My Bestie's Ex (The Rooftop Crew Book 1) Read online

  His eyes fall back on me and I straighten my back like I wasn’t just ogling him. “I don’t have sibling rivalry.”

  “Okay.” He lifts a Tupperware container up over the seat. “Try one of these.”

  I raise my hand. “I’m okay, but thank you.”

  “Come on. I promise they aren’t poisoned. I tried the staple of your culture. Try mine?”

  “Shrimp?”

  “Garlic prawns.” He moves it closer and though my stomach says no more food, my eyes say damn that looks good. When my nose joins in on the debate, I raise my hand to grab one.

  If my brothers saw me, they’d knock it out of my hand saying I’m crazy and what am I thinking. I laugh imagining the whole scenario.

  “What’s so funny?” He picks up a shrimp himself and eats it, closing up the container afterward.

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s the way you’re going to play it, huh?” He looks around. “We’re all by ourselves and I’m the last stop. Humor me until you get off.”

  He’s getting off at Cliffton Heights too? That shouldn’t make my stomach feel like it’s filled with helium and it might float away, but it does.

  I bite into the shrimp. It isn’t rubbery and it’s still warm. The butter drips down my chin as I take another bite. I’ve had garlic shrimp before but never this good.

  “Told you it was good.” His cockiness draws me into him further. Maybe it’s growing up with three overly confident brothers, but the more sure a man is of himself, the more I seem to want him.

  “It’s excellent.” I finish the shrimp off and he holds up a napkin for me to dispose of the tail in. “You’re so prepared.”

  He nods. “Don’t worry, in ten minutes you won’t feel a thing. You’ll just pass out.”

  I stare blankly at him and then he laughs.

  “I’m kidding. Seriously. Kidding.” He extends his hand. “Ethan.”

  I place my hand in his, ignoring the way the heat from his large hand travels up my arm. “Blanca.”

  “Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”

  Heat rises to my cheeks. “Thanks.”

  He wiggles in his seat, spreading his legs out a bit more and getting comfortable. “So tell me what was so funny.”

  “I was just thinking about my brothers.”

  “Clearly you have more than one?”

  “Three,” I answer.

  “Older or younger?”

  “All older.”

  His eyes widen and he nods. “Must be some sibling rivalry going on.”

  “There isn’t any sibling rivalry.”

  His smile only grows. “Italian family. Three older brothers. They all successful?”

  I shake my head.

  “No?”

  I frown. “Okay, yeah.”

  He smirks. “Married?”

  I roll my eyes in a playful way. “One is.”

  “The other two?”

  “Seriously? Engaged and committed.”

  He raises those perfect eyebrows like I should just admit he’s right.

  “I’m telling you. I’m the baby sister. The only daughter in an Italian family. I’m not starved for attention.”

  “And yet you know your brother put too much garlic in the meatballs and haven’t told your mom yet because a small part of you wants her to figure it out and blame your brother.”

  “NO!” I screech and then lower my voice. “No,” I whisper-shout. “I would have said something if I knew when they were being made, I could just tell when I tasted them.”

  He nods a few times like, ‘okay continue to lie to yourself.’

  “You’re not right.”

  “I am.” He winks and those balloons in my stomach take flight. Damn traitor.

  The conductor announces Peekskill and Gil stands up, swooping up the Tupperware container. He looks around and when he spots Ethan, he nods in appreciation.

  “Have a great night, Gil,” Ethan says.

  Gil doesn’t respond and I watch him stumble down the stairs and out onto the platform. When I look back to Ethan, he’s smirking.

  “I’m almost always right,” he says, but his facial expression tells me he doesn’t necessarily believe it.

  “You know nothing about me or my relationship with my brothers.”

  He taps his index finger on his chin like he’s thinking. “I bet they’re protective?”

  “That’s not rocket science. Three Italian brothers being overprotective of their baby sister is somewhat expected.”

  “But I bet it bothers you.”

  I shrug. “It would bother anyone.”

