The Rules of Friends with Benefits, Lauren Blakely [the false prince series TXT] 📗

My brother, I reply the same way, and I motion for him to come in.

It doesn’t take Eric long to give me the bullet points; clearly, I’m going to have to get the juicy details from Mariana. I send my love and end the call, still grinning.

Matthew smiles. “Close to your brother, are you?” He sounds particularly British and particularly charming.

“Yes. Very. Especially since . . .” I wave a hand, and he nods. I don’t have to spell out that Dad’s death hit us hard. The bruises are close to the surface too, since it’s coming up on a year since he died.

“Do you want to go over these sponsorships now, or shall I come back later?”

“Let’s do it.” We go over the proposed numbers from our key advertisers, comparing them to last year’s. When we finish, I tap the papers into a stack on the coffee table then lean back into my leather couch as Matthew makes a few last notes on his tablet.

“So how is everything going with Phoebe?” I ask.

“Pretty good so far. We played mini-golf at one of those glow-in-the-dark indoor courses. So we’re scoring lots of points for being quirky.”

“Quirky points are awesome. And even better to have someone to be quirky with. All of that sounds promising to me.” Despite my leading pause, he doesn’t fill it in, so I poke him in the arm. “Do you think it’s promising?”

Matthew taps his stylus on his knees as he thinks before answering. “It’s hard to say. Can you really know that quickly if someone is the one for you?”

“Don’t ask me. I only know that it takes just half a dinner to know if someone is wrong for you.”

“The matchmaking thing is going well for you, then?”

I hold out my fist, thumb extended, and then turn it emphatically down, adding a raspberry just to be clear.

He laughs, then holds up his hands innocently. “Sorry. I’m sympathetic, really. But at least you can say your situation is unambiguous.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bright Side. But I think I’m done with matchmaking. From now on, I’m only going to date vicariously.”

“So my romance is all about you, really?”

“Pfft. Obviously.” Then I sit up from my slump because I want to say something true and for him to hear it. “Real talk, though, Matthew. I just want you to be happy. I like seeing the smile on your face when you talk about Phoebe.”

And there it is, a little roguish and a little abashed at the same time. “I do like her, actually.”

It makes my heart glad to hear that. Makes me miss my brother a smidge less.

5

Nadia

A few weeks later, I fly to San Francisco for my brother’s engagement party. I say hello to everyone, then don’t waste any time before giving my brother a bear hug. He squeezes back, lifting me off my feet. When he sets me down and pulls back to smile at me, a slew of emotions rise up and stick in my throat.

Family.

I missed this.

I miss being able to see them regularly.

Drop in for coffee at three p.m.

Babysit my niece at the drop of a hat.

Be a phone call away to celebrate or commiserate.

I chat with Mariana, getting the engagement story from her in much more satisfying detail. I’m squealing and oohing and aahing over her ring when someone covers my eyes from behind and says, “Guess who?”

“Oh, gee, I have no idea who it could possibly be, Mom.”

She laughs and drops her hands. “Well, I used to be able to fool you.”

I turn so she can see I’m teasing. “No, I used to pretend to be fooled. Because I was four.”

Then I wrap her in a big hug too, hoping she’s still playing games with me when I’m forty-four. “So good to see you, Mom,” I say.

“It’s always good to see you.” When she steps back, she cups my face in both hands. “Time goes by so quickly.”

“I know.” I cover her fingers with mine.

She pats my cheek and lets go. “None of that at Eric and Mariana’s party. There’s always time to feel sad, but the guests will only stay until the canapés run out.”

That’s my mother all over.

My brother and his fiancée introduce me to their friends and make the rounds, all while being absolutely, unequivocally, nauseatingly in love. I catch up with Brooke and her husband, getting all the fantastic details on their daughter Audrey’s latest reading habits—she eats books for breakfast, and it is awesome.

Once the party goes on autopilot, Mom and I find a couple of glasses of wine and a corner of the party room.

“How’s everything going?” I ask. “By which I mean, how are you doing?”

“Oh, you know.” She shrugs. “I’m doing okay.”

I arch a brow. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” That’s more definite. “I’m active in the community, and there’s always work to do. And I have good friends I like to spend time with.”

“Oh, yeah? Friends?” I ask significantly.

She rolls her eyes. “Women friends. We are ‘The Ladies Who Lunch,’” she says, quoting the Sondheim musical, and I scoff. “But dating feels far off in the future, if it happens at all. And I enjoy spending time with Audrey.”

She gestures toward my seven-year-old niece, who is reading—very animatedly—to a stuffed dragon on the table in front of her. That’s the joy of being a voracious reader—entertainment self-sufficiency.

“And I see Brooke a lot,” my mom says. “We have lunch once a week. Sometimes twice a week.”

A pang of jealousy twists in my chest. It doesn’t diminish my happiness for them, but it still hurts. “I wish I could join you,” I say.

“I wish you could too,” she agrees with a soft smile. “I take Eric and Mariana out a lot too. I’m lucky. I get to see my family as often as I can.” She reaches for my hand, squeezes it. “Except with you, as often as possible is never often enough. But I know you’re busy in Vegas.” She chuckles,