Chapter 3

3

TRISTAN

When it’s clear no amount of pounding will make my best friend’s little sister come out of the bathroom, I give up.

After the crappy week I had, a showdown with Nina Thompson is the last thing I needed. Well, too late. She’s won this round, but the game is far from over.

I walk back into the open space living room to find two other minxes sprawled on my sectional, eating my popcorn, and watching my TV. Dylan is perched at a safe distance on the other side of the couch.

I look at my roommate with a silent frown spelling, What the fuck, man?

He smiles apologetically. “I got stuck in the garbage disposal. They were the only ones who could help.”

That revelation attracts my gaze to the kitchen, where random parts of the waste disposer are scattered on the tiles with a trail of yuck leaking from under the sink.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dylan says. “I’ll clean it up tomorrow.”

As if I could sleep knowing there’s that on my kitchen floor.

I remove my suit jacket and roll up my sleeves. I’m already kneeling with my head under the sink, screwing the first piece back on, when Dylan squats next to me. “I said I’d do it tomorrow.”

“Pass me the wrench.”

Dylan hands me the tool and sighs, proceeding to mop the floor while I finish reassembling the disposal.

By the time I’m done, the kitchen is once again clean, and Dylan is leaning on the mop, eyeing me with a goofy expression.

“You know, leaving it for one night wouldn’t have killed you. You need to relax.”

“No, I need a shower.” Now more than ever. “What I don’t need is to come home after a long day and find your sister in my bathroom, her roommates on my couch monopolizing the TV, and the kitchen a fucking mess.”

Before Dylan can reply, I hightail it to the living room. I don’t want to direct at him anger that mostly has to do with the crappy text I got from my mother just a few hours ago.

As I sit on the armrest of the couch, waiting, my mood doesn’t improve. I keep checking my watch every other minute. Dylan sits next to me after a while, presumably after cleaning the sink base cabinet. My best friend becomes absorbed in the stupidest movie I’ve ever watched. Two people who supposedly hate each other pretend to date at a destination wedding for a bogus reason until they go at it like rabid rabbits.

This is torture.

When Nina still hasn’t come out of the bathroom thirty minutes later, I burst out, “How long can a shower last?”

One of the roommates, the one with the wavy dark hair, turns to me. “Regular woman shower? Half an hour, easy.” She tilts her head mockingly. “Revenge shower? I’d say an hour minimum.”

“Revenge for what? I didn’t do anything.”

“You probably called her Gremlin at least once,” the roommate with the braid explains.

“Not my fault if she can’t take a joke.”

“Joke’s not funny if you’re the only one laughing.” The dark-haired one again.

Dylan makes a hand-over-throat gesture, signaling to cut it because I can’t win, or because we’re outnumbered. I’m not sure about the why, but the message is clear: I should not complain about his sister taking her sweet time in my shower.

Like hell.

After another twenty minutes, I’ve had enough. I storm back down the hall, and just as I’m about to pound on the door again, it opens.

Holding a ball of her dirty clothes under her arm, Nina blinks. She’s wearing nothing but a white towel— my white towel. Her long wet hair frames her face, and her bare shoulders are dotted with tiny droplets of water that shine like crystals. I suddenly have to fight an instinct to run a finger over her collarbones and smear the water over her skin.

Our eyes meet, linger for a heartbeat, then she glances at my rolled-up sleeves before her gaze collides with mine again, more intense this time. “You’ve been standing here this entire time?”

“That is my towel,” I clip.

In response, she bends her chin to sniff the hem. “Really? It doesn’t smell like dead puppies. I hadn’t figured.”

My jaw ticks. “I want it back.”

“I’ll just go change in Dylan’s room and I’ll bring it back.”

She makes to walk down the hall toward Dylan’s room, but I shoot out an arm to block her.

Nina frowns. “What are you doing?”

No idea.

But she’s rubbed me the wrong way tonight. “I want it now.”

