I turn off the chrome shower handle and towel off, stepping out onto the mat and wrapping the oversized white towel around my waist. Cold water drips onto the floor, goosebumps running up and down my skin. Not even an Arctic blast could take my mind off the encounter with Brooke earlier, but I'm due to meet Brendan for dinner shortly, so I need to get my head in the game—and off his sister—somehow.

The display of my phone lights up as it vibrates, buzzing against the black granite counter. My first instinct is to hit decline, but better to get it over with rather than add 'avoiding my own mother's calls' to the list of my sins.

I swipe the screen and brace for impact. "Hi, Mom. How are you?"

"Good, dear. You sound tired." She says that every time. I wonder how manic I would have to sound upon answering before she didn't.

"A little, maybe. Late night trying to close a deal. How's Dad?" This is a little dance that we do, and have for as long as I can remember. I pretend their marriage isn't incredibly dysfunctional, she pretends she doesn't hate my father's guts, and my father pretends he doesn't have a mistress (or three). Voila: everyone is happy. Well, not happy. But we maintain the outward appearance of happiness which, in my family, is what ultimately matters.

"Oh, extremely busy. He's working around the clock on a big healthcare bill right now. I'm sure you've seen it in the news."

I stroll into my walk-in closet and tug off the towel, grabbing a pair of black boxer briefs while I debate how to respond.

"Yeah." I haven't, but I can't admit that to her so I pad my response with a generic lie. "Sounds like he's doing a great job of bringing all of the parties to the table."

Fortunately, she buys it. "Yes, he's doing his best. Which is all that can be expected given the circumstances."

"Mmhmm," I say noncommittally. Don't get me wrong, I vote like clockwork and I stay up to date on current events. But I have no desire to scour the net, analyzing every political development in real time like my mother seems to expect. Even when it involves my father—Senator Grant Hollis.

"Have you given any more thought about what we discussed?" my mother's tone shifts into saccharine-sweet and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. "Evangeline will be in town next month. She really is a lovely girl."

I throw my towel into the laundry hamper, rolling my eyes. Fortunately, we aren't on FaceTime.

Evangeline Harper, my arranged wife-to-be. If my mother had her way, at least. Evangeline is the 28 year-old daughter of Bunny, one of my mother's friends—frenemy might be the more appropriate term—and like me, she is chronically single. I don't fault her for that. It's a smart choice, in my opinion.

Problem is, I looked up Evangeline up on social media and can tell that she is one thousand percent not my type. She wears her hair in a prim bob, belongs to her local Junior League, and lives in Lily Pulitzer. Call it superficial, and maybe it is, but that doesn't change the bottom line. Hooking up my mother's clone isn't my idea of a good time.

"My schedule is pretty full," I say, rifling through my dress shirts absentmindedly. "I don't think it'll end up working out."

"You're not twenty-one anymore, you know." A heavy-handed dose of dead air on the other end of the line follows. The implication is clear: I should grow up, stop 'screwing around', and find a respectable wife. Bonus points if I sell off the bars I co-own with Sawyer, which my family has always hated.

I slip a black Ermenegildo Zegna shirt off the wooden hanger, pulling it on. "The grey hairs I keep finding remind me daily." Premature greying runs on her side of the family, so this is a low blow, but I'm out of steam and patience. Still, a ripple of guilt washes over me as soon as I say it. "I'm sure I'll meet someone."

In my defense, I've met lots of 'someones'. And plan to keep doing that.

"You've been saying that for years, honey. Eventually, you have to grow up."

I'm 30 years old, independently wealthy, and own my own home. But apparently, the sole determinant of adulthood is eternal legal commitment. Which means I'll never be a full-fledged adult in her eyes, because that's not ever going to happen.

"You can't force yourself to fall in love on demand. That'll happen when it happens."

As in, never.

"Dean, marriage is about so much more than just that." Her tone is patronizing and suddenly, I feel like I'm five years old again, being lectured on how to behave at school. "Raising your family in a stable home environment, positioning yourself for a career, adding to your credibility..."

