Sorry, Bro


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 BERKLEY ROMANCE
 Published by Berkley
 An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
 penguinrandomhouse.com
 
 Copyright © 2023 by Taleen Voskuni
 Excerpt from Lavash at First Sight copyright © 2023 by Taleen Voskuni
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 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
 Names: Voskuni, Taleen, author.
 Title: Sorry, bro / Taleen Voskuni.
 Description: First edition. | New York : Berkley Romance, 2023.
 Identifiers: LCCN 2022021260 (print) | LCCN 2022021261 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593547304 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593547311 (ebook)
 Subjects: LCSH: Armenian Americans--Fiction. | LCGFT: Bisexual fiction. | Romance fiction. | Novels.
 Classification: LCC PS3622.O84 S67 2023 (print) | LCC PS3622.O84 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20220506
 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022021260
 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022021261
 First Edition: January 2023
 Cover art by Liza Rusalskaya
 Cover design by Katie Anderson
 Interior art: Pomegranate frame © Saltoli / Shutterstock
 Book design by Alison Cnockaert, adapted for ebook by Molly Jeszke
 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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 For my sister, my mother, and my homeland.
 
 
 
 
 A good girl is worth more than seven boys.
 Լաւ աղջիկը եօթը տղի համ կուտայ:
 —Armenian Proverb
 
 
 
 
 
 
 1
 
 
 
 
 Arrows, like words, once darted, do not return.
 Նետն ու խօսքը դուրս թռչելեն վերջ ալ ետ չեն դարնար:
 —Armenian Proverb
 
 I squeeze past a group of rowdy tech boys and a waitress dressed in a traditional German folk costume, similar to the one I own, thanks to a gift from my boyfriend, Trevor, and the beer maiden fetish he won’t admit he has. Polka music blasts through the speakers. Patrons are pounding on tables and singing. The stuffiness in this restaurant is second only to sitting in a hot car with all the doors and windows shut.
 I’m late to meet Trevor, but what else is new? It’s hard to pull away from my family and the bonds of duty (in this case, setting up for my cousin Diana’s bridal shower). My hands are aching from handling bushels of thorny crinkle roses and darting them into flower arrangements. I rub them together, hoping for some relief.
 I spot Trevor. He’s tapping wildly at his phone, wearing his work-concentration face, which is impressive because we are in the midst of a sausage-fest polka party. He’s sporting his usual precision American Psycho hair (his words, not mine) and is wearing a quarter-zip pullover even though it’s a million degrees. He looks every part the hot evil San Francisco tech lawyer he is, minus the evil, because Trevor is a teddy bear who just happens to enjoy following the letter of the law of patents. I slam into the seat opposite him and immediately shout my apologies.
 His face lights up, and for some reason, that makes this guilt sit in my gut.
 “Schatzie! You are sizzling. Total smokeshow. Glad you remembered to dress up.”
 I don’t remember him asking me to dress up, but luckily I put on my red power dress earlier today in an attempt to impress my boss and pitch him a serious story instead of the usual fluff I’m assigned. I ended up filming the following news segment: “Ingrown Toenails: A Silent Killer? Local Doctor Weighs In.” So yeah, the outfit didn’t work. The memory of my boss publicly shooting down my pitch with such casual cruelty sets my nerves on edge.
 I scoot the clunky wooden chair close to the table. “You know how the family is. Can’t get down to business. Have to gossip and nag for an hour before anything can get done.”
 I don’t know why I’m ragging on them. Sure, Mom kept bugging me about going to some super-important Armenian event happening this month (eye roll), and Tantig Sona could not stop complaining about the heat, but there was a moment—when the late-afternoon June light hit the room and everything and everyone glowed yellow under it, the flora filling the space with the scent of buttercream cake—when I felt peaceful. We finished the arrangements, but there was still so much more setup, and I felt terrible for leaving them and feel terrible for being so late to this date.
 “Oh, I know. Your crazy Armenian family. Loudest group of women in the continental US. That shower tomorrow—what are the little gifts you give out to people?”
 I half smile because it’s not his fault; I talk smack on them constantly, so that’s what he internalizes. But also, how can he joke about loudness when this restaurant is his favorite one in the city? A cowbell rings over and over, and a flock of beer maidens parade out from the back, holding boots of beer for another techie group in the corner.
 Trevor gazes at the display fondly, and I hope he’s not about to recount the hijinks of Oktoberfest 2009 again.
 Before he gets a chance, I quickly answer, “The favors.”
 “Favors. You’re giving out bedazzled earplugs to everyone, right?”
 He chuckles to himself, and it jarringly reminds me of my work nemesis, Mark. Yuck, no. Trevor is nothing like Mark, who strong-arms his way into getting any piece with real merit, then smiles at the newsroom all self-satisfied. On camera, he’ll ask rude invasive questions to