Page 97 of Fifth Avenue Flirt

“So have you been hiding your success from me deliberately?” I ask, as we step out into the crisp New York air.

“I’m not sure,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets and cocking his head north. “I know a place up here.”

“So you might have been deliberately misleading me?”

“Look, you made it pretty easy not to tell you. You never asked. We never really talked about business. I didn’t think it was a big deal. We’re brothers. Not competitors.”

“Except I don’t think I’ve been a very good brother.”

“Want to come fishing with me this weekend?” he asks.

“Seriously?” I ask him. Is fishing something he likes? Another thing I didn’t know about him.

“Yeah, I’m checking out a piece of land up the coast in New England.”

“A piece of land?” I ask.

“Yeah. I might want to buy it. Build a wilderness resort there. It’s between here and Boston.”

“I’m in Boston on Thursday,” I say.

He nods but doesn’t say anything.

“I’m going up with Avril,” I continue. Avril still hasn’t called me, despite me sending her details on the Boston seller and proposing the meeting date. She messaged to thank me for the details and to confirm she could make the meeting on Thursday, but I thought she might call. She’s probably busy. And why would I hear from her? She got what she wanted from me. She can move on.

“So what’s the deal with you and Avril?”

“What do you mean, what’s the deal?”

“She’s moved out, right?”

“Right.”

“So are you dating? You seemed to like her.”

I frown. “Why would we be dating? I don’t date.”

He pulls in a breath and nods toward the door of the restaurant we’re standing in front of. I don’t know this place. I’ve not even read about it. I know most of the decent places to eat in Manhattan. The letters on the glass door spell out L’Ancienne Cuisine. Does my brother come here a lot? Is French food his thing? There’s so much I don’t know about Bray—he’s definitely not all sports bars. This restaurant is the exact opposite of every other place I’ve ever met him. Maybe he knows the good spots in Manhattan too.

The hostess gets us situated at a table and my brother orders some wine. The restaurant is dark. The only light comes from the dimly lit old paintings of the French countryside that litter the walls and the single tall candles on the tables. It feels on the verge of spooky, the kind of place secrets are traded and truths are spoken.

“So why don’t you date?” he asks, bringing us back to where we left off as we entered the restaurant.

“I’m busy,” I reply in a knee-jerk response.

He doesn’t say anything but my words hang in the air. It’s like I can see them, I can truly look at them, and I can also see how they’re bullshit.

“It’s less complicated,” I add.

“Not letting people in is a good way of protecting yourself.”

What’s he talking about? “I’m one of the most well-connected people in New York. I have more contacts in my phone than⁠—”

“I’m not talking about how many people you shake hands with. How many people in a year you go to breakfast, lunch, and dinner with. I’m talking about letting people in. Your walls are so high, Ben. I don’t know if I could climb them, even if I didn’t think you’d push me off at the top before I could get in—which I totally do.” He smiles, but his expression is full of pity.

“I don’t need you to feel sorry for me. I’m doing just fine.” How could Bray feel sorry for me? I’m thriving. I’m at the top of my game. There’s no one who’s anyone on the East Coast who doesn’t know who I am, who wouldn’t come to me if they needed something. Everything I’ve planned out since I was a kid has come to fruition. Bray should be cheering me, not pitying me.

“Except you miss Avril,” he says, and it’s like he’s poked me on the shoulder and it’s tipped me off a ledge and I’m in free fall.