“This is going to be fun.” Nana Rosie’s tone is bubbly with excitement. “Two gentleman callers in one evening. That’s one hell of a way to kick off a holiday if you ask me.”
I gasp. “Oh shit.”
With all the West Side Story street-battle chaos, I somehow managed to forget about my setup with Martin Butler. How the hell am I going to have cocktails with Martin and Smith together without Smith realizing that not only am I not Martin’s girlfriend, but the two of us have never actually met?
“You going to finish that?” Nana Rosie nods at her martini still in my hand.
“Oh, absolutely.” I tilt my head back and drain the rest of the drink down my throat. “And I’m going to need another.”
“I can help with that.”
Chapter 8
Smith Mackenzie should not be coming over for drinks. The name Smith Mackenzie shouldn’t even be said in my house. It hasn’t been for years. Saying the word Mackenzie has basically been the equivalent to saying Beetlejuice three times. We simply don’t do it, because nothing good can come from a Banks discussing a Mackenzie. Nothing.
“We have a problem,” I say, gasping for air. I haven’t run up the winding staircase of my childhood home since I was a teenager, and it shows. I close the door to Phoebe’s room behind me. “I’m fucked. Royally. Also, hi.”
I rip off my clammy flannel and toss it onto the bed in between Phoebe and Falon. I’m about to unhook my bra, when I notice that Phoebe and Falon are eyeing me like some sort of carnival sideshow exhibit. Phoebe throws the flannel back at me.
“What the—”
“I’m just going to excuse myself,” says an unfamiliar voice.
In my haste to get up the stairs and barricade myself in Phoebe’s bedroom for all eternity, I neglected to notice that my sister and Falon weren’t the only two people in her bedroom. Standing in the corner next to the window that overlooks the pool is the man that romance writers have been writing about since smut was nothing more than suggestive drawings on cave walls.
Martin Butler is all sharp jawline, defined muscles, and kind eyes. He’s the type of man you do a double take for when you’re walking on the street. The photo my mother texted me did not do him justice, but then again, I’m not sure even Michelangelo himself could do any better. Martin Butler isn’t a Hemsworth. He’s a category all his own.
“Oh shit,” I say, holding my flannel against my chest. “I wasn’t expecting anyone else up here.”
“It’s entirely my fault.” Martin’s eyes are glued to the floor, his cheeks flushed with heat. “Your sister was just giving me the tour of her bedroom . . . uh . . . I mean, she was showing me your parents’ home and we ended up in her bedroom, with her fiancée of course, and then you came in and—”
“Gave him a tour of your tits,” Phoebe deadpans. “OK, I think we’re all caught up. Well, at least we will be once my sister puts her top back on.”
“I’ll give you your privacy.”
There’s something charming about how tongue-tied Martin is. It defuses my nerves in an unexpected but absolutely needed way. It’s the juxtaposition of this tall, gorgeous man who has probably had bras given to him by adoring fans, or drunk barflies at the very least, suddenly behaving as meek and nervous as a high school band geek. I’m not even sure he’ll be able to make it safely out of Phoebe’s room without tripping over his words or feet. It would be a damn shame for him to start off a holiday weekend with an injury.
“This might be the fastest a man has ever left a room after seeing my boobs.” I step aside from the door, still clutching my flannel. “Truly, a new personal best.”
“Oh, I promise I didn’t look.” Martin’s warm brown eyes lock with mine. “I mean, I did, but I looked away immediately after. It was an accident. I promise.”
“Just to be clear, was the accident the part where you looked away?”
“Penny, leave him alone,” Phoebe says. “The poor man has already had to endure an hour-long presentation of your baby pictures. I think he’s suffered enough.”
“We all have.” Falon pushes her glasses back on the bridge of her nose. “I didn’t know it was possible to actually hate a baby.”
“Hey.” Phoebe nudges her. “Half of those pictures could’ve been me. Mom could never tell us apart when we were babies.”
“I’m just going to go downstairs.” Martin holds up his copper mule mug. “I have a feeling I’m going to need a refill.”