  He shakes his head. “There are some people who like protectiveness from other people. Makes them feel cared for. Loved.”

  I look around the train car. It’s only the two of us. “Am I on the psychoanalyze me train?”

  He laughs. “This is the most fun I’ve had on a Sunday night in months.”

  “That’s not something to be proud of,” I deadpan.

  I’m not going to admit that it’s the same for me because he’s a stranger and I know nothing about him. He could be buttering me up to kidnap me later.

  He says nothing and since I hate awkward silence, I finally succumb.

  “Fine. You’re right, it bothers me.”

  “Because you want to prove to them you’re an equal?”

  I shake my head. “Okay… next topic.”

  To my surprise, he does let it go, taking out a container of cookies. Chocolate chip at that. So classically American.

  “What culture are you from?” I ask.

  “Spanish. Not the cookies though.” He holds the container out toward me. “Peace offering. I tend to interrogate people because I love digging and dissecting what makes them tick. My apologies.”

  I pick up a cookie hoping I’m not about to drop unconscious before we hit Cliffton Heights. “Thanks. Apology accepted.” I bite the cookie and an explosion of sugary goodness fills my mouth.

  “Which one is your stop?” he asks.

  “Cliffton Heights.”

  He gifts me with a deep smile that draws his dimple out. My ego soars at being the one to pull it out of him.

  I’m in so much trouble.

  Chapter Two

  Ethan

  Todd smiles at me with a silent question of ‘who did you pick up tonight’ in his eyes as I allow Blanca to walk in front of me down the aisle of the train. She’s carrying a multitude of bags and I purposely didn’t offer to take one because I’m not the savior a girl like her is looking for and I don’t want her to think I am.

  “Where do you live?” I ask after we say goodbye to Todd and climb down the stairs to the train platform.

  “I’m not telling you that.” She walks over to a bench. It’s dark outside. If we weren’t in Cliffton Heights, I’d follow her just to make sure she was safe.

  “You ate my food and look, you’re still alive.”

  “It could be twenty-four hours before I feel something. Sorry.” She bats her long eyelashes.

  She’s so cute in her skinny jeans, her Vans and a T-shirt that says, ‘I hate being sexy, but I’m a teller so I can’t help it’. She looks down noticing me reading her shirt and her cheeks redden. “It’s from my aunt. She’s kind of obsessed with giving people T-shirts about their jobs.”

  “You’re a fortune teller?” My forehead wrinkles.

  Blanca smiles and I try to think of some other obscure profession to guess again, just to see her face light up like that.

  “I was a bank teller. A long time ago but…” She touches the shirt with her forefinger and thumb, rubbing the fabric in between fondly.

  “It’s one of those T-shirts? One of the ones you can’t bear to part with but should’ve given up long ago.” I finish her sentence and her foot slams on the ground.

  “Should your shirt read, ‘Psychologist: Warning I will be psychoanalyzing everything about you. #sorrynotsorry?’”

  “Well, I’d hope it would say so
mething more about being sexy, like yours does.”

  She giggles and her head dips down as she shuffles her feet. “I need to get home.”

  Just as she says it, her phone rings and she blows out a deep breath, retrieving it from her purse.

  “Brothers?”

  Her eyes widen. “I’m starting to get creeped out.”

  It’s really just my journalistic tendencies of trying to decipher everything someone says or does. To figure them out with what little information they give you. I always felt like I was born with the instinct to read people. Over the years, I’ve been fooled more than once though.

  Like my dad’s boss when I was seven. I thought he was a real life Santa Claus. At the company picnic, he brought in ponies and carnival games, even sat in the dunk tank himself. He gave me some cotton candy, ruffled the hair on top of my head, and said he’d see me next year. That Monday he fired my dad and there was no company picnic the next year. There wasn’t a lot of anything exciting that next year.

  Blanca’s almost transparent though. Even now with her head buried in her phone, her fingers typing as small huffs leak out of her, I can see that she’s jutted out her hip and blown a loose curl from blocking her vision at least five times. Whoever is on the other side of that text exchange is annoying her.

