Page 19 of Playing the Backbeat

“You haven’t pegged me at all.” His eyes dance with mischief.There’sthat classic Dylan flirt. “Should we make a rule about that too?”

I answer his smirk with one of my own. “A no pegging rule? Sounds boring.”

We both laugh before I absorb what he’s saying. “So, what then? No relationships for you until you findthe onewhosweeps you off your feet?” I pop the cookie in my mouth. Goddamn, that’s good. “I think you’re putting a lot of expectation on yourself and the future Mrs. Brooks if you’re holding out for fireworks. Maybe keep your eye out for the slow burn instead. The unexpected plot twist.”

Dylan grabs another cookie and tears off a small piece, popping that into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully before answering. “You’re right. That’s dumb.”

“No.”Shit. I’m an asshole.“Sorry, I don’t mean it like that. It’s just surprising. Charismatic, hotshot Dylan taking himself off the market for a chance attruelove.”

“Ew. Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?” Ignoring me, he turns away, walking into his room. When he turns to face me again, he leans his body against the doorframe.

“I’m going to take a shower. But I’m adding another rule. One of us cooks? The other one cleans.”

“I accept.”

He closes the door and I frown, feeling like we just breached the surface of the place our friendship has always stayed.

We’ve known each other for eight years. Not once have I ever seen him in a serious relationship. We’re both cut from the same cloth, I guess. We keep things lighthearted—teasing, jokes, and humor being our first, second, and third languages. Now I wonder if he uses them the same way I do.

I shake my head, willing the questions in my mind to quiet. I grab my earbuds and head to my room to charge them, knowing in my heart…I’ll never remember to put the mail in that goddamn basket.

Chapter eight

Dee

“Holy shit. You’re serious?” I grip my phone like the lifeline it is. Booming laughter sounds from the other end of the line.

“Yes, but it has to be today. Four thirty, before my grandfather leaves for vacation. He was supposed to have an interview, and they canceled last minute. He’s not the kind of guy you cancel on, so I offered your name as a fill-in.”

I work at four, but I can’t afford to miss this interview.

Sure, Phil was kind of a dick when we worked together on a few projects at Keller’s. He was a financial analyst, and I was one of the data analysts doing my best to support the work his team was trying to do. He was part of the boys’ club. Definitely a misogynist. But if I didn’t plan to ever work with one of those again…well, I’d never work another day in my life. And momma needs money.

I either have to call off for my shift at the bar or knowingly arrive late. I bite my lip, all too aware I’m still in myprobationary period in this job, and let’s face it, I’m not showing much promise.

“I’ll be there,” I say.

I run around my apartment in a frenzy, pulling my business attire from the back of my closet, dressing as quickly as I can. I throw my makeup and bartending clothes into my bag.

“Come on, come on, come on,” I plead with my piece of shit printer as I wait for my resume, cover letter, and references to slowly drop into the tray.

“And we’re off,” I shout, grabbing the papers and my bag, flying out of my room as fast as I can.

If I were going straight to the bar for my shift, I’d be able to drive myself and wouldn’t be late. But Phil’s office is on the other side of town. I need a miracle to make it to this interview on time, plus I need the extra time in the car to finish getting myself interview ready. I pull up the app on my phone to request a ride.Fuck yeah. Two minutes away.

I rush to the pantry, bumping Dylan out of the way as he stands there gawking at the snack options, indecision clear in his stance.

“Hey, what’s the hurry?” he says, affronted as I continue to shepherd him around the kitchen while I move as quickly as I can.

“No time,” I say breathless. I grab a granola bar and rush to refill my water bottle before throwing them both in my bag. I grab a pair of flats from the front closet and hop around, slipping the slightly too-tight shoes over my heel. “Scored a last-minute interview. Gotta run. Don’t wait up, sweetie. Remember to feed the cat!” I yell before slamming the door shut behind me and racing down the hall to the elevator.

“We don’t have a cat. Right? Dee?” I hear Dylan call after me.

I laugh, not stopping to answer, picturing Dylan hunting for a litterbox for the next ten minutes to confirm I do not, in fact, have a cat.

My ride is pulling up to the curb in front of our apartment building just as I race out the door.