Page 9 of How to Win the Girl

It’s not my fault heads swivel when I sit, and the bartender is overly attentive.

I spy.

I wish I could read lips, but my brother has a bite of burger in his mouth and is talking around it. Something else we’ll need to discuss: manners at the dinner table. You’d think it was me who needed scolding on etiquette, but it’s always been Drew who couldn’t conduct himself during a meal, moaning when the food tastes good and smacking his lips.

So annoying.

Listening to him eat cereal makes me want to commit a crime.

Drew wipes his hands with a napkin, scoots out of the booth and says something to his date, then walks to the back of the bar toward the bathroom.

I rise from the barstool where I’m parked.

And follow him like a creep.

I avert my gaze and lower my head when I walk past his date’s table, but it’s pointless because she’s already on her phone, most likely texting her friends about him.

I can imagine what her message says:Drew Colter is Boring AF

That bitch—how dare she malign my brother.

He’s a catch!

We all are!

“Dude.” I shove through the restroom door, immediately cornering him as he takes a piss at the urinal.

“Dude,” he repeats in the same tone. “Why the hell are you here?”

He finishes, jiggling his dick a few times to make sure it’s totally empty, then zipping his fly and walking to the sink.

“Coz. You can’t be trusted to do this on your own.”

“Gee, thanks.” He rolls his eyes. “Seriously, though, what are you doin’ here?”

“I am bein’ serious. I wanted to check on you to make sure things were on an upward trajectory.”

That’s true at least; I say nothing about not being able to mind my own damn business.

“And?”

“And…” I hesitate. “I have some notes.”

“Of course you do.” My brother pulls two pieces of brown paper towels out of the dispenser to dry his hands. “I’m not going to stand in here yappin’ with you when I have a date waitin’.”

“Okay, but how’s it goin’?”

He shrugs. “Fine.”

Fine.

Not good, not great—fine.

Lame.

“She’s not your type.”

Again, my twin shrugs. “I don’t have a type.”