Page 173 of Where We Stay

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face is asking at least a million questions, G.”

Georgie drops onto the couch. “My face is minding its business.”

“Your face has never minded its business a day in its life.”

I leave them arguing while I make myself a coffee, then join them in the living room. Georgie spends the next ten minutes complaining about how much tequila she drank last night before asking Blair if she wants to come to the salon with her next weekend.

“I’ll be right back. I’m going to put on something a little more appropriate,” Blair says.

She looks down and realizes how far my shirt has ridden up her thighs.

I don’t fucking mind one bit.

Blair disappears into the bedroom, and I take another sip of my coffee before noticing Georgie glaring at me.

“Something on your mind, G?”

She folds her arms across her chest. “Be gentle with her, Dean.”

“I will.”

“I don’t know her whole story,” Georgie continues, lowering her voice, “but Blair is probably my favorite person in the world. You know me—I don’t say that shit lightly.”

“I know.”

“And I know you love her because, let’s face it, your face doesn’t hide shit either.” She waves a hand in my direction. “But if you hurt her, I’ll shove a wrench so far up your ass, you’ll taste metal.”

“Jesus Christ, Georgie.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know enough to understand what she needs,” I tell her. “And I’m not going to hurt her. Although, if I do anything Blair isn’t happy with, I’m pretty sure she’ll make good on that threat herself.”

G considers that before nodding. “Good. Just needed to get that out there.”

“You’re a good friend.”

Her expression softens. “Yeah, well. Don’t tell anyone.”

Blair walks back into the room as Georgie gets up from the couch and collects her things.

“I’m leaving, babe,” G calls. “And use protection. I’m not ready for another tiny Ashford to start calling me Aunt G.”

“Jesus, G,” Blair and I say together.

Georgie grins as she walks out the door.

Thirty Five

Blair

Aweek ago, I was convinced my life was about to fall apart.

Today, I’m standing in Dean’s kitchen arguing with a six-year-old about pancake toppings.

“It has to be syrup, Blair. And ice cream,” Aspen insists.