The Invitation by Adriana Locke

Georgia

Music carries across Sutton’s backyard on a warm, gentle breeze. Beads of sweat roll down my chest, catching in my bikini top. I close my eyes, relishing the moment of relaxation, and listen to the fountain splash into the pool in the distance.

“If I lived here, I wouldn’t leave this spot,” I say, appreciating the buttery-soft chaise cushions. “Are these the chairs that were on backorder for sixteen years?”

She laughs. “Yup. The closest Jeremiah and I have ever been to breaking up was over these chairs. If he has a fault, it’s impatience when he really wants something.”

“Like he wanted you.”

“And other things.” She wiggles her white-painted toes. “We’ve been discussing trying for a baby as soon as we’re married.”

Really? I swallow my surprise. “How do you feel about that?”

She rolls onto her side to face me. “I know I always said that I wasn’t in any rush to have children, but I’m slowly changing my mind.”

I turn, too, and remove my sunglasses.

“Why are you reconsidering?” I ask.

“I know what you’re thinking—that Jeremiah might be pressuring me into parenthood because he’s been very vocal about wanting a ton of kids.”

Exactly.

“But it’s really not that, Georgia. When I thought about having kids before, the first things that popped into my head were negative. I’d have no free time. Traveling would be a pain in the ass. Kids are expensive.” She looks down the length of her body. “I’ve worked hard for these abs, and you know they’d never be the same.”

I give her a soft smile. She’s given me that list of reasons a hundred times, but instead of agreeing with her, I remain silent. Sometimes she works through things by saying them aloud, and I’ll always be her safe space when she needs to navigate life.

“But now, when I think about it …” Her smile grows. “I imagine Jeremiah’s strong arms holding a tiny baby with my eyelashes and his cheekbones. I can see him in the pool with our child, teaching him or her to swim. And I feel like I belong in that scenario. When I think about it, I get a lump in my throat in the best way. I can’t explain it.”

“You don’t have to explain it. Sometimes you can’t explain feelings.”

She wrinkles her nose at me.

“And it’s no one’s business besides you and your husband’s, anyway. You’ll know what’s right for you,” I say.

She holds my smile for a moment and then turns onto her back. “I don’t know why I feel better now, but I do.”

I chuckle to myself and roll onto my back, too.

My body sinks into the cushion, nice and relaxed from the heat. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since my pizza party with Mom two nights ago. When the townhouse stills for the night and nothing distracts me, my thoughts return to her. “Two months is a long time, Georgia.”

I’ve tried not to panic over my unemployment. I’ve ignored the statistics that the current average rate of joblessness is nine months. I can’t afford to be unemployed for nine months. Instead, I’ve been focusing on what I can do to help the situation. But Mom’s words dig into my confidence—ruffling my fear that I won’t be able to find work and will wind up … at her house.

The thought makes me ill.

“Things have a way of working out,” Sutton says, almost offhandedly.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I was just thinking.” She wiggles her toes again. “Two years ago, I was twenty-seven and terrified that I’d wind up alone forever. But look at me now. I’m on the cusp of having more than I even dared to dream.”

“It’s not that hard to imagine. You met your soulmate.”

Her head whips to mine with wide eyes. “Excuse me? Did you confirm the existence of soulmates?”

I roll my eyes. “I’ve never said I didn’t believe in them. I said that I don’t necessarily believe that everyone has one, and I don’t know that there’s one for me. Get your facts straight.”

She laughs. “Hey, speaking of soulmates, did I tell you what happened yesterday?”

“If you did, I don’t remember,” I say, reaching for my iced water.

“Okay, so there was one piece of my project at work that I hadn’t quite figured out. We plugged a solution in for it to keep the train moving, so to speak, but it was still wonky to me. I couldn’t figure it out. But then, someone in the office said they lost their phone and was terrified someone would find it, break into it, and look at their search history.”

I make a face. “Yeah. That’s my worst nightmare.”

Sutton’s brows lift.

“What?” I ask, taking a sip of water, then putting my tumbler down. “I look up some really weird shit when I can’t sleep.”

“Such as …?”

“Okay. I was watching a documentary about astronauts, and I wondered how they poop in space. So I looked it up.”

Sutton bursts out laughing.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t looked up odd things,” I say.

“I’ve never looked up the bathroom habits of astronauts.” She bites her lip to keep from laughing but fails. “What else do you search?”

“What color is lightning?” I pull my sunglasses over my eyes. “Men speaking in Italian. So hot.” I hum while I think. “What sign is most compatible with Taurus? Poisonous flowers. How to spell Mississippi. Do kangaroos really fight people? How long until you bleed out if you cut the tip of your finger? Porn.”

Sutton gives up and howls with laughter.

