He pulls out his phone. “I’ll Doordash you some more. Problem solved.”
“You’re insufferable,” I gripe.
That only serves to make him smile. “You love me.”
He’s right, I do. Sometimes I wonder if we’d be this close if we hadn’t been twins, but I guess I’ll never know the answer to that.
My stomach growls, reminding me that it’s been hours since I last ate.
Elias arches a brow, a smirk dancing on his lips. “See, you need me.”
“I was filming a makeup tutorial,” I explain, grabbing my own Fanta. “I didn’t want to eat until I finished.”
He picks up his bowl and settles at my kitchen counter. “And did you?”
I follow suit and take the stool beside him. “Like two seconds before you showed up, ironically.”
His grin has me growling in annoyance which only makes his smile grow. “Look at that. I have impeccable timing.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.”
“I don’t know how Whimsy puts up with you.” I undo the lid on my bowl and scoop up the spoon.
“I don’t know either,” he replies with a soft tone. “But I love her for it.”
It’s weird—in a good way—seeing my brother in love. He was a player for a long time. With all the traveling he does, I think he didn’t see the point in a relationship. But him and Whimsy just make sense. She’s not afraid to give him shit and tell him like it is, which is what he needs in a partner—not someone who’s constantly blowing smoke up his ass.
“Speaking of love,” he says, and I arch my brow at his poor attempt at a segue. “Have you met anyone recently?”
I shake my head. “You know after?—”
He cuts me off with his hand. “Don’t say his name.”
I roll my eyes. “I need some time after all that,” I finish.
“Are there any of the guys on the tour you’re interested in?” he asks. “Freddie Taylor is a good guy. I could introduce you.”
Freddie is a tennis player from the UK—a few years younger than us.
“No thanks.”
His lips twitch with the threat of a smile. “Are you sure there’s not someone you’ve already got your eye on?”
My thoughts, unbidden, stray to Fisher.
“Absolutely not. I’m enjoying my singleness.”
“Hmm,” he hums. “If you say so.”
I laugh, digging into my food with a ferocity that has him arching a brow. After taking a bite, I level him with a glare. “Why is it so hard to believe I’m happy being single?”
“It’s not that.” He stirs his food around. “It’s just…”
“Just what?” I prompt.
“You and Fisher?—”