The Invitation by Adriana Locke

Georgia

“Here we go,” Sutton mutters, her shoulders sagging.

“The devil?” Ripley’s smirk grows. “How is your family, by the way?”

“You’re such a riot,” I say, my voice edged in sarcasm. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Hell, presumably?”

He grins. “I just entered the pits of hell. You always provide such a lovely welcome party. Don’t they give you days off?”

A bright mockery invades his stare. My lips part to fire back a sharp retort, but I catch Sutton’s silent plea. It begs me to play nice.

The thought of letting Ripley win this exchange is almost painful. If I stay quiet, he’ll gloat—quietly, of course, because we’re in public. But he’ll know he won, and I’ll know he won. And he’ll know that I know he won, and living with that is unbearable even to consider.

Yet Sutton’s hopeful eyes stab me in the heart. I did come to The Swill to spend time with her, and to celebrate her new project and engagement. And she doesn’t ask much of me. And she is important to me; Ripley is not.

Ugh.

I sit back, take a deep breath, and adjust my features into a contrived serenity. The relief in Sutton’s posture is immediate.

“It’s your lucky day,” I say through semi-gritted teeth.

With a deliberate casualness that’s really a smug victory celebration, Ripley shifts his attention to a table of women across the room. They swoon beneath his gaze.

Despite my inherent dislike for the man and my frustration that no one ever sees beyond the exterior, I get it. Muscled thighs, a narrow waist, and shiny, copper-colored hair that looks like it’s had fingers run through it all day—it is textbook appealing. And his whole approachable-gentleman-with-a-glimmer-of-bad-boy vibe is alluring—if you don’t know better.

I get it.

I understand it.

I hate it.

He towers over me in tailored gray pants and a crisp white button-up. His sleeves are rolled to his mid-forearms, naturally showcasing his strength from a life of sports and a career in exercise physiology. As much as I don’t want to admit it, he’s ridiculously good-looking. If he’d keep his mouth shut, he’d be a ten.

“Why don’t you go talk to your fan club and leave us alone?” I ask him.

He pulls his attention to me. “Are you jealous? We’ll let you join. Don’t be mad.”

“Oh, please.”

“I love it when you beg.”

His lips curve into a sardonic smile, and his eyes twinkle with mischief as he waits for me to explode.

I lean forward, ignoring the notes of his stupid cologne, and meet his stare. I give him a little smile of my own.

“Careful, Ripley. Your subconscious is slipping again.”

“Is that what you think happened?”

“Of course. But it’s okay. Just a little slip of the tongue.”

The words are out before I can stop them. I flinch, knowing I just walked headfirst into a trap of my own making.

“Now, whose subconscious is slipping?” he asks, teasing me.

Dammit.

“Can you please leave?” I ask, huffing my displeasure.

“No. I’m meeting my brother Tate here in a few minutes. If you’re not happy here, you could leave.”

“I’d hate to waste a perfectly good martini.”

He reaches down and swipes my glass. Before I can protest, he downs the entire thing—never breaking eye contact with me.

I bite back the string of profanity that’s primed on the tip of my tongue because that’s exactly what he wants. He wants me to lose control. It takes every ounce of self-restraint that I can muster to suppress my anger under an appearance of indifference.

“Why are you such a dick?” I ask.

Ripley leans down, close enough that I can smell the sweet citrus of my drink on his breath. “You really should stop thinking about my dick, Peaches.”

My blood pressure rises. I hate when he calls me that—and he knows it.

“You really should get out of my face, asshole.”

His gaze settles against mine, practically begging me to blink or to pull away. Instead, I move closer to him.

My senses spin at his proximity, fighting to stay balanced. And not to throat-punch him.

“So Ripley, did you say you’re meeting Tate?” Sutton asks, her voice a few decibels louder than necessary. “I haven’t seen him in a while. What’s he been up to?”

Ripley stands tall, ripping his gaze away from mine like a sticky bandage that clings a little too hard.

I breathe deeply, hoping the fresh air settles me a bit. What’s the wedding day going to be like if he acts like this the entire time? Will he be asked to play nice?

I hate how my heart pounds around him. Fight or flight always kicks in, and it takes a moment to recover. I hate it. I hate him.

“He’s been traveling a lot. I’ve hardly seen him much either,” Ripley tells Sutton.

“Is he traveling for work or pleasure?” Sutton asks.

Ripley chuckles. “I think Tate mixes the two pretty seamlessly.”

Sutton laughs. I manage to eke out a smile for her benefit. It vanishes when Ripley catches my eye so he doesn’t get confused and mistake my smiles for him.

“Tate wants my opinion on a few things before we finalize our purchase of the Tennessee Royals.”