“If someone got ahold of that without knowing me, imagine the picture that would be painted,” I say. “They’d think I was an illiterate teenage boy.”

“I can’t with you.” She shakes her head, getting herself together. “But, in that case, you’ll hate my idea.”

“For what?”

“The one thing I didn’t have nailed down was how the two people on the show would be matched. We’re handpicking the first two people to shoot the pilot, so there isn’t actual matchmaking at work right off. But we needed to have an interesting way to say this guy and this girl are a potential love connection.”

My jaw drops. “You are not going to match them by their search histories.”

“We are.” Her smile is wide and bright. “It’s perfect! What you look up is the essence of who you are, right?”

“It’s the essence of who I am when I think no one will ever know.”

“Exactly.” Her amusement at my reaction is written across her face. “We can play this in so many ways. It’s fun. It’s relatable because everyone fears being judged—and being judged for your search history? The drama.”

I side-eye her and frown. “Yeah. Drama is right. Good luck with that. I hope this show is a success, but I’m afraid I’m starting to doubt that anyone will want to participate.”

The patio door slides open. Jeremiah steps into the backyard, his gaze going straight to Sutton.

“Hey!” She sits up, beaming. “I thought you were working all afternoon.”

“This is my time, dude. Go away,” I say, grinning at him.

“Accounting is behind, so half of the work I was trying to do today is stalled until they complete the files,” he tells Sutton. Then he looks at me. “I brought sandwiches from Stupey’s as a peace treaty. Does that help?”

I pretend to consider it. “It helps a little.”

He laughs, but there’s an edge to it—one I can’t overlook.

The energy around us shifts, swirling around as if announcing something … or someone. My stomach twists in response, and I sit up, curious. My curiosity grows deeper at the amusement on Jeremiah’s face.

“What?” I ask, my brows pulled together.

“Remember that we have a peace treaty,” he says.

I heave a breath and drag my attention inch by inch back to the patio just in time to catch Ripley stepping onto the concrete.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

He runs a hand through his hair. His chin tilts slightly down as he looks at me through his thick lashes and watches me warily.

I keep my gaze trained on his face and not on how his board shorts emphasize his powerful, muscular body. Asshole.

He walks toward us with a nonchalance that burns me.

“Jeremiah.” I say his name so sharp that it could cut glass. “Consider our treaty null and void.”

“But I got you sandwiches,” he says, almost singsong-ing the sentence. “And a blondie. I know you love blondies.”

“Yes, I do.” Ripley stops next to his friend, smiling smugly. “Ladies, I would say that I’m sorry for interrupting, but I’m not a liar.”

Sutton stares holes in the side of my face, so I bite my tongue instead of calling him out.

“Are you hungry?” Jeremiah asks. “I’m starving. I got out of here early this morning and haven’t eaten a bite today.”

Sutton hops to her feet. “Jeremiah. You should’ve woken me up, and I would’ve fixed you something.”

“I’m a grown-up who can fix his own breakfast. And you were sleeping too peacefully to bother.”

“Let’s get you some food,” she says. “Do you want to eat, Georgia?”

“Yeah. Let’s head in. I’m baking out here, anyway.”

Jeremiah wraps a hand around her and leads her to the house … leaving Ripley and me behind.

“For the record, I had no idea you were going to be here,” Ripley says, his gaze raking down my body as I stand.

I flash him the dirtiest look I can muster. One that could freeze hell. I’m sure he renders women speechless when he appreciates their bodies, but not me. I couldn’t give a shit if he likes what he sees or not.

But, if he wants to look, I’ll give him a show … and then embarrass him for it.

I bend slowly to grab my tumbler, the weight of his attention heavy on my ass. So predictable.

“Staring is rude, Mr. Brewer,” I say.

“It’s kind of hard to miss.”

I gasp, spinning around to face him. My face flushes in embarrassment. “And exactly what is that supposed to mean?”

“What do you think it means?”

“If it means what I think it means, you can fuck off.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “It means your ass was in my face with a scrap of fabric barely covering anything. What do you want me to do?”

“Not making assholish comments about it would be an excellent start.”

“I … no. Nope. I’m not going there.” He grinds his teeth together and shakes his head. A growl rumbles through the air. “You could literally turn anything into an argument.”

“I’m not sure what sort of a reply you were after when you basically insinuated that my ass was so big you couldn’t ignore it.” My eyes narrow. “Does that angle work for you with other women? Or were you simply trying to be a dick?”

He squares his shoulder to mine and peers down at me. His eyes are lasered in on my face, making me gasp from the intensity.

“Or let’s try this,” he says, lifting a brow cockily. “What reaction were you after when you intentionally bent over in front of me? Just kidding. I don’t have to ask. I know that gets men’s attention. So am I right to think you were trying to get mine?”

