My Best Friend's Brother

ar

at was the wrong word to use. I had

utfit-a suit-brewing coffee. I walked into the sitting room, glancing at the wi

my coffee before walking toward the window, staring down at the quiet city,

was supposed to be finishing up by the weekend and returning to New York on Mon

d come back to-my house invaded

Joan. I had to give Joan credit for pulling Rhoda out of her grief after our parents died. But Joan didn't sto

once telling Rhoda that I always looked like I had a stick up my ass. She'd go

if it did

ing out at nothing, my coffee growing cold. A movement in th

ut I could sense her. Joan. I wasn't even looking, but I coul

that particular kind of silence that on

movements slow and deliberate, like she had all the time in the wo

rame her face. She closed her eyes, soaking in the warmth of the fire, her lashes dark a

ng area, annoyed at myself for noticing things about her I had

ickly glanced away. My gaze followed her, against my better judgment, lingering on the way her slee

e morning, like she a

ut of my way," she said, her voic

cold coffee, eyes still on her. "This is my house,"

rper than anger. For anyone else, the look she gave me w

k down. I didn't. She wasn't tall enough to reach my height, not e

actically vibrating with the effort it took not to lash out. It di

s she moved around the island, heading for the kitchen. I d

erson without her coffee. In th

nt later, her chestnut hair a wil

d on the same bed. Leaving me wondering why

he brushed past me and stood next to

shoulder as she took a sip. The

ded to her greeting. Her brow furrowed in confusi

et but firm. My stomach twisted into a knot at

ard the couch, my mind already racing. "Stay

disappearing as she processed what I'd said. "I'll be

back to Rhoda. She looked like she was caught between confusion and mild guilt,

I didn't trust Joan. Not even a little bit. And I sure as hel

t that