She launches into a speech that involves a litany of other, wrong reasons to tie yourself to someone for the rest of your lifespan, while I zone out, throwing in the occasional 'hmm' and 'ah'.

My skepticism toward love isn't a valid defense in my mother's eyes. Love doesn't seem to be a consideration in this arrangement at all, so long as said wife meets the appropriate criteria. If she had her way, I would just find the wife version of a Subway. I'll take a 65-inch fertile female, WASP-style with extra twinsets, hold the skeletons in the closet (because we can't have those popping up during an election).

My mother concludes her argument with a heavy sigh. "I worry about you. I want you to be happy."

I do too, and that's exactly why I'm in no rush to settle down. Happily married is an oxymoron and my parents are a shining example of that. Most married people I know are the exact opposite of happy. They're overextended financially, over the person they're married to, and drastically under-sexed. On the other hand, I have money to burn, ample free time, female company when I want it and blessed solitude when I don't.

If it ain't broke, don't break it.

"I'm just fine," I tell her. "don't worry."

"You seem like you've lost your direction since you retired."

Being permanently sidelined from the NHL at ripe old age of 30 due to injuries is a kick in the face, but what can you do? I have lots of other irons in the fire to keep me busy.

"Have you heard from Joshua lately?" she asks, thankfully changing the subject.

My little brother Joshua is the reason I'm under all this parental pressure in the first place. At 27, he's what one might call 'a lost cause'. And that's with me bailing him out constantly. My parents don't even know half of what actually goes down. Our mother would have a stroke if she did.

"We spoke yesterday. He was talking about going back to school."

"Really?" Her tone brightens.

"Said he's trying to get his life together. He sounded serious about it." I mean, he did sound serious for Joshua. But then he always does when it comes to his pursuit of the month. First there was his photography kick, followed by one month of trade school, then he wanted to become a a chef...

She sighs. "Let's hope it sticks this time."

"Let's hope," I agree, even though I'm pretty sure it won't.

*

An hour later, I'm with the guys having burgers and beers at On Tap, a sports bar just down from Manhattan Beach pier that Sawyer purchased last year. I also have ownership interest, but Sawyer is managing partner and handles all the day-to-day operations.

The football game blares on in the background on a flat screen above our table, but none of us are paying attention. On Tap bar is half full tonight, with groups of customers scattered throughout. A decent turnout for a Wednesday in the middle of winter holidays, especially since the place was struggling when Sawyer took it over. He's done a great job of turning the business around.

Sawyer reappears from the back office where he was dealing with a server having a meltdown over her ex-girlfriend. The restaurant industry involves far more personal drama than I'd ever anticipated. It's a good thing Sawyer runs the place and not me, because I have no patience for that shit. I'd end up firing everyone within the week.

"Ready for the big day?" Sawyer asks Brendan, sliding back into his seat across from us. "It'll be here before you know it."

"Tell me about it." Brendan runs a hand through his sandy blond hair. "There's so much work left to do. If I have to look at that goddamn seating chart one more time..."

"Maybe you have a big case coming up," Sawyer offers, raising his light brown eyebrows. "Something that will keep you at the office more than usual."

Brendan takes a bite of his Cajun chicken burger and shakes his head, waving off Sawyer's suggestion. "She's swamped with her residency at the Children's Hospital, so I can't beg off and blame work. I don't want to be a jerk."

That's my best friend for you, ever the Boy Scout. I, on the other hand, would definitely have an 'urgent, high profile case' that just happened to conflict with all of that wedding planning nonsense. Not that I'd be foolish enough to get married in the first place.

"Should have hired a planner." I shrug, grabbing the last salt and pepper chicken wing from the plate in the middle of the table. "Outsourcing non-essential things is the key to optimal productivity." The guy just made partner—they could easily afford it. But he's also too down to earth to outsource the things he should.

The crowd breaks into a cheer in the background. I glance up, confirming that Los Angeles just scored a touchdown.

"I suggested a wedding planner," Brendan says, "but Vidya is trying to be frugal. We have our new house payment in addition to my condo mortgage now, and her student loans are basically a third mortgage on top of that."

