I know Howie told us to make ourselves at home, but I feel a little weird just heading into his kitchen—well, one of his kitchens—and rummaging in his cabinets for a bag of Doritos.
I’m seconds away from texting my driver Bill and letting him know I’m ready to head home—and also letting him know I need to make a Taco Bell run—when I spot a guy with what looks to be a plate of food sitting beside him.
In a pair of worn jeans, a wrinkled red T-shirt, and mussed-up hair, he looks to be early twenties as he sits on one of the sectional sofas in Howie’s living room and chats with another guy about his age while watching reruns of South Park on the flat-screen TV.
I step closer and realize the illustrious plate of food in his possession is brownies.
A big, glorious plate of brownies.
Eureka! Maybe there’s a dessert table or something that I missed?
“Excuse me,” I interrupt their conversation. “Do you mind if I ask where you guys got the brownies?”
They both look up at me in confusion.
I nod toward the plate sitting on the table beside them. “The brownies,” I repeat. “Where did you get them?”
“Oh, the brownies,” Red T-shirt responds in understanding. “I thought you said mounties, and I was crazy confused.”
Guy Two snorts. “Dude. I heard counties.”
“You want a brownie?” Red T-shirt asks, and my stomach growls its excitement.
“You don’t mind?” I question, glancing between the two of them. “I forgot to grab some dinner earlier, and all the food is gone now.”
“Consider them communal brownies.” Guy Two holds the plate of treats toward me. “Help yourself to a chocolatey-delicious trip.”
“Com-munal.” Red T-shirt chuckles.
“Strange word, right?” Guy Two agrees with a grin, but I’m too focused on the plate of goodness stretched out toward me to take in the weirdness of their conversation.
Without hesitation, I snag one delectable brownie off the plate and take a bite. Once the chocolate goodness hits my lips, a small moan escapes my throat.
“Damn, this so good. Thanks.”
“Anytime,” Red T-shirt responds, and once Guy Two sets the plate back on the table, they simply go back to watching South Park.
While someone kills Kenny in the background, I eat the damn brownie faster than I’ve ever eaten anything in my whole freaking life.
Literally, no shame in my food game. Hell, once I make my goodbye rounds around this party, I’m going to text Bill to come get me and still have him stop by Taco Bell.
Cheesy Gordita Crunch, here I come, baby!
Andrew
Birdie is certainly flying high tonight.
Once the clock strikes two, I find myself growing bored with the party—with the women I’ve been talking to at the party—and decide to head home. Normally, I’d make a point to lay a bit of groundwork and bring some beautiful company home with me, but nothing has caught my interest.
Maybe my overbearing team is right? I need to start getting more sleep.
I think my current insane schedule might be affecting my sex drive.
More than ready to call it a night, I head into the house to find Howie and tell him I’m heading out, but I’m stopped in my tracks when I spot her.
Birdie.
Standing in the middle of How’s first-floor hallway, looking at a painting.
I can’t deny that I’ve kept an eye on her whereabouts for most of the evening, just discreetly watching her chat with Serena and Howie and that idiot Johnny Johnston, among many other people at the party tonight.
Well, everyone but me. It was almost like she was avoiding me at all costs.
If I walked out onto the terrace, she walked inside. And vice versa.
Looks like now is my chance to chat it up with my favorite little angry birdie…
But as I get closer to her, I realize she’s not so much looking at the painting as staring at the painting. Just straight up, zoned out on this random landscape painting in the middle of Howie’s hallway.
“Birdie?” I call out her name, but she doesn’t respond.
So, I step closer and put a gentle hand to her shoulder. “Birdie, sweetheart, what are you doing?”
“Shh,” she whispers toward me but doesn’t avert her eyes from the wall. “Be quiet and just watch.”
I tilt my head to the side, glancing between her and the painting.
“Do you see it?” she asks, her voice still quiet. “When you’re really quiet, the trees move.”
I’m sorry…what?
I have to blink three times to process her words.
“The trees move?”
“Yeah,” she keeps whispering. “They move. If it’s quiet enough,