Given that I hate apologies even more than I hate fighting with my friends, I can only nod back. “From now on, I’ll only call you a diva if you start whining about venues not providing your favorite bottled water.”
He grumbles, clearly ready to complain, but Brenna hoots out a laugh. “Yes, thank you! So sick of that. It’s just water, dude.”
Her smile, aimed at me, is brilliant and impish. And it renders me temporarily speechless, my bones humming as if struck by a tuning fork. She’s smiling at me. In public.
It is a small sun upon my skin. The warmth slides right into my chest and fills it up. I should make some joke, say something about Killian’s weird water preferences. But I only want to say the truth: I want her. I’m here because I can’t stay away.
As if she can see it, her amber eyes darken, and a stillness settles over her. My want of her is a thick cord, pulling tight and vibrating between us. Killian slices right through it with an annoyed noise. “Seriously. You two need to stop ganging up on me. It’s unnatural.”
I raise my brow. “Unnatural.”
“Yeah. As in, you’re not supposed to be on the same side.” He wrinkles his nose in disgust. “As in, you’re oil, and she’s water, and never the two shall blend.”
The wrongness of his statement scrapes against my nerves. And maybe Brenna can tell I’m about to snap, because her hand finds my knee under the table. Another fleeting touch.
“No need to be terrified,” she says to Killian with an eye roll. “Rye and I will be back to tearing out each other’s throats soon enough.”
No. No. No. I don’t want to be shoved in that box again. Never again.
“Now, you were saying something about why you asked me here?” she prompts.
Killian pauses as though he wants to keep complaining about me getting along with Brenna. But then he shakes it off with a roll of his shoulders and slouches in his chair.
“Got a call from dear old dad. His sixtieth is coming up in December.” Killian runs a hand through his hair. “He’s having a big bash and expects all the family to go.”
Brenna winces. “Shit.”
“You don’t like your uncle?” I ask, because I’d never seen her be anything but nice to Killian’s dad.
“I love Uncle Xander.” She shares a look with Killian. “My father, on the other hand…”
“They rub together like two junkyard dogs,” Killian says grimly. “Can’t stand each other, which makes Dad’s insistence on Neil coming so…”
“Weird?” Brenna supplies.
“Annoying,” Killian says.
Brenna glances my way. “My dad is jealous of Uncle Xander.”
“Why?”
Her lashes lower, and she’s suddenly interested in tracing the flower pattern on the teacup. “Xander was a billionaire by the time he turned forty-five. Whether my dad admits it or not, it chafes. We moved to the States when I was a baby. As I understand it, Dad did so to get as far away from Uncle Xander as he could. But distance doesn’t matter; he’s always resented Uncle Xander for having what he doesn’t.”
“Ah.”
“The band is invited too,” Killian says offhandedly. “Just thought I’d break the news to Bren first.”
“You know I’ll go,” I tell him, wanting to make it clear I have his back. We might get pissy at each other now and then, but Killian is my boy. I’m always going to be there for him when he needs it.
He gives me a quick look of gratitude, but I don’t miss the way Brenna’s face tightens. I can’t tell if she’s displeased that I’m going or simply still upset about the situation in general.
“Well,” she says, trying to brighten. “I’ll be there. Even if my parents decline. Honestly, I hope they do.”
“Not gonna lie,” Killian says. “I’m kind of hoping the same.”
“Are they that bad?” I ask them, worrying for Bren.
“They stress me out,” she says. “And when they’re around the rest of the family, it gets awkward.”
Funny thing is, I have never met Brenna’s parents. How can that be? How did I not realize this before? And I get a bad feeling there’s a reason for this that I won’t like.
“When is the last time you saw them?” I ask Brenna.
Her nose wrinkles. “A few years ago. They aren’t really…social.”
Call me paranoid, but it sounds like she means they’re dickheads to her. The urge—the need—to gather her up in a secure hug is nearly overwhelming. I fist my hands in my lap. It’s been too long since I’ve touched her. A day and a half. I miss the feel of her. I miss her taste, her sounds, her breathy laughter when I’m giving her pleasure. According to our agreement, I’m supposed to go about my day after this and not visit her until tomorrow. I can’t take another night of waiting.