Page 77 of Rising Heat

Or be an asshole.

Which would be a solid strategy if the person in question wasn’t currently sitting cross-legged on our living room floor in my sweatshirt, two bourbons in, getting snowed in and laughing at his jokes. That particular line crossed state borders sometime before lunch.

“You can call him Mack,” I tell her.

Mack looks at me.

“Tyler…”

“Don’t be a dick.”

I gesture toward Darcy.

His gaze shifts to her and stays there for a second before he lets the argument die without another word. Across from us, Darcy looks like she wants a follow-up and is physically restraining herself.

Good instinct.

She puts down her own card instead.

“Copy editor. First job out of college. We were both miserable.”

“Bleak,” I tell her.

She lifts a shoulder.

“Welcome to marketing.”

A few rounds later, she flips another card and immediately wrinkles her nose.

“Never have I ever lied to get out of a date.”

“Weak,” she announces before either of us can react.

Across from us, Mack drops a card onto the table without a word. Darcy catches the movement and turns to stare at him.

“That was fast.”

“Sometimes silence is kinder.”

“Oh, absolutely not. Tell her.”

Darcy leans forward, the blanket she pulled out of her duffle bag earlier sliding off one shoulder.

“Please do.”

I watch Mack look at her leaning toward him. Watch something move through his face that he gets under control about a second too late. Eight years on the same truck and a lifetime as his brother and I’ve never seen him work this hard at stillness.

Mack clears his throat.

“She brought her mother.”

Darcy’s eyes go wide.

“On a first date?!”

“...apparently, she liked brunch.”

Darcy completely loses it. One second she’s sitting cross-legged on the rug and the next she’s folded in half, bourbon abandoned on the coffee table while she laughs into the blanket.