you when I get back.”
She hurried past, feeling like one giant bitch for doing so, but she’d rather feel that way than lead the guy on or end up in an awkward moment where he inevitably asked her out and she gave some lame excuse like she was washing her cat’s hair that night.
In the elevator, Madison turned narrowed eyes on Bridget. “You could’ve invited him, you know.”
“I know.” She folded her arms.
Chase leaned against the wall, tipping his head back. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because—”
“Because Robert likes Bridget,” Madison explained, finishing up the buttons on her jacket. “And Bridget likes pens.”
“Pens?” Chase echoed.
Bridget rolled her eyes. “Pens are by far more stimulating than most people.”
“I’m kind of wondering what you’re doing with those pens,” Chase said.
Madison scrunched up her nose. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”
“My mind is always in the gutter around you.”
And there they went again, inching closer and closer, arms going around each other, kissy sounds and all. Bridget closed her eyes and let out a low breath. Being around them was like standing next to two horny teenagers.
Damn, she was jealous.
The elevator couldn’t move fast enough, and she was surprised Chase and Madison didn’t end up having sex in the thing. A bit of the glass walls were fogged up, though.
Brisk November wind cooled Bridget’s cheeks as they dodged businessmen carrying briefcases and tourists with fanny packs. Off in the distance, the Washington Monument rose like one giant…phallic symbol.
Men and their architectural toys…
Weird looks were sent their way, ones that either Madison or Chase ignored or didn’t see, but Bridget saw every one of them. A red cardigan typically didn’t go well with a pink-and-white-striped skirt and colorful heels and white tights, but Bridget’s oddball fashion sense wasn’t anything new. More like a reject from the eighties to be exact, but she’d always been this way, throwing clothes together, mix-matching designs like a trendy Euro-trash designer.
Her mother believed it was some kind of psychological misdirection enabling Bridget to protect herself from getting hurt. Eye. Roll. She just liked colors and really wished her mother were in any career, even stripping, instead of psychology.
Nothing beats getting diagnosed over Thanksgiving dinner.
Halfway there, Chase dug out his cell and chuckled, drawing both their attentions. He texted something back and then bent down, brushing his lips across Maddie’s forehead.
Two blocks down from the Mall, they dipped into the trendy new diner. Warm air greeted them, as did the faint smell of grease and pricey food. The place was crowded, which made squeezing between the round tables tricky.
“Are we going to get a seat?” Bridget asked, hoping the blister she was getting on the back of her foot wasn’t in vain.
Chase nodded. “I called ahead. We got a booth out back.”
A frown puckered Madison’s face. “I thought this place didn’t do reservations?”
He smiled.
Of course, Bridget realized, no establishment in town would refuse Chase or any of the Gamble brothers. Besides the politicians and drug dealers, the Gamble brothers ran this town.
The roomy booth in the back, caddy corner to a not so surprisingly busy bar, was big enough to seat six comfortably. Madison and Chase took up one side while Bridget slid into the opposite seat, thankful she loathed jackets as she watched Madison mutter under her breath, stand again, and then take off her jacket. A server swung by their table, dropping off plastic-covered menus and taking their drink orders.
“Can I get another water?” Chase asked, spreading an arm along the back of the booth. “We have one more person joining us.”
“Sure,” the waitress replied, smiling.
“We do?” Madison asked once the waitress dashed away to fill the order.
The strangest feeling washed over Bridget. Kind of felt like
She hurried past, feeling like one giant bitch for doing so, but she’d rather feel that way than lead the guy on or end up in an awkward moment where he inevitably asked her out and she gave some lame excuse like she was washing her cat’s hair that night.
In the elevator, Madison turned narrowed eyes on Bridget. “You could’ve invited him, you know.”
“I know.” She folded her arms.
Chase leaned against the wall, tipping his head back. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because—”
“Because Robert likes Bridget,” Madison explained, finishing up the buttons on her jacket. “And Bridget likes pens.”
“Pens?” Chase echoed.
Bridget rolled her eyes. “Pens are by far more stimulating than most people.”
“I’m kind of wondering what you’re doing with those pens,” Chase said.
Madison scrunched up her nose. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”
“My mind is always in the gutter around you.”
And there they went again, inching closer and closer, arms going around each other, kissy sounds and all. Bridget closed her eyes and let out a low breath. Being around them was like standing next to two horny teenagers.
Damn, she was jealous.
The elevator couldn’t move fast enough, and she was surprised Chase and Madison didn’t end up having sex in the thing. A bit of the glass walls were fogged up, though.
Brisk November wind cooled Bridget’s cheeks as they dodged businessmen carrying briefcases and tourists with fanny packs. Off in the distance, the Washington Monument rose like one giant…phallic symbol.
Men and their architectural toys…
Weird looks were sent their way, ones that either Madison or Chase ignored or didn’t see, but Bridget saw every one of them. A red cardigan typically didn’t go well with a pink-and-white-striped skirt and colorful heels and white tights, but Bridget’s oddball fashion sense wasn’t anything new. More like a reject from the eighties to be exact, but she’d always been this way, throwing clothes together, mix-matching designs like a trendy Euro-trash designer.
Her mother believed it was some kind of psychological misdirection enabling Bridget to protect herself from getting hurt. Eye. Roll. She just liked colors and really wished her mother were in any career, even stripping, instead of psychology.
Nothing beats getting diagnosed over Thanksgiving dinner.
Halfway there, Chase dug out his cell and chuckled, drawing both their attentions. He texted something back and then bent down, brushing his lips across Maddie’s forehead.
Two blocks down from the Mall, they dipped into the trendy new diner. Warm air greeted them, as did the faint smell of grease and pricey food. The place was crowded, which made squeezing between the round tables tricky.
“Are we going to get a seat?” Bridget asked, hoping the blister she was getting on the back of her foot wasn’t in vain.
Chase nodded. “I called ahead. We got a booth out back.”
A frown puckered Madison’s face. “I thought this place didn’t do reservations?”
He smiled.
Of course, Bridget realized, no establishment in town would refuse Chase or any of the Gamble brothers. Besides the politicians and drug dealers, the Gamble brothers ran this town.
The roomy booth in the back, caddy corner to a not so surprisingly busy bar, was big enough to seat six comfortably. Madison and Chase took up one side while Bridget slid into the opposite seat, thankful she loathed jackets as she watched Madison mutter under her breath, stand again, and then take off her jacket. A server swung by their table, dropping off plastic-covered menus and taking their drink orders.
“Can I get another water?” Chase asked, spreading an arm along the back of the booth. “We have one more person joining us.”
“Sure,” the waitress replied, smiling.
“We do?” Madison asked once the waitress dashed away to fill the order.
The strangest feeling washed over Bridget. Kind of felt like
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