Better Hate than Never (The Wilmot Sisters, #2)(14)

She snorts a laugh and smiles. “No more talking about Jamie. Or Christopher. Today is Sister Day. Only us. Got it?”

I smile back. “Yeah. That sounds perfect.”





? FOUR ?


    Christopher


Fiona’s is one of my favorite pubs, so when Jamie suggested we meet there after work, I was more than happy to say yes.

As I stroll in, Fee’s familiar sounds and scents—the soccer game on TV and the Irish grandpas who sit at the bar swearing at its screen, cold foamy beer and crisp fried food—greet me like an old friend.

Jamie half stands from his seat at a booth along the wall and raises a long arm in greeting. I weave through the tables toward him, and we lean in to clasp hands, then offer each other a brisk, backslapping hug.

At six two, I’m used to being the tallest person in a social setting, stooping and bending when I greet people, but not with Jamie, who’s six four, his height emphasized by a lean runner’s build. We pull apart and drop across from each other at the booth, which is a little tight for two people our height, but we make it work, stretching our legs in opposite directions and opening our menus.

“Let’s see what there is,” he says, before clearing his throat. Twice. I haven’t known him long, but I’ve learned it’s something he does when uncomfortable or nervous.

I lower my menu, looking at him carefully. Jamie stares with deep concentration at his menu.

“Jamie.”

“Hmm?”

“Those are the desserts.”

He drops his menu like it’s burning, then snatches it back up. “Perhaps I’m craving something sweet.”

I arch an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t like sweets. Something about how they’re hard on the endocrine system.”

“Well.” Another throat clear. “They are. But I’m loosening up on that a little.”

“Wonder under whose influence.”

Bea has the biggest sweet tooth of anyone I’ve ever met. Jamie’s faint blush as he grins and flips the page of his menu confirms my theory.

“First time here?” I ask him.

“Hmm?” He glances up quickly. “Oh. Yes. It is.”

My gaze slides down the list of familiar appetizers. “The Reuben nachos are great if you haven’t—”

“Well, look who it is!” As if he’s materialized from thin air, Bill Wilmot stands beside our booth, smiling widely. Salt-and-pepper hair, deep blue eyes magnified slightly by his wire-rim glasses, he squeezes my shoulder affectionately. “Fancy seeing you here!”

Jamie drops his menu, eyebrows raised. “Bill! What a surprise! Say, why don’t you join us?”

My gaze dances between them. I have never met two more earnest men than Bill Wilmot and Jamie Westenberg. They’re up to something, and they’re doing a terrible job of hiding it.

Slowly, I close my menu, observing Bill slide into Jamie’s side of the booth. Bill’s not short himself, so the sight of these two men over six feet crammed together is almost comical.

“What brings you here?” I ask Bill, who immediately accepts the menu Jamie’s offered him.

“Little of this, little of that.” Bill sniffs, dropping his chin so he can read the menu through the right part of his glasses. “Maureen told Fee she’d send in some flowers for the wake they’ll be having here tomorrow, and I was in the mood for shepherd’s pie, so I brought in the flowers for her, ordered carryout, and here we are.”

“Which means you’re searching the menu, why?”

Bill flips the menu page. “Browsing, in case something else strikes my fancy.”

I narrow my eyes. Maureen and the pub’s owner, Fiona—Fee, as everyone calls her—are old friends, and Maureen is a master gardener whose greenhouse bursts with blossoms that she’s always generous with. Bill’s both devoted to his wife and, especially since his retirement, about as inclined as Kate to stay still, so this story about delivering his wife’s flowers in the city for a wake at Fee’s is entirely plausible. It might even be true. It just doesn’t mean that’s all there is to it.

Jamie clears his throat. Again.

I sigh as I set my elbows on the table and lean in. “Okay, you two. Out with it.”

Bill meets Jamie’s gaze, blinking owlishly. “Jamie? You feel like sharing any thoughts?”

Jamie’s eyes widen to saucers. “Me? This was your idea!”

“Well, it was easier in my head,” Bill mutters. “I prefer my battles and confrontations left squarely in literature.” Drawing in a breath, he sets a hand on my elbow, then says, “Christopher. You know I love you like a son.”

A knot forms in the pit of my stomach. I hate when he says that as much as I love it. I’ve tried to protect myself, to keep myself from getting too close to Bill and Maureen, seeing them like a second father and mother to me. Moments like this remind me that ship sailed years ago.

I was thirteen when my parents died, when my paternal grandmother came to live with me and offered about as much comfort as those needle-packed pincushions she left all over the house. So I found comfort next door in my parents’ best friends, Maureen and Bill, in their daughters, who became even more like sisters to me—