I keep telling myself that it’s all me. It’s not him. I’m conflicted. I’m not into him. That’s just Phoebe being Phoebe. Nobody can blame me, for returning home after four years as a new person, or for having this tangled emotional conflict.

I’m not into Brandon.

He’s bringing a date to dinner, and my date will be my father.

I want to wear something professional, unsexy, chaste.

But when I walk into the other room, I see that Dad has already pulled something suitable from my packed boxes: maybe the only thing that fits the occasion at all and is miraculously unwrinkled.

It’s a bright-red dress. It’s going to make me feel sexy.

Shit. 

It’s a damn good thing that whatever fucked-up emotional conflict I’m feeling is one sided because if Brandon gave any indication of not being a stand-offish asshole — if he raised a single eyebrow at me in a dress like this — it’d be hard not to think about him tomorrow. And the next day. And the next day, until Phoebe can hook me up with someone more acceptable … or, if I truly want to do the independent big girl thing, until I can get my head around the thought of not dating at all.

I sigh. I have time for a bath. Maybe the warm water will clear my head.

But I kind of doubt it.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Brandon

I RUN THROUGH MY RECENT list of available single-serving girlfriends, wondering whom I could possibly invite to a fancy dinner with a few hours’ notice. I’ve already waffled, wasting a few hours, increasing the threshold of how much my date to this thing would need to like me if I’m going to invite her without advance warning.

Eventually, I decide I’m being ridiculous. Mason’s assistant said I “might consider” bringing someone … or, because I’m not positive, it might have been “feel free” to bring someone. I don’t remember the exact wording because I’d been too busy rushing to agree without cheering, but it was an offer, not a command. An offer.

It’s not like I need to bring anyone. I can go solo. It’s not a high school dance, for shit’s sake. I’m a grown man. If my boss (and potentially closer boss) wants to invite me to dinner, I can go on my own. Bringing someone was a kindness. It might have been lip service. If I bring someone, I’m increasing the bill. Maybe it’s better to take nobody and show I respect Mason’s finances.

Unless this really is more social than I’m allowing. What if I’m being groomed? I almost have to be. Maybe Mason is having dinner with all the candidates for the VP of Land Acquisition job, but I kind of doubt it. You interview applicants; you go to dinner with finalists. Maybe with the finalist.

Shit. Oh, shit. Oh, holy awesome shit. Maybe he’s going to offer me the job tonight.

I can’t let myself think about it. I need to be cool. Calm. Collected. I can’t seem too eager because eager equals needy. Needy is the opposite of confident, and I know for sure Mason likes confidence in his employees — and even more in those who are nearly partners.

This must be something right down the middle. Not straight business but not especially personal. Yes, the offer to bring someone was optional, but I’d really better bring someone. So the four of us can hang out. So I can show him what I’m like in casual situations. What I’m like with a woman, presumably, who isn’t his daughter.

The thought gives me a moment of guilt, but that’s even more ridiculous. I have nothing to hide. I didn’t have sex with Riley. I didn’t kiss her. We’ve barely shared more than a few awkward exchanges. Nobody knows what’s inside my head, not even her. Nobody can see my dreams. And even if they could, what would they prove?

Nothing. I’m being stupid.

I pick up the phone to invite the only person who’d go with me on zero notice. The only person I know who fits the bill and can look about how a VP’s date would look. Not that it’ll be a date. But this is good enough, given what I imagine I’ll be facing tonight.

Which, admittedly, I don’t know.

I don’t know why I assumed he’d take Riley. Why did my first thoughts leap to her? Just because Mason isn’t married and I’ve never heard of him dating, despite the man being somewhat of an open book around the company. Just because I was told I could bring someone, like a date, because whomever Mason brought would be more personal than business.

Like his daughter.

Well, if he can bring his daughter, I can bring my sister.

Bridget answers the phone then bangs it on the counter. The cracking sounds are enough to make me pull my head away from the speaker. Then she’s grunting like an angry caveman.

“Oh, right,” I say. “Sorry.”

I hang up. I’m about to text her the invite, but the absurdity slaps me full in the face. It’s one level of strange to take my sister to a dinner that’s at least half business, but it’s a 10X level of odd to take my mute sister. How is she supposed to communicate? Sign language? Mime? Maybe she could bring semaphore flags.

Her text comes in: What the shit is wrong with you? 

Sorry. I keep forgetting you can’t talk. 

What did you want?

I stare at the screen. I can’t do this. It’d be cruel. There’s also a chance it might make me look worse to Mason, not better. What kind of judgment does it show to take a girl who can’t talk to a social event?

I watch as my fingers type, Can you meet me for dinner?

I don’t know why I did that. Except that with every passing minute, I’m feeling increasingly certain that Mason will be bringing Riley. I know she wants to move up in the company, and if he was bringing one of the other VPs, he’d have said so. And while I could go on my own, three’s a crowd. And I’m really worried that, given the emotions that have buried me on waking the past two days, I’ll be transparent to them both.

And what if Mason goes to the bathroom and leaves us alone at the table?

I was alone with her all morning earlier this week. Looking back, that feels like a near-miss. That kind of thing can’t happen again. I don’t know what it is with her, but she’s … unstable or something. I’m uncomfortable being around her alone. Like she might do something.

I’m not sure what she might do.

I’m also not sure what made me look her up on LiveLyfe. Probably just so I’d have some context for her odd behavior. And to get a feel for who she is. I should probably understand her on an intellectual level. You know — because I can make a good impression on Mason by being nice to his daughter.

Which I don’t want to have to do without a buffer.

Even if that buffer is my sister.

Especially if that buffer is my sister.

Yes, I’m sure this is the right move. Even if it’s a big pain in the ass.

Okay. Where? Bridget texts me.

And before I can respond, she types, Greasy Spoon. 

And then before I can respond again, she types, Ragazzi. Carlo thinks he’s a gangster. 

It’s only been a few days since Bridget had her nodules done, and already I’ve grown used to reading her sarcastic voice into letters on a screen. I’ve heard people say they like authors who write like people talk. That’s Bridget. She’s not an author, but she writes like she talks. Like a lovable bitch. Like the honest and adorable asshole she always is.

But she’s got the wrong idea. So I type back, The Montgomery Club. 7:00?