast and hard. He runs toward relationships while I check out when things get serious.

We’d be a match made in hell.

“Thanks for bringing this by,” he says, flashing his license at me before returning it to his wallet. “Where did you find it?”

“My pocket.”

He glares at me.

“Rude,” I say, taking a drink of my matcha.

“I looked for this all night, and it was in your pocket?”

“It wasn’t technically in my pocket, but that’s how it wound up at the bottom of my laundry basket. You’re lucky I found it.”

He snaps his wallet closed. “No,you’relucky you found it. You’re the one who took it from the cop yesterday and didn’t give it back to me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry I was too busy getting you out of a speeding ticket to remember to return your license.”

“You didn’t get me out of a ticket, Carys. Eighty-two in a seventy isn’t exactly speeding.”

I grin. “That’s not what Officer Charlie said.”

Tate leans back in his chair and shrugs. “Maybe not, but he didn’t give me a ticket.”

“He didn’t give you a ticket because I was wearing my good bra, and my cleavage was on point, buddy.”

“I didn’t get a ticket because twelve miles per hour over the limit isn’t exactly ticketable, and we all knew it.”

I sigh dramatically. “Typical male. You think you’re special and above the law while failing to read the room—or, in this case, the situation.”

“What in the world do you mean?”

“My ample cleavage was my way of saying thank you to the courageous public servant tasked with keeping our roads safe from entitled assholes like you.” I point a chipped nail in his direction.

“You’re so full of shit.” Tate chuckles. “What are you up to for the rest of the day, anyway?”

I paste on a fake smile that Tate sees right through.

“What?” he asks.

My shoulders fall. “I’m having dinner with my father and Aurora tonight.”

“How’s that situation going?”

“About as good as it’s going to get. At least now I know he’s capable of loving someone other than himself because I think he really does love her. Sheisforty years-old and looks twenty-five, though. I’m sure that helps.”

My stomach tightens, and the latte inside it sloshes uncomfortably.

The first thing I remember wishing for was my father to want me. I was six years old, and my parents had just divorced. Mom threw a party for all my first-grade friends. We were at the dining room table with six candles flickering on my unicorn cake. “Make a wish!” Mom said while the rest of the room sang “Happy Birthday.” I closed my little eyes tight, and with all the force I could muster, I wished for my daddy to show up that weekend as promised.

I didn’t share my wish with anyone, but he still didn’t come. So much for wishes coming true.