Question 1: How was dinner?
Fine.
Question 2: Did the client show any signs of nervousness? If yes, explain how you helped.
Client was fine.
I growled as I got out of the car and slammed my door.
“Seriously?” Ian glanced back at me. “What the hell is your problem? You can’t treat this kind of car that way!”
I shrugged.
Ian’s eyes narrowed. “You look like shit, too, just saying.”
“Thanks, Mom, anything else?” I shoved my hands into my pockets.
Ian always saw through my bullshit, so I was suddenly thankful he was too in love to pay attention to me or my issues. He’d know immediately what it was, and then I’d be stuck apologizing to him while he tried to saw off my balls with a rusty fork.
The door to the girls’ apartment opened in a flurry. Gabs was wearing the shortest damn Nike running shorts I’d ever seen. The hell? They sold those in stores? What did she do, shop in the kids’ section and ask for an extra small? The outline of her ass was wreaking havoc on my already alarming attraction to her. I forced my eyes away for maybe three seconds before she turned and moved farther into the house, her tank top flashing smooth skin right next to her hip and a little shimmer of her belly-button ring. Mouth dry, I stared, looked away, stared again. What the hell was she doing answering the door with scraps for clothes? There were serious creepers in the world! Ones that would take advantage of all that . . . skin. I choked on my next breath as the dizzying scent of strawberries smacked me in the face.
I was already hot.
Things were about to get hotter.
She gave Ian a hug.
I got a fleeting look, and then she turned her back on me.
It was a great feeling—like being shot at. Not that I’d been shot at, but the pain was physical, real.
I’d never cared that she treated me like shit, because we had an understanding, a type of game, in which we both hated each other but at the end of the day, if she had a flat tire, I’d fix it.
If I needed a hug, she’d grudgingly give it, then step on my toe.
Except for that one time.
My stomach clenched at the memory.
“Seriously.” Ian shook his head. “Are you on drugs?”
“Drugs?” I repeated. “Do I look like the type of dude who wants to drop thousands of dollars on something that only keeps me high for a few hours at a time?”
“So you’ve thought about it, then?”
“Yes, Ian, life is so horrible that I sat down at my desk with my calculator and figured out just how much money I would be losing if I took the plunge into addiction.”
“You did?”
“Stop, just . . .” I moved past him and made my way into the kitchen. Gabs was leaning against the counter, and her petite little legs looked adorable in the shorts. I tried to look away.
But since she didn’t know I was staring . . .
“Lex.” Gabs didn’t turn. “Keep staring, and I’m going to pull one of your balls until it pops.”
“Oooo.” I rubbed my hands together. “Promise?”
She didn’t answer.
Ian brought in the two bags of groceries as per usual when we had family dinner. Blake couldn’t make it because of practice, so it was just us and Serena.
Speaking of. “Where’s Serena?”
Gabs turned and glared. “She moved.”
“To?” I crossed my arms.
“And she ate my chocolate.”
“So you kicked her out?” I laughed.
Gabs didn’t.
Ian held up his hands. “Tread carefully, my friend. That look would get a lesser man killed.”
“Good thing I’m not a lesser man, hmm, Gabs?”
I was pushing, pushing too hard, but I needed the verbal sparring, needed to know I still evoked some sort of emotion from her even if it was all negative.
She rolled her eyes and started unpacking the groceries. It was spaghetti night. Almost every family dinner was, because it was our favorite. “Her boyfriend’s in a band,” explained Gabs, setting the box of pasta on the countertop. “He’s going to make it big someday—her words, not mine—and she wants to travel with him in his super-cool van to make sure no groupies try to steal his virtue.”
“Hold up!” Ian busted out laughing. “Are you talking about the skinny emo dude who has green hair? That guy?”
“His voice is just—” Gabs placed a hand on her heart as her voice took on the high pitch of Serena’s. “He gets me? You know? He