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"Am I worried about my alcoholic brother spending time in a place where you can walk around with an Eiffel Tower filled with booze?" Maybe we should stick with sex. That's a less fraught topic. Maybe I should focus more on how much I want to fuck him. That's less risky.
He doesn't shrink at my tone. He takes in the information and nods, understanding. "Dumb question?"
"No." I appreciate the honesty. Most people treat alcoholism as the elephant in the room. "It's a good question. Everyone else wants to pretend it's a dumb question, that of course, I trust him, and I'm not worried. I do trust him, but I'm worried too."
"I get that."
"You don't trust him," I say.
He doesn't say anything in response. He watches the customer in front of us finish and moves to the register. Jackson orders an iced tea and steps aside so I can order.
After I request an iced latte with almond milk (macadamia still hasn't made it big, even though it's delicious), I let him pay.
We move to the pickup area. It's empty, like the rest of the brown shop. People don't come to Las Vegas to sit in coffee shops.
"Is that why you're here?" he asks. "To watch over your brother?"
"Is that why you're here?" I counter.
I expect resistance, but I find none. He nods. "Dad asked me to keep an eye on Cassie."
Right. His dad hates my brother. He pretends he doesn't, now that Cassie and Damon are dating seriously, but Dad is always complainingwhen will Tom realize Damon is a good kid.
I try to ignore it, since it's a) not my problem and b) not within my control, but that's the thing with boundaries. Somehow, no matter how clearly you draw lines, problems find their way into your space.
"And the groom invited me," he says.
"He invited everyone he knows," I say.
"Are you saying I got a pity invite?" His half-smile eases the tension in the air.
"A default invite. Probably worse. But mine is the same."
His eyes meet mine. "No, he needs you there to make him look like a night owl."
My lips curl into a smile too. "I'm going to stay out until eleven tonight."
"I'll believe it when I see it."
My stomach flutters. He's teasing me. That's way too appealing. I need to focus on something else. Something unattractive. Like the basket of sex toys for another woman. "When did you end things with the girlfriend?"
"A few months ago," he says.
"But you still have phone sex?"
He nodsyeswithout judgment or shame.
"Why?"
"Uh-uh." He shakes his head. "This is about your sex-life, Dr. Freud."
My cheeks flush. "Is it?"
"That is what you're after, isn't it? A good fuck."
"Yes."
"So. Tell me. What makes a man a good fuck?"
