He grabs his chest and pretends he’s hurt, but then that smirk returns. “You’ll thank me some day for hiring Tori. The kids love her, Kat vouches for her, and Tori’s hot. It’ll be nice to have some eye candy around here for a change. I’d rather stare at her gorgeous ass than your plumber’s crack.”
My hands automatically clench. “You are not fucking my babysitter.” I don’t bother reminding him that I haven’t hired her yet.
Delight stretches across on his face like it’s Christmas morning and I just plunked one of his Instagram crushes on his lap. “Gee, bro. Why not? Are you jealous?”
I ignore the question, even though I’m oddly aware that I might be. Not sure why. I don’t even know the girl. Except for that crazy-sexy hair, she’s not my type. “And I don’t walk around with my crack hanging out, moron.”
Reaching over my desk, he grabs a pencil and twirls it on the counter. Silence settles over us as I watch him spin that number two. Finally, he says, “Remember that time I almost got arrested for mooning Charles DeWitt’s daughter? Dad was so pissed. How was I supposed to know her family was in the car with her? I thought she was driving her friends back from the football game.”
“What was that? Your senior year of high school?” He nods, and I laugh. “I got the highlights when Dad called me that weekend. Your antics made up the bulk of our phone calls when I was at A&M.” Chuckling, I point at him with my cup of coffee before I take a sip. “And everyone says you have a way with women. I bet showing Casey DeWitt your hairy balls won her over fast.”
“I’ll have you know I nailed Casey in her daddy’s barn two weeks after the mooning incident. She didn’t seem to mind my hairy balls one bit. That girl teabags like a champ.”
“Jesus, bro.” I shake my head and tuck my hair back in my baseball cap. “TMI.” Logan has always been a player with a capital P. I wasn’t a monk growing up, but I didn’t fuck everything with two legs either.
Reaching for a pen so I can pay some bills, I glance over when he doesn’t respond.
Shoulders tight, eyebrows cinched, he shakes his head. “I was so busy raising hell in high school, I didn’t notice the signs that Dad was working too hard.”
Aw, hell.
The familiar rush of guilt for not being here when it happened makes my stomach clench. Dad died that spring. Right before Allison told me she was pregnant. While my friends were partying and going off to start their lives, I was burying my father and worrying my girlfriend might abort our baby.
Of course, I told her I’d support her decision, stand by her, whatever it was. I might be old-fashioned in a lot of ways, but I’m not arrogant enough to think I have any say over what a woman does with her body. But I’d also be lying if I said I didn’t want her to have Mila. Even if I wasn’t in any way prepared to be a parent, I always wanted my daughter.
It seemed like the right thing to do. To marry Allison and support her and our child.
I knew Allison and I didn’t have amazing chemistry, but we had fun together, and I thought that could turn into love. Besides, I always abide by my commitments, and I wasn’t gonna let her go through a situation like that by herself. Her parents were less than thrilled with her marrying some guy from the sticks, even though they knew my folks since they were horse enthusiasts.
I would’ve done anything to get my dad’s advice in those days.
Ignoring the sting in my eyes, I clear my throat. “Those were rough times, but you’re not a fortune-teller, Logan. No way for you to know Dad’s ticker wasn’t healthy. The doctor said that kind of thing takes out high-school kids when they’re playing football. The right tackle, the right hit, and lights out.” Our mom made us both get echocardiograms to make sure we hadn’t inherited the condition.
I wait until Logan looks up and wipes his eyes. “No, you kept Dad young. Kept him on his toes. Not every man in this county can say his son mooned Charles DeWitt and lived to talk about it. I tend to think Dad was proud of his progeny on most days.”
Logan laughs, and relief settles over me to see him smile. “Why you always gotta use such big words, huh?”
“’Cause I’m what you’d call edumacated.” Regret eats at me since Logan never got a chance to go to college. He wanted to stay here to help me. He swears he doesn’t care, that school was never his thing, but it still bothers me he had to buckle down so soon.
My brother’s smile fades and he stares at me a long, awkward minute before his expression hardens. “Okay, you educated bastard, do yourself a favor and hire Tori before you die of a heart attack out there, trying to do everything on your own. If you’re so damn smart, get some help before you work yourself to death. Think about Mila and Cody. They need you to grow old and fat and lose your hair.”
A lump rises in my throat. Logan leans forward, his eyes somber, as he waits for the answer he wants to hear. One I reluctantly give him.
“Fine, I’ll hire Tori if it’ll get you off my ass.” I snatch the baseball hat off my head and toss it at him. “And ain’t no one losing his hair around here, asshole.”
Logan leans back in his chair, the smile on his face telling me he loves me, the sappy twerp. Thing is? I know I can’t do this by myself. And maybe Tori is exactly what I need. If we don’t strangle each other first.
“Glad to hear it.” He gets up and smacks me on the back. “Because I bought Mom’s ticket to Chicago. She leaves on Monday.”
Tori
The thick smell of cumin and chili powder wafts through the air, making my stomach growl. After one more stir, I tap the wooden spoon on the lip of the Dutch oven and place it in the “I love my spicy Mexican” spoon rest. That dumb thing still cracks me up, years after Brady gave it to my sister.
Cooking is the one thing I’m decent at, but only because I’ve had a shitty social life this last year. Though having a man-free diet made me turn to the next best alternative—actual food. While my friends were out partying, I was watching the Cooking Channel, doing my best to whip up those recipes, and trying not to feel like a loser.
I peer over my shoulder at Kat, who’s sitting at the kitchen table. “Hermana, are you sure you want it this spicy? I thought you had a lot of heartburn.”
Her lips tighten briefly and she blinks, once, twice. Miss Poker Face has the audacity to smile and shrug like she hasn’t a clue what I’m talking about.
She’s obviously hiding something.
Whatever. She’s been acting weird the whole day. Maybe I should chalk it up to a hormonal imbalance. If her feet weren’t so swollen, she’d insist on making dinner, but I talked her into kicking back and relaxing even though she’s going to be a back seat driver.
“Did you put in the Ro-Tel tomatoes?” she asks, eyeing the pot suspiciously.
See. Backseat driver. “Yeah, and when you’re hanging over the toilet later tonight, puking your little heart out, don’t blame me.”
She gives me that strange smile, the one that tells me she’s keeping a secret and thinks I’m clueless.
The front door slams shut and the stomp of boots coming through the living room echoes closer. Izzy comes racing around the corner with her arms open wide.