Her ponytail sways as she hurries over to help. “It’s gotta be Jax.”
I suppress a grimace. “We don’t know that. How would he even know I’m here?”
Her brow furrows with a frown. “Scottie must have ratted you out. He’s the only one of the guys who knows you’re here, and he’s a total closet romantic.”
“Really?” I can’t imagine stone-faced Scottie being sentimental.
“Believe it. Now that he has a family, he wants us all happily settled.”
“And that’s a bad thing?” I ask, amused at her sour expression.
“It’s an annoying thing.” Brenna quirks a brow. “Enough about matchmaker Scottie. Do you know anyone else who would have something hand delivered? Besides, the courier was Darren. He works for us. My money is on Jax sending this.”
I stare at the box, hesitant to open it. Whatever John sent isn’t small. The box is about twenty inches square.
“If he sent a human head,” Brenna says darkly, “I’m going to be really upset.”
A laugh bursts out of me. “What the hell, Brenn? You are sick.”
She shrugs. “Got you to smile, didn’t I? Stop looking at the box like it’s a bomb and open it already.”
“Sneaky cheeks.” A couple of slices from the scissor blade to open it, and we both peer in.
“Well,” she says, “it’s not a head.”
“Nope.” Bottles rattle as I pull a six-pack of beer free from the box.
“Jax is so fucking weird.”
A smile threatens, and my lips wobble before I force them flat. “It’s one of his best qualities.” God, I’m going to cry. Over this strange-ass gift of beer.
Brenna roots through the box, but it’s empty. “What the hell does it mean?”
“I honestly have no idea. It’s not like I’m a huge beer enthusiast.”
“How could he not leave a note?” Brenna scowls at the beer. “His first contact and it’s to send random beer?”
Suppressing a sigh, I put the beer in the fridge. “I’m done trying to figure him out.”
Words are shallow, though; the beer haunts me as I walk away. What the hell is John trying to say? Hey, let’s have a few beers and laugh this all away? Sorry, I broke your heart, have a drink on me? Whatever it is, I find myself getting more and more pissed.
It builds as I try to lounge in Brenna’s living room, and I end up tossing the copy of Vogue back onto the coffee table with so much force, it slides right off and lands with a thump on the floor.
“You know,” Brenna says, not looking up from her magazine, “only Rye could annoy someone more than Jax. Be grateful you didn’t fall for him.”
“Tell me,” I murmur. “How much of a pain is it to fall for Rye?”
She opens her mouth, then pauses to glare at me, clearly expecting a different question from me and caught off guard. Her brows lower. “Har. You think I’m into Rye?”
My lips twitch. “Everyone thinks you are into each other.”
Brenna snorts, her attention suddenly on her ice-blue nails. “Please. He’s an asshole.”
I get up and go to the fridge for some of John’s damn beer. If we’re going to talk men, I need a drink. It’s cold enough, and Brenna accepts a bottle with a wry look before taking a long sip.
“Is he, though?” I ask, curling back up on the couch. “Admittedly, he has a pretty juvenile sense of humor, and he’s blunt, but he seems like a nice man. He clearly cares about all of you guys.”
A disgruntled sound escapes her, then she sighs and rests her head against the soft couch back. “He does care. And he is a good guy. He’s only an asshole to me.”
“He seems more like he’s pulling your ponytail for attention.”
She slides me a sidelong look.
“Not to condone such behavior,” I amend. “Bullyboy tactics should die a swift death.”
Her mouth twists with a smile. “Admittedly, I’m just as bad. I know this. It’s our personalities, I guess. We’re always rubbing each other the wrong way.”
“I wondered if it was some bad blood that never healed.”
“Oh, it’s that too,” she says with a scowl. “Incidents here and there. Nothing I want to talk about now. I’ll be in a mood all day if I do.”
“Fair enough.” I pull at the damp label on my beer. “I’m brooding enough for both of us.”
Brenna and the girls pulled me through the worst of it. For the first time in my life, I was the one who had friends force me out of the house, take me to salons for massages and facials. We’d gone to the movies, stayed in and watched movies, indulged in cocktails and ice cream—not mint chocolate chip. That was banned from the house. We’d done every clichéd thing we could think of.
And it was fun. Well, as fun as something can be while I’m walking around with what feels like a massive hole in chest. I press my hand to that spot now, surprised my skin isn’t ice cold. I’m cold all the time now. Another new and unfortunate development. If this is what love does to a person, love can go suck it.