"Oh, I thought Brooke was renting your condo from you," I remark.

"She isn't exactly paying market rent, if you catch my drift."

That doesn't come as a huge surprise.

"Right. I should have figured." I reach over, scooping up guacamole with a tortilla chip, and catch Brendan leveling me with a withering look.

"You know you two have to play nice for the wedding, right? I just had this talk with her, too."

"I'll be a perfect gentleman."

"That might be worse." Jason reaches for the stack of lemon hand wipes, tossing both of us one. "We all know where that leads."

Brendan snorts. "I don't think there's any risk of that happening. Besides, there's a middle ground between fighting and falling into bed together," he points out. "I'm just trying to make sure that one of them doesn't leave the wedding in handcuffs."

Handcuffing Brooke would be a lot of fun, come to think of it. But I can't go down that road, not even in my head.

"I can't speak for her, but I'll be on my best behavior."

"Good. I think you two could be friends if you actually gave it a chance," he tells me. "You just got off on the wrong foot."

That's what he thinks, but that's not the whole story. The real problem lies in the fact that I want to get off with her. Since that can never happen, I need to maintain a wide, wide buffer between us comprised of animosity and hatred.

"You guys still up for tomorrow night?" I ask, trying to shift the subject into less dangerous territory.

Thursday night poker is a weekly tradition among our circle of friends. This week, it's my turn to host. Hell, at the rate we're going, I'll be the only one who does. Jason has no furniture, thanks to his recent and incredibly acrimonious separation; Brendan is about to get married; and Sawyer has a serious girlfriend who's been hinting for a ring.

Serious relationships are the kiss of death for hosting poker night. For some reason, wives and girlfriends don't take kindly to us taking over the house, drinking beer, and smoking cigars until the wee hours of the morning. Women can be so unreasonable.

"You know it," Jason says. "Who else is in?"

"I am, and some guys from work might come." Brendan points at me with his chicken wing. "I warned them about Dean, but that didn't seem to deter them."

That's not a big surprise. Brendan works at a top-tier law firm. Most of his fellow associates are, shall we say, not exactly lacking in bravado. Or money. It's a great opportunity to take them to the cleaners.

"Fine by me," I say. "Are they partners? If they are, we might need to raise the stakes."

"No." Brendan laughs, shaking his head. "If you piss off my senior partners, I might not have a job to come back to on Friday morning."

"We're all adults. Everyone knows what they're getting into. What's the legal term for it? Informed consent?" I drain the last of my beer, leaning back in my seat.

"How much did you win at that tournament last Sunday, anyway?" Brendan asks, half-watching the football game that has resumed on TV.

"No comment."

He turns and looks at me quizzically. "That bad?"

Wishful thinking on his part. I regularly demolish Brendan and our other friends in our poker games, and they'd love it if I got creamed for a change. It's not like I'm taking advantage of them, though. Our games are low-stakes. The $20 buy-in is pocket change. It's more of a male pride thing.

"Not awful," I say casually. "Came in third." And walked out $43,000 richer. Not too shabby for six hours of work. I don't need the money, but I still enjoy the challenge. It keeps me sharp mentally.

"Third out of fifty? And the pot was... That means you won..." Brendan frowns, doing the math in his head. He lets out a huff of annoyance. "Seriously?"

Jason snorts. "You're just pissed because Dean schooled you last week."

The previous Thursday, Brendan and I were the last men standing for a whopping $140 pot. He almost had me, too. I was holding a weak two pair, and I'm certain he was sitting on a straight or a flush. But I psyched him out at the last minute and he folded. He would've won, had he called. But at the end of the day, poker isn't about playing the cards—it's about reading people.

"He's a shark," Brendan says defensively.

I finish the last sip of my beer, shrugging. "Swim with sharks, get eaten."

"You're such a cocky shit." Sawyer regards me with a mixture of admiration and irritation.

"No, I just know what I'm doing. He overthinks." I point at Brendan. Probably why he makes such a good lawyer, but when it comes to poker, he gets analysis paralysis. My gaze pivots to Sawyer. "And you get overconfident."

