When Hale’s expression didn’t shift, Trent figured being vague wasn’t going to help. “Cora told me that her parents never allowed her to have a proper birthday party when she was a kid. Her parents are these hoity-toity types and they wanted to force-feed everyone caviar and gold leaf or some crap.”
Hale looked even less convinced than before. “So you want to throw her a child’s birthday party?”
“Yes,” Trent said with a confident nod.
“Okay, when’s her birthday?”
“Next weekend.”
“Seriously?” Hale scratched his head, his fingers disturbing his hair so it looked even wilder than usual.
“I know it’s short notice.”
“I don’t know if it’s even possible, but I’ll ask.” He sighed. “And you’ll owe the both of us beers.”
“Tell her I’ll do anything. Cora has had a rough time and…I want to help her.”
“I bet you do,” Sean said, laughing.
Trent wanted to be annoyed at the innuendo but really, what was the point? Anyone who saw him and Cora in the same room for more than five seconds would be able to work out that they were hot for each other. She’d blushed furiously as she’d caught Trent watching her that morning when she was unpacking the dishwasher, bending over in that floaty little dress that was a mere gentle breeze away from showing her undies to the world.
“Trent!” Hale snapped his fingers in front of his friend’s face. “Focus, mate. I said, what kind of theme do you want? Aimee will ask me all these questions, and she gets annoyed when I don’t have answers.”
Hale was so whipped—and so totally bloody smitten—it would be adorable if it wasn’t borderline sickening.
“Can’t afford to anger the girlfriend with the fairy outfits,” Sean teased, and Hale rolled his eyes. “They’re real mean behind all that glitter.”
“No shit. She’s scary when it comes to business,” he said. “Seriously, you think she’s all sparkle and lightness, but that girl has a five-year plan and a backup five-year plan and a fallback backup five-year plan.”
“And don’t even get him started on her ten-year plans,” Sean said with a laugh.
“You think I’m joking?” Hale grunted. “I’m not.”
“Which plan does marriage fit into?” Trent asked, knowing he was poking the bear. Hale wasn’t super keen on the whole marriage-and-declaring-one’s-love-publicly thing. Called it “a spectacle for people with more money than sense.” Somehow, Trent wasn’t sure Hale and Aimee saw eye to eye on that one.
“I thought we were talking about your love life,” Hale shot back. “And your weird child-adult birthday party plan.”
“It’s not weird.” He chipped away at another tile, looking up only when it became obvious two sets of eyes were fixed on him. “I thought it was sweet.”
“Sweet?” Sean asked, his head cocked like a confused cocker spaniel. He and Hale exchanged looks like they’d both smelled something bad.
Trent bristled. “What’s wrong with sweet?”
“Nothing, but it’s not…you.” Hale’s eyes were an almost black shade, so unnervingly dark that sometimes it felt like he could look right into a person. “You’re not falling for her, are you?”
“Don’t be a dickhead,” he grumbled, avoiding the accusation. “She’s only here for a holiday, so it’s not like that. And she’s a friend of Liv’s, which means I need to make her feel welcome.”
Neither Sean nor Hale looked convinced. In fact, they looked a hell of a lot like he was speaking total rubbish.
“Jeez, can’t a guy do something nice for a person without getting the third degree?” he muttered as he turned back to the backsplash. He drove his hammer down onto the chisel, and the tile splintered off an annoyingly small shard.
“All we’re worried about is that you’ve found yourself Rochelle mark II.” Sean frowned. “Did you notice that she really looks—”
“Yes,” Trent and Hale said in unison, although one was a lot more exasperated than the other.
“Okay, okay.” Sean held up his hands, still holding the chisel in one and a hammer in the other. “No need to get defensive. I’m just saying, I remember a very drunk, very belligerent Walters man—who is a real prick after a few too many Jägerbombs, I might add—telling me he was never going to make the mistake of falling for a fancy girl ever again.”
Fancy girl.
That’s what he’d called Rochelle the first time he met her, when it was clear there was attraction but that they were about as different as two people could be. He was a salt-of-the-earth blue-collar guy and she liked little bags with spangly things on them that cost more than his monthly rent. She’d hated