“The rugby team?” I ask.

He glances at me over his shoulder. He waits, presumably for me to say something more so he can jump down my throat. But I stay silent. I’m playing nice, even if it is giving me chest pains.

“Yes, the rugby team. My siblings and I are purchasing the franchise. My older brother Renn played pro.”

“Thank you for assuming I’m one of the few women on the planet who hasn’t searched Renn Brewer’s shirtless pictures online.”

His lips twist wryly.

I’ve discovered one vulnerability in Ripley’s veneer over the years, and it has to do with his siblings. The six of them are known for being as thick as thieves. Ripley defends the others ferociously, whether they’re right or wrong. Our friends say that he nearly beat the crap out of his father, Reid, when news broke that the old man had an altercation with Renn’s now wife, Blakely. He’s loyal to a fault.

But I’ve noticed that as proud and loyal as he is to them, they’re a touchy subject. If I mention that Renn is hot, Ripley tenses. If I comment that Tate is hilarious or their older brother Gannon has freak-in-the-sheets vibes, he becomes edgy. It doesn’t matter that Ripley is objectively the best-looking of them all and subjectively funny. He also has a certain sex appeal that’s made me curious once or twice. And he knows all of this—except the last part. Thank God.

I can’t help but poke around a little every now and then to get under his skin.

“If you two will excuse me for a moment, I need to make a quick phone call,” Sutton says, standing with her phone in her hand. “It won’t take long.”

Ripley slides a hand into his pocket and rocks back on his heels, watching Sutton weave through the tables in the bar. The light above hits him perfectly, highlighting his high cheekbones, broad shoulders, and perfectly straight teeth. It’s wholly unfair. I can’t find a good angle in perfect light, plus a filter. This asshole stands in the middle of a bar, and the good angle finds him.

I reach for my martini, only to remember it’s empty.

“You’re paying for my drink,” I say, flicking a fingernail against my glass.

“Ripley’s buying Georgia a drink?” Tate appears at Ripley’s side with an exaggerated look of surprise. “What is going on here? I haven’t been gone long enough for hell to freeze over, have I?”

“Very funny,” I say, smiling at the younger Brewer.

Unlike Ripley, Tate is a gem. There’s nothing pretentious about him, and his self-deprecating humor softens his ego. He has a charming way of making everyone around him feel seen, and I’ve never witnessed him be anything but polite and good-natured.

Clearly, that’s not genetic.

“Your brother drank my martini just to piss me off,” I say. “So I told him he’s paying for it.”

Tate lifts a brow at Ripley.

“I didn’t drink it to piss her off,” Ripley tells him. “She said she couldn’t leave because she hadn’t finished her drink. I was helping expedite her departure.”

“I bet you were,” Tate says, shaking his head. “You know, I can’t decide whether I’m relieved or disappointed that the two of you haven’t turned over a new leaf. On the one hand, it would end a very entertaining era. On the other hand, I’m interested to see what that would look like.”

“Well, don’t get your hopes up,” Ripley says, peering down at me. “She’s as incorrigible as ever.”

“Oh, whatever,” I say. “He’s the one who drank my martini. I’ve just been sitting here.”

“In purple boots,” Ripley says, his brows arched to the ceiling.

I hold a leg to the side, showing off my boots … and a bit of leg. “Aren’t they cute?”

“Not really the word on the tip of my tongue,” Ripley says, his gaze a little higher than the top of my boot.

“I bet not,” Tate says, winking at me. “Where’s Sutton?”

“Hey, Tate!” she says, reaching the table with her phone in her hand. “It’s so good to see you.”

An unwelcome blush creeps up my cheeks as I place my foot back on the floor.

Ripley and I glare at each other as Sutton invites them to join us. I scoot farther to my left to keep a respectable distance between Ripley and myself, as I’m afraid I might stab him in the leg with my fork if we sit too close.

Tate stops our server and orders two martinis and a beer for himself and Ripley.

“What’s been going on with you?” Sutton asks Tate. “We haven’t seen you in forever. Jeremiah said we should invite you for dinner soon now that we’re settled in our new digs.”

“That would be great. Let me know when, and I’ll be there.”

Tate smiles kindly at Sutton, and I can’t help but wonder why Ripley can’t be more like his brother. Sweet. Charming. Human.

“I’ve been on the go for the past three weeks straight, and I’ve barely had time to catch my breath,” Tate continues. “As a matter of fact, I came here straight from the airport.” He runs a hand through his hair that’s a touch lighter than Ripley’s. “I’m ready to spend some time at home and return to a routine. I miss my bed. I miss the gym. I even kind of miss Gannon.”

Ripley chuckles.