  I have a younger sister myself, so I get it. I’d have her text me too. I’d also be pissed if she took food from a stranger on the train.

  She finally tucks her phone back into her purse. “Sorry.”

  “No need to apologize.”

  “I gotta go. Thanks for the food. Bill me for the therapy.”

  Oh, she’s got jokes. Nothing is sexier than a woman who can make me laugh. My ex took everything so seriously.

  “Maybe I’ll see you next Sunday.”

  She shrugs. “Maybe. Bye.” She turns around and I watch her until she disappears around the corner.

  My mind tells me to go after her because although Cliffton Heights isn’t huge, it is big enough that I might never run into her again.

  My own phone rings and I pull it out, turning to go the opposite direction as Blanca went.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “You make it home okay?” she asks.

  I smile at the fact that she still checks up on me.

  “Yeah, I sent you a text.” Which I did as soon as I got off the train, but I should know better. The woman hates texting.

  “That could be anyone sending that message. I need to hear your voice to know that you’re okay.”

  She sounds so tired. I wish she would’ve just gone to sleep when I left.

  “Well, I’m fine. Go to bed. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Thank you for today, hun.” There’s a pause and I know before she says anything who she’s going to bring up. “Your dad looked good, right? Healthy?”

  “Mom,” I sigh.

  “He’s getting stronger.”

  “Yeah, he is. You’re right.” My mouth dries when the lie rolls off my tongue.

  “I know.” Her voice goes up an octave and I realize I’d lie to her all day to hear that.

  “You working tomorrow?”

  “Yeah.” I arrive at my apartment and insert my key into the door of the building.

  “Love you. Thanks for today.”

  “You don’t have to thank me for visiting,” I say, annoyed after an entire day of thank yous. She acts like I don’t love my dad. I do, there’s just a lot of baggage there.

  “I thought maybe I’d come out and see you one of these Sundays.”

  When I moved out of New York City for my old job, my mom guilt tripped me for months straight, she still does. I think it hurt her so much because she thinks I wanted to be away from them, not just him.

  “Sure, we could do that, but it’s easier for me to come to you.”

  I open up my apartment door and step into the solitude and peace I’ve been searching for all day. Other than the train ride. I would’ve gone round trip with Blanca if it hadn’t have meant I’d end up stuck in New York City.

  Her smile comes to mind and it makes me grin to myself. I hope I run into her again.

  “I gotta go, Mom. Love you.”

  “Love you so, so much,” she says.

  “Bye.” I click the phone off before she has the chance to keep me on for another half an hour.

  Shrugging off my backpack, I put it on the hook by the door and place the food in the fridge. Continuing with my usual Sunday night ritual, I strip off my clothes on the way to the shower and spend the rest of the night figuring out this week’s article.

  The only deviation from my regular routine is the thoughts of Blanca I can’t help but find myself distracted by. I can only hope that fate is smiling down on me and that I’ll see her again.

  Chapter Three

  Blanca

  Once I’ve walked up the stairs to my new apartment, I open the door to find out that our place is tonight’s hangout. All three guys from across the hall are over which seems to be a common occurrence.

  “What’s up, Blanca?” Dylan looks over his shoulder at me from where his head is in the fridge.

  “Are you hungry?” I set the leftovers on the kitchen table.

  “How was the city?” Sierra gets up from the couch and walks over, taking the container out of the bag. But as soon as she places them in the fridge, Dylan picks them up and uncovers them.

  “Tiring. The train ride was long, but…” I want to tell Sierra about the guy I met, but there are four other people in the room. People who are virtual strangers to me.

  “What?” Sierra takes the container out of Dylan’s hands and he sighs.

  “Do you want some?” I ask Dylan when I grab the container with cake inside.

  His eyes pop open with excitement, only for his shoulders to fall when Sierra snags the last container off the table.

  He looks at me like I’m holding a juicy steak in front of him. “Please. I won’t eat it all.”

