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I snorted. “As if he owns the only fucking bakery in town. And what did he think you were going to do when you found out he was sticking his dick in his yoga instructor?”
“Dude.”
“I’m just saying, he’s a fucking tool, and he deserves to have his business fail. It probably already is, seeing as you’re not there anymore.” I grinned. “I’m still willing to buy the building next door and turn it into a garden centre that only sells manure and pet reptiles. Just give me the nod.”
Sorin huffed out a laugh. “Still a very generous offer, but no. Thanks. And I guess I could… I guess I could look into it. Start drawing up a business plan. Maybe.”
“Do it, bro,” I said enthusiastically. “I’ll help. We can talk about it over dinner tonight—oh, shit, wait. I was going to ask if we could reschedule.”
“Oh. Okay.” Sorin sounded a little dejected, which made my gut clench up with guilt. I knew he’d been struggling a little living back at home in the suburbs. “How come?”
I hesitated. I could not tell my brother that I wanted to postpone our dinner because it was leg day. “You know what, it’s fine. I’ll move some things around. Seven at Le Champignon Noir, yeah?”
He snorted. “Sounds good. You know, we don’t always have to go to one of the fanciest restaurants in the city.”
“I like their salad dressing.” I glanced down at my fitness tracker to check the time, then did a U-turn and started heading back. “Okay, we’ll go over your business plan tonight.”
“What?” Sorin spluttered. “I have to have it ready by tonight?”
“Well, you don’t have to, but why waste time? What else were you gonna do today?”
He was silent for a moment, before muttering, “I was gonna binge the new season of DemiBros.”
“What the fuck is that? Sounds like porn.”
“It’s not porn, it’s just… it’s a reality show about demiurgus guys training for a bodybuilding competition.”
“Basically soft porn, then.”
“No,” he shot back defensively. “I just… I watch it for the diet plans. I like seeing what they have to eat to get that big. It’s interesting.”
“Bro.”
“It is,” he snapped, sounding flustered. “Look, just… I’ll work on a business plan today. The start of one. Don’t expect some fully fleshed-out proposal by dinner.”
“Okay,” I said easily. “I’ll help you flesh it out. This is exciting, bro. Sorin var Rorik, entrepreneur and owner of the best boutique bakery in the city. Aren’t you pumped?”
“Oh yeah, I’m hella pumped, bro,” he drawled.
“And if we do this, my only stipulation is that you have to stop calling me”—I glanced around to make sure no one was near and lowered my voice—“Pooni.”
Sorin burst out laughing. “Yeah, that really caught on quick, huh?”
“Fucking Beryl,” I muttered. “You know, she’s kinda immature.”
“You’re calling someone else immature? You still call Greid Grode.”
“Affectionately. It’s a childhood nickname. And Greid gets so far in his own head that a bit of teasing does him good.”
“Does it? Did you decide that?”
“Yeah. It’s just… brotherly ribbing. He loves it.”
“Does he?”
“Yeah. Anyway, bro, get your ass up, get your workout in and get started on that business plan.”
He laughed. “What fucking workout?”
