Swing (Landry Family #2)(44)

Deciding the cake is fine having sat out, I slump against the counter. “I have a lot on my mind. That’s all.” My hand squeezes my forehead, the headache that creeped in on the way home from therapy intensifying. If I could stop clenching my jaw, I’m sure it would help. I glance at the clock.

“Is it your shoulder?” he asks.

“Nah. I had therapy earlier today. My range of motion is about 60% better than it was.”

“That’s good . . .” He gives me an opportunity to respond, but I don’t. “Seriously, all joking aside, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. This isn’t about me.” I scratch my chin. There’s more stubble dotting my face than I usually let add up. “I don’t think it’s about me, anyway.”

My brother blows out a breath. “If you don’t want to discuss it, that’s fine.”

“You know what it is?” I say, shoving off the cabinet. “I’m fucking pissed off.”

I can hear it in my tone, the sharpness that’s been needling my gut since leaving Dani’s office. Graham hears it too because he doesn’t push me. He gives me a minute to get my thoughts together.

“I swing by Dani’s office after therapy and she’s all tore up.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s crying, G. I can’t deal with her crying, man.”

Her beautiful face, stained with tears, slays me again. The feeling of her back heaving as she tried to hold back the hurt makes my fingers itch to find her and pull her to me again.

“Did you do something stupid?” he asks.

“No. It’s worse.”

“Who?”

“Her fucking parents, G. Her parents.”

“What?”

There’s no doubt he’s having as hard of a time envisioning this as I am. Coming from a family like ours, it’s nearly impossible to imagine someone hurting you on purpose. We go to battle for one another. Our dynamic isn’t perfect—we have issues just like everyone. But, at the end of the day, we are Landry’s. One family. One team. To think her parents hurt her like this is unfathomable. It makes me want to come out of my skin.

“I don’t really know the whole thing,” I say. “I just know they go off on vacations and never invite her, not even for the holidays. She’s their only kid. She said they’ve never really included her in shit and she’s always been a disappointment to them.”

“She’s not a prostitute or drug addict, right?”

“Shut the hell up, Graham.”

“Just asking. I know some of your haunts,” he laughs, trying to break up the seriousness. It doesn’t.

“She’s kind. Sweet. Sincere. How could anyone hurt her like that?” My fists clench at my sides. “I want to hurt them. Bad. Take a fucking weighted bat and swing for the fucking fences.”

“Easy there, slugger.”

“Fuck!” I’m pacing the kitchen, my bare feet slapping against the hardwood. My body temperature is rising. Despite being in just my boxer briefs, I’m