“Now?” Her voice comes out small.

My hand flat on the wall, I smirk. I have her. After years of spoken and unspoken challenges neither of us has ever backed down from, I finally have her. “You’ve got a problem with that, Gremlin?”

Her jaw sets. I’m not sure if it is for my use of her nickname—I didn’t know it still bothered her so much after fifteen years—or if it’s about the dare. We do a lot of those. I can’t remember a time I saw her when some kind of challenge wasn’t involved.

As a rule, we try to avoid each other as much as possible, but when we find ourselves in a group situation because of Dylan, the knives come out.

There was that time we were at the Hamptons out of season, and she snickered that I was too much of a wuss to go into the ocean for a swim. I only just avoided going into hypothermia, but pretended I bathed in frigid waters all the time. Or when I told her she couldn’t out-drink me, and we both ended up almost needing our stomachs pumped—Dylan wasn’t happy; it was his birthday. That was a night to forget, admittedly. But another one of Dylan’s birthdays—the one where I tricked Nina into coming dressed as a cheerleader—still is one of the funniest nights I’ve ever had. Probably one of the few where I had the upper hand. And even when I don’t, I never give up, I never back down. And neither does she.

Once she dared me to ride the Cyclone at Coney Island three times in a row after we had a hot dog feast. I puked after ride two but still went for number three. One night, I picked all her karaoke songs, from Eminem’s “Godzilla” to Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On.” She rapped her way through every verse and broke our ears with each off-key high note, but she sang them all. I swallowed a ball of wasabi on one occasion not to give in. She ate a mega-stack of pancakes, complete with a mountain of whipped cream and syrup, to prove me wrong. It was like watching Khaleesi eat an entire horse’s heart. No matter that she was forcing down fluffy pancakes and not raw meat. Nina once bet me I wouldn’t go to a Knicks game wearing a Boston Celtics jersey. I almost got lynched.

The point is, retreating from a challenge isn’t something either of us knows how to do. Our score is tight as of now, nil to nil. But tonight, I have her under my thumb. Because there’s no way Nina Thompson will drop her towel in front of me.

We stare at each other for what feels like a minute of solid eye contact before she takes a step back.

“Very well.”

She unhooks the towel from around her torso and, shuffling awkwardly with the clothes in her arms, she drops it to the floor—eyes never leaving mine.

I do my best not to watch, not to let my gaze drop by even a fraction of an inch. But my peripheral vision is more than enough, I can see everything.

I’m suddenly very aware that my best friend—also her six-foot-five, protective, muscular older brother—is just in the other room. What am I doing?

Nina

As I drop the towel, holding his stare, there’s more than just murder churning in Tristan’s eyes. What exactly is swirling into those evil depths, I cannot tell. And I’m not about to sit around naked to find out. My supply of boldness is about to run out.

With as much dignity as I can muster, I clear my throat and, gesturing to the arm still blocking my way, I ask, “Do you mind?”

Tristan drops his arm, and I proceed the short distance to my brother’s room, resisting the urge to cover my butt with the ball of clothes in my hands as I go. I can practically feel Tristan’s gaze metaphorically slapping my ass.

Then I’m in Dylan’s room. Safe. Hidden behind a solid wooden door. Oh gosh, what was that? I’m not even sure who won this one. I only know my heart is hammering way too hard against my ribcage.

To distract myself, I drop my dirty PJs on the floor and rummage through Dylan’s chest of drawers to find something clean to wear.

My brother’s clothes are not just oversized for me, they swallow me whole, but at least they’re freshly laundered and warm.

Which gives me an idea. I pick up my soiled pajamas and move to the laundry room, where I dump them in the washing machine and set the cycle to the most intensive, highest temperature one. I’m not concerned about ruining my flannels with aggressive washing. All I care about is that Tristan “I-Want-My-Towel-Now” Montgomery will lose water pressure and possibly even have to take his precious shower cold.