My gaze slides away from his knowing blue eyes, skids along the perfection of his round biceps, and halts on the drink in his large hand. It’s wrapped in a thick cloth napkin to keep it warm.

“You see,” he says in that low, rumbly voice, speaking only to me. “There’s only one coffee shop that makes a truly exceptional flat white, and it’s thirty blocks from here.”

My gaze flies up to collide with his, shock parting my lips. Months ago, I’d said Nova Coffee was the only place I’d found that makes the perfect flat white—“a truly exceptional one.” Rye went thirty blocks out of his way to get me one.

His expression is bland, but there’s a small spark in his eyes as he hands me my coffee. A peace offering? An acknowledgment?

Numbly, I take it, still staring back at him. We’re far enough from the rest of the group that they can’t hear us, but it doesn’t shake the sensation of being stuck under a blinding spotlight.

“Got you one of those lemon butter cookies you like as well.” Quietly, he slips a small bag into my nerveless grip.

But not covertly enough.

“How come Brenna gets a cookie?” Whip complains.

Rye keeps his gaze on me and raises his voice enough to answer. “She’s the one most likely to kick my ass for being late.”

“I thought that was Scottie,” Jax says, his green eyes impish.

Rye doesn’t blink. “He got his twist of lemon.”

“Well done, you.” Scottie lifts his tea with a small salute. Rye managed to remember that Scottie—the ultra-snob—likes his tea in a ceramic container.

How do you fault an effort like that?

“Is this a bribe?” I ask in a low voice.

That’s how.

Rye’s expression flickers, the light in his eyes dimming a little. His smile is small and tight. “It’s an extended apology. For the shaming thing.”

“Oh.” Damn it all, this isn’t what we do. We bicker. Only he’s not playing by our rules. Pressing my lips together, I try to think of something, anything to get us back on familiar ground. But I can’t ignore what he’s done for me. “Thank you. For the coffee. And the cookie.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, and I know he’s holding in a laugh at my horribly stilted response. Shifting my weight, I clutch my cookie and try again. “It was nice of you.”

“What bothers you more?” he murmurs idly. “Accepting that I might not be a total asshole? Or the possibility that we might start being nice to each other?”

A reluctant laugh bubbles up to the surface, but I hold it in. “Right now, it’s a fifty-fifty split.”

His mouth curls in a lazy grin. “I hope to afford you more clarity in the future.”

The retort dies in my mouth as realization hits. “Did you just quote Pride and Prejudice?”

“How many times did you watch that movie on the last tour?”

Too many, apparently. I stand there, dumbfounded and rudderless in this new Rye world.

Rye’s attention snags on my parted lips. His lids lower a fraction, and I swear he’s closer. Heat blooms under my silk blouse and tickles my skin.

“For the record, if I have to resort to bribery,” he whispers. “Then it won’t mean anything.”

Chapter Four

Rye

 

“Ball!”

The warning breaks through my fog just a touch too late, and stars explode behind my lids as I’m pinged in the side of my head by a basketball. “Fuck!”

Laughing, Whip trots over to me. “Dumbass. What the hell are you doing, standing there like a dolt?”

“Standing like a dolt?” I offer, rubbing my head before bending to pick up the ball. I chuck it back to him as Killian and Jax amble over. They’re both grinning, loving my pain. Assholes.

“Got good sound out of that head,” Jax says.

I flip him the bird.

“You’ve been staring off into space for half of the game.” Killian peers at me. “You high or something?”

“Just not in the mood to play terrible ball with you guys.”

Fact is, we pretty much suck at basketball right now. Mainly because Whip is a goof on the court, I’m distracted, my hand fucking hurts, and Jax and Killian keep giving each other advice on what to get their women for Christmas. It’s October, fucking October, and they’re fretting. I’d pity them, except they’re so damn content, I end up envying them instead.

Which blows.

A total disaster waiting to happen.

I wince at the memory of Brenna’s declaration. It’s not like I wasn’t expecting resistance. Or her shock. And she’s likely right. We’re a disaster now. Adding sex to it would be pouring alcohol onto the flames. But none of that stops me from feeling sucker punched. There’s this weird hole of regret and disappointment expanding in my chest. I rub at it as I walk to my water bottle to take a sip.

Whip reaches for his water and eyes me as he drinks. “Seriously, what’s going on? You look…” His gaze narrows in assessment. “Spooked.”

“Spooked?” I repeat with sarcasm and toss my bottle into my bag.

“Yeah. Like you encountered a floating ghost librarian whose face turned into a skeleton right before she tried to jump you.”

Snickering, I shake my head. “Ghostbusters really did a number on you.”

“Hey.” Whip points his bottle at me. “You’d piss your pants if that happened to you.”

“Did you piss your pants when watching that scene?”

Rolling his eyes, Whip finishes his water. “Stop prevaricating. What’s up?” He’s serious now, frowning with worry.

We’ve always given each other shit. No one is immune. But after Jax tried to take his own life, things changed. We still give each other shit, but we also make very fucking certain no one is truly hurting. Since I know exactly how awful it feels to worry about one of my boys without knowing how to help, I can’t evade Whip now.

But I can’t tell him the truth either. Brenna will kill me. As in actual murder.

I angle away from Jax and Killian. Neither of them has noticed us talking yet—they’re still discussing Christmas—but the fewer people asking me questions, the safer I am.

“I’m not spooked exactly.” I shrug, scratching the back of my neck. “I just… Shit, I don’t know. It’s like my life was going one direction, and there I was cruising along, content, you know?”

He nods but keeps silent.

“And then the thought occurred to me: What if I got off this highway? What if I headed down another road? Even if that road is so curvy, I have no idea where I’ll end up.” With a self-deprecating laugh, I try again. “Shit, I’m babbling nonsense. Maybe I’m just in a rut.”

I’ve just opened myself wide—shown far more than I’m comfortable with. But this is Whip. Out of all the guys, he’s my closest friend. Maybe it’s because we provide the rhythm and beats in the band and often collaborate. Or maybe it’s because, while Killian and Jax are front and center, taking the lion’s share of the spotlight—and all the crap that comes with it—Whip and I are less scrutinized.