“Speaking of the gym, did you ever run that 5K we were talking about at Jeremiah’s birthday party?” Tate asks me.

“Good memory,” I say. “But no. It turns out that I’m not a runner.”

“I could’ve told you that before you bought your first pair of trainers,” Sutton jokes.

I make a face at her, then turn to Tate. “I did start weightlifting after you told me to give it a shot. But can I ask you a question?”

Ripley rustles beside me.

“Sure,” Tate says.

“I had been doing light weights at high reps, but a trainer in the gym told me to do heavy weights at low reps,” I say. “Now I’m not sure what to do.”

“I’m an exercise physiologist, you know,” Ripley says.

“I know,” I say, giving him a smile that anyone watching would think is friendly. “Anyway, Tate, I’m the maid of honor at an upcoming wedding and want to look exceptionally hot. And since I’m not a cardio girl, I need to figure out this weightlifting thing.”

Tate’s smirk sets deep in his cheeks as he watches Ripley from the corner of his eye.

Sutton laughs, wagging a finger across the table. “Weren’t you just telling me a few minutes ago how I needed to ensure I get all the shine on my wedding day? And now you’re saying you want to look exceptionally hot?” She shakes her head. “You little hypocrite.”

“Look,” I say, trying not to giggle. “I didn’t say I wanted to outshine you. That’s not possible, even if I tried. I only want to be irresistible to the single men wandering around the reception.”

“Aren’t you still dating Donovan Templesman?” Tate asks.

I take my drink from the server and thank him. “We ended things—I ended things—a couple of months ago.”

“What happened?” Tate asks.

Ripley tips back his beer and pretends not to listen.

“Yeah,” Sutton says, fighting a grin. “What happened, Georgia?”

I take a drink, letting the warmth of the alcohol flow through my veins. A nice buzz softens the edges of my irritation and helps me relax.

“To put it simply? He let the cookies run out,” I say.

“He what?” Ripley asks, dumbfounded.

“He let the cookies run out,” I repeat. “I know it sounds bizarre and silly, but it’s important to me.”

Tate tries to understand. “You broke up with a man because he ran out of cookies? Actual cookies, right? That’s not a euphemism?”

I sigh. “Just listen. I love white chocolate and macadamia nut cookies, okay? They’re my absolute favorite—especially the soft-baked kind. And once Donovan learned that about me, he always had them in his kitchen. Always. Without fail.”

“Cheap date,” Ripley mumbles.

I roll my eyes at him before continuing. “Donovan started talking about me moving in with him, and I fought against it. It was too soon, and I don’t know, I didn’t really feel like we were at that point. That made him mad. Shortly after, he stopped buying cookies.”

Sutton nods, an approving smile on her lips.

“It wasn’t the cookies that made me break up with him,” I say, swirling my drink around in my glass. “It was that he … I don’t know, wanted to punish me?”

Donovan was so quick to take away something small that showed me he cared about me. It wasn’t a big thing, really, but it showed me something fundamental about his character. There couldn’t have been a bigger, redder flag.

“Anyway, I wasn’t going to stay with someone who acted so childish simply because he didn’t get his way,” I say with a shrug.

Ripley’s brows pinch together. The way he studies me makes me uneasy, so I look away.

My phone buzzes on the table, and my mother’s name flashes on the screen. I know she wants to talk about her Charity Club drama, which can wait. But it’s an excellent excuse to leave—especially because Sutton will be looking for a reason to go soon, too.

I down the rest of my drink and then fish a few bills from my wallet.

“Sutton, I know you said you needed to be out of here by seven thirty,” I say. “It’s about that time, and I need to get going, too.”

She checks her watch. “You’re right. Jeremiah will be home from work soon and promised to take me for Thai tonight.”

I plop some cash on the table.

“I’ll pay for your drinks,” Ripley says.

“Oh, I know you will,” I say. “It’s really the least you can do for barging into our girl time and drinking my martini. I’m just chipping in for the tip.”

Tate chuckles. “Okay, I’m glad you two didn’t make peace. Watching you bicker is free entertainment.”

“Happy you enjoyed the show,” I say.

I stand, tugging the ends of my shorts down. It doesn’t help much—there’s not much length to work with—but it’s better than nothing.

Ripley stares straight ahead, intentionally not looking at me. Good.

“I’d say it was good seeing you again, Ripley, but that would be a lie,” I say.

“Likewise.”

He turns his head, catching my eyes with his once again. Something twinkles in his baby blues … probably bullshit.

Sutton says her goodbyes, and we walk out of The Swill. I sway my hips a little more than necessary in case Ripley is watching.

Not that I really care if he is or isn’t. But I know my ass looks great in these shorts, and I won’t miss the slightest opportunity to make him crazy.