Meanwhile, in real life, Rosie greedily accepted the mug of steamy coffee I silently offered her, taking a sip. She closed her eyes and moaned. Yes, moaned. Fuck, I wanted this sound to be my new ringtone. Then she opened her eyes and poured ice-cold water all over my fantasy.

“Because you’ve already dipped your sausage in my family gravy, and even though I know it’s a secret recipe everyone wants more of, I’m afraid you’re all out of luck.”

“I love it when you talk culinary sex with me.” I took a step toward the island, placing my forearms on it with a heated gaze.

“Maybe it’s because we’re Coca-Cola, and you always settle for Shasta.” Her eyes wandered to the direction of my bedroom.

Every muscle in my torso tightened as I let out a genuine laugh. My noticeable V-taper, veiny arms, tight abs, and prominent pecs didn’t escape her, and her newly peach-colored cheeks admitted that, even if she never would.

“I want you,” I said simply, unapologetically—vulnerably, even—because I did.

“As you did my sister.” Baby LeBlanc gave a curt nod. “Are you planning on screwing your way through our family tree? Should I print out a copy of our ancestry.com profile?”

“Please, when you get the chance.” I served her some sass back. “Though I have a feeling you can keep me busy just fine.”

“You’re too stubborn,” she coughed, as she did every other minute, taking another long sip of her cup of Joe.

“Yeah. Not lacking in that department. Or any department, for that matter.” My smirk widened as my eyes slid down to my groin. We were engaging in a battle of will. That was fine. I was bound to win. I always got what I wanted. And what I wanted was sitting in front of me, waiting for my verdict about her rent.

Kennedy and Natasha appeared from the hallway. They were roommates, so I wasn’t surprised when the latter told her friend the Uber they called would be downstairs in three minutes. Sharing a cab was smart economy. They needed to watch their spending after snorting their rent’s worth in coke. Good for them.

“Bye, girls.” I waved.

“Bye, asshole.” Kennedy hurled her heeled shoe at me with an arm swing that made the quarterback in me want to whistle in admiration. I dodged it, ducking my head down fast. The red heel flew across the kitchen, passing next to Rosie’s shoulder and crashing against the fridge.

It made a dent. At least she had that going for her. No woman had managed to do that before.

Rosie took a tentative sip of her coffee, reeking of indifference. “Hmm,” she said. “This tastes good.”

She didn’t mean the coffee. She meant watching the side effects of me being a manslut. But she did that little moan thing. Again.

This is so on, Rosie LeBlanc, I thought. I’m going to drag you by the hair to the dark side, and you have no fucking clue.

“Let’s cut to the chase, sweetheart. You’re flying with me to Todos Santos on Friday.” I fished the scoop of the whey protein from its container, mixing up the powder with fat-free milk. You don’t get to look like me from scarfing junk food all day. I made things happen. No matter the price. At the gym, at work, at being a sweet, perfect son. Everything was calculated and earned the hard way. No shortcuts for me. It’s been like this from a young age, but I didn’t know anything different. To them—to Rosie, her sister, my friends—I was this lucky asshole who was born with a silver spoon shoved so fucking deep in his mouth, he never had to lift a finger and work. I let them think that. No harm in being underestimated.

I heard Rosie shuffling on the high stool by the island and knew she wasn’t going to go down without a fight. For a sick girl, she was feisty as fuck.

“Millie has already asked me. The price difference is two hundred bucks for a ticket. It’s just the rehearsal, dude. It’s not like I’ll miss the actual wedding.”

The actual wedding was on Sunday, but most attendees—Jaime, Trent, and me included—were flying into Todos Santos on Friday, staying a full week and a half and cramming a rehearsal dinner, a bachelor/bachelorette party, and the wedding into one, out-of-control escapade. We were a tight-knit group. Abnormally so. Whenever we could spend a good chunk of time together, we jumped on the opportunity. Rosie was strapped for cash by choice. Her sister was marrying one of the richest men in America. I appreciated how Baby LeBlanc wasn’t the type of girl to leech on someone else’s purse—she did get the nearly free apartment and amenities, and also got her meds paid for—but she worked hard for everything else. And made the time to change dirty diapers and greet guests at a children’s hospital a few times a week. She was a keeper, but I didn’t need a reminder of that.