You bastard. I ball my free hand at my side.

“Oh, did I hit a nerve?” His soft voice is mocking. Amusement dances across his stupidly handsome face. “Did you get called out for wanting—practically begging—for my attention?”

“Please,” I say. “If you want to know the truth, I think you wanted my attention, and that’s why you were staring, which, may I add, doesn’t really jive with your fake I’m-such-a-gentleman persona. You should work on that.”

My heart pounds as sweat from the heat, anger, and a little embarrassment trickles down my chest.

I’m most angry that the fucker is right—I did want his attention. The problem is that he thinks I wanted it because I think it’s a trophy. The great Ripley Brewer likes my ass. And while that is a small, tiny feather in my cap, that wasn’t the reason for my actions.

I wanted to have the upper hand.

“There are many things I need to work on, Miss Hayes, but my gentleman persona is not one of them.” He rolls his head around his shoulders. “I should’ve turned around and left as soon as I saw you.”

“Why didn’t you?” I bring my tumbler to my lips. “Would’ve been doing us both a favor.”

His jaw flexes as he watches me take a sip of my water. The fire in his eyes is met with the inferno in mine.

“You’re right,” he says.

I drop my drink to my side, flabbergasted he admitted that so easily.

“I’m going to go inside. I’ll let Jeremiah know something came up and I have to leave,” he says. “Not dealing with your shit is better than ruining my afternoon.”

“By all means, please go. Save both of our afternoons. But at least take the blame, gentleman.”

“You are incorrigible.”

“I’m …” My head spins as I try to find a quick comeback. Who uses words like that? “Corrigible.”

He smiles. “Corrigible, huh?”

“Yeah,” I say, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Do you even know what that means?”

“Yes,” I say weakly.

“So you’re admitting you can change? You can be reformed from your incorrigible, witchy ways?”

“That’s not what corrigible means.”

He smiles smugly. “That’s exactly what it means.”

I start toward the house with Ripley on my heels. Fuck him and his vocabulary.

“What I mean is that I’m pleasant,” I say. “Nice. I can get along with anyone. So the fact that I can’t get along with you is very telling.”

“Yeah. It means you’re an asshole,” he says.

“It means that you’re the problem.”

He stops abruptly beside the pool, and I turn and face him. Sweat coats his skin, drawing attention to the ridges of his face and the smooth skin of his neck. He licks his lips as he looks down at me, studying me like a project.

Annoyance rolls through me, intensified by the sun and the heat rolling off his body. I should walk away and leave him behind … but I don’t. I’m stuck in place, waiting for him to speak.

“Do you realize that our biggest argument is over us arguing?” he asks. “We fight the most about the fact that we fight.”

“Because we never get beyond that. As soon as your lips part, I want to punch them.”

He tilts his head to the side, and I loathe that I notice how much his blue eyes shine in the sunlight.

“What would happen if we stayed silent toward each other when we’re in the same room?” he asks. “If we completely ignore the other person instead of going for the jugular?”

I consider this. It might be possible, but I’ve never thought about it before.

“I mean, you would have to take that stick out of your ass, but I think you can do it,” he says.

What?

My jaw hangs open, anger and frustration swirling wildly inside me. It rises too quickly to contain. Before I know it, my hands are planted on his solid, wall-like chest, and I push him backward.

His eyes fly open as his momentum swiftly changes directions, and he loses his balance. He snaps out a hand, wrapping it around my wrist, and yanks me off my feet.

“No,” I squeal as I shoot through the air, my tumbler banging against the decking as it falls. Ripley drags me with him, his fingers burning into my wrist, as we sail toward the water.

I barely hold my breath before I plummet into the water.

Two splashes ring through the air as Ripley and I sink to the bottom of the pool. I open my eyes to find him a few feet away, grinning mischievously.

Oof.

Bubbles float from his mouth from what I imagine is a chuckle, just before he spreads his arms—his shirt clinging to every ridge of his body—and heads for the surface.

I swim to the top and gasp a lungful of air, brushing my wet hair off my face. Ripley is treading water an arm’s length away. He’s cool, calm, and collected—no worse for the wear. His shirt is sucked to his body by the water, like a model waiting for a photo shoot, and that only makes me madder.

But I can’t say anything because I shoved him first.

“Hey, Peaches,” he says, humor dancing across his features.

“Fuck you.”

“Fine. I won’t tell you that your tits are hanging out. It’s not like I mind.”

I look down to see my nipples peaked and pointed directly at him.

I scurry to pull up my top with a full-on blush. He swims gracefully, lazily to the side. Two hands grip the pool’s edge before he lifts himself—his arm muscles flexing beneath the sparkly water droplets on his skin—and climbs out.

He walks away without looking back. I hate Ripley Brewer.