  Sierra peeks inside the container. “Cute. I love Mama Mancini.”

  I set the cake on the table and take off my jacket and hang it up on the hook by the door. “Actually, Annie ordered it.”

  Sierra’s eyes are wide, and her mouth is hanging open when I turn back around. She knows that Mama has always baked the cakes for our family. A princess cake for my fifth birthday, a rainbow one for my eighth birthday, and a four-layer cake for my sweet sixteen.

  But Annie said she wanted to try this new bakery that opened up, so it’s fine. Really.

  “I have to meet these women who plucked your brothers off Manhattan’s most eligible bachelor lists.”

  Of course Sierra was one of my many friends who had crushes on my brothers. Something I’ve lived with my entire life but still manages to gross me out.

  “I’m sure they’ll all visit at some point.”

  Sierra has relinquished her hold on the food and placed the containers back on the table, so Dylan grabs a fork and stabs a meatball, shoving it into his mouth. A loud moan falls from his lips. “Mama Mancini is welcome anytime.” He sinks down into a chair at the table. “Seth, you gotta have some,” he calls over to Seth, who is sitting on the couch, then stabs another and pushes the container away.

  Seth stands, peeling his eyes away from Blue Bloods. I reach into the cabinet and hand him a fork before he sits down beside Dylan.

  “Just one more.” Dylan stabs one right after Seth and the two of them moan like they’re receiving the best blow jobs of their life.

  “Shit, Mancini. You’ve been holding out. Yesterday you were making the instant mac and cheese. And not even the boxed kind, the individual one.” Seth’s blue eyes twinkle in delight as he opens up another container. “Lasagna.” His fork goes in right away and Dylan’s follows.

  “Just because my mama can cook doesn’t mean I can,” I say.

  Sierra and I exchange a smile. She knows how culinary challenged I am.

  “I thought it was every Italian daughter’s quest to le
arn how to cook in order to land a husband?” Seth stares at me like he’s serious. “Isn’t that the reason you’re born? To breed?”

  Sierra slaps him on the back of the head and I raise my hand for a high five.

  “It was a joke, people.”

  Dylan shakes his head at him like he’s an idiot.

  “Knox. Rian. You hungry?” I ask.

  “Shh… Donnie Wahlberg’s on.” Rian holds her hand up in the air at me, eyes not leaving the screen. She’s wearing a pair of leggings and a plain T-shirt, her blonde hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. “Can you believe he’s like fifty? Do you think you’ll look that good at fifty?” she asks Knox.

  If I had to guess, I’d say he will. The man takes care of himself. Not that Dylan and Seth don’t. But I haven’t seen Knox eat one unhealthy thing since I met him. Which I should mention was only last week. But Sierra told me he’s a police officer so maybe he does it to keep fit for his job.

  “Um… yeah.” Knox responds as if it’s obvious.

  Seth chuckles over his mouth full of lasagna.

  “If you haven’t figured it out by now, Knox is the one with the ego here,” Sierra says in a good natured way.

  “So is this a Sunday ritual?” I sit down at the table and put my feet on the empty chair next to me, stretching out. “You all watch Blue Bloods like middle-aged empty nesters?”

  Dylan mocks offense, but I’m telling you, if anyone asked the guy who owns the Ink Envy Tattoo Shop across the street, whose arms are covered in tattoos, what he does for fun, the last thing they’d think he’d say is watch Blue Bloods.

  “It’s a good show. Don’t knock it,” he says.

  Rian shushes everyone and Seth shakes his head. “You do know he’s bald now.”

  “He’s still sexy. Don’t be jealous.” She waves him off.

  “Do you think she even pays attention to the plot?” Sierra asks, standing beside the table.

  “No. She’s waiting for him to get naked or some shit.” Seth’s fork wavers between the meatballs and lasagna.

  Dylan forks the cake with gusto. “I don’t get the appeal.”

  “His ego’s probably so inflated from all these young women loving him,” Seth whispers because Rian has quieted the room again.