"Tell me, oh wise oracle, what's my fatal flaw?" Jason asks.

"You have to stop going on tilt."

Tilt happens when you let a few bad hands rattle you, sending your game off the rails. Emotions creep in, clouding your judgement, and you lose all perspective—playing hands you shouldn't, bluffing too much, and chasing bad beats. Kind of like what relationships do to people, which is why I stay the hell away.

"Easy for you to say." Jason rolls his eyes.

"I've had a lot more practice."

"No. You're just—you know." He gestures at me with the neck of his beer bottle. "Wired differently. Less emotional."

Jason says that like it's a bad thing, but I'll never get taken to the cleaners in a hostile divorce like he is. If I were ever dumb enough to get married, that prenup would be fucking airtight.

"Because Hollis doesn't have feelings," Sawyer adds.

I shrug, because it's not entirely untrue. I have feelings, I just manage them better than most other people. Compartmentalization is everything. It's an important life skill.

Brendan sets aside the bone from his hot wing. "You guys are both wrong."

"How so?" Jason counters. He leans back in his seat, turning his black baseball hat backward.

Brendan nods at me. "One of these days, Dean is going to meet someone and get smacked upside the head with feelings. All kinds of them. And he's not going to know what hit him."

I know this is what happened to him with Vidya, but Brendan wanted to find someone and settle down. He was looking for his future wife at 24. We've always been pretty different in that respect.

Another key difference is that I've seen the ugly side of marriage up close and personal, and he hasn't. Until now, I guess. Jason is doing a bang-up job of illustrating it for the group. Brendan still seems to think he will be exempt from such an outcome—and for his sake, I sincerely hope that's true.

"Have you been conspiring with my mother, by chance?" I ask. "Because she gave me the same speech about settling down earlier today."

"Nope, just see the writing on the wall."

"It's nice that you're a hopeless romantic, Bren, but that's never going to happen."

"Brendan has a point," Sawyer chimes in, giving me a pointed look. "I said the same thing as you did before."

It's true that Sawyer and I are a lot more similar than Brendan and me in terms of dating. Or not dating, as the case may be. Sawyer had a contact list full of hot hookups and he deleted them all when met Gabrielle. One week in and he was a goner. Just like that. But that doesn't mean I'm going to lose my mind like he did.

Jason snickers. "I don't believe it myself, but I would pay good money to see Hollis turn whipped. Hell, I'd pull up a lawn chair with a bowl of popcorn just to watch."

That's not even fair. Dude is in the middle of an ugly divorce and I can't clap back. I grab a french fry off my plate instead and bite my tongue.

"What did you do last Friday, Dean?" Brendan tilts his head, studying me expectantly.

"Last Friday?" I pause, mentally rewinding. That was just before Christmas Eve. "Stayed in and watched the game while I worked on some quarterly financials for the bar."

"And Saturday?"

"Hit up Topgolf with Jay. Why?" Brendan is lawyering me. His entire demeanor has shifted from my nice-guy friend into attorney mode. Clearly, he's leading me somewhere, I just don't know where.

"A few years ago, you would have been out getting wasted and picking up women. Your lifestyle is already starting to slow down." He takes a sip of beer. "I've seen it a hundred times with friends and guys at work. You could practically make a flowchart showing the progression."

I guess he has a point on the lifestyle front—going out has started to lose its appeal. Kind of inevitable when you get older and your hangovers last two days. Plus, most of our friends are over that scene too. Brendan is way off base about the rest, though.

"Maybe I am slowing down, but I'll still be doing that alone."

"Want to put money on it?" Brendan asks.

"How much?" He knows he's speaking my language.

He shrugs. "Hundred bucks."

Really? I don't understand why he's offering to wager so much right now when he's guaranteed to lose. It almost feels unfair to accept his offer.

"One hundred?" I repeat. "You sure? I feel bad enough taking your 20 every week."

"I'm that sure it's going to happen." Brendan pauses. "Within the next two years, you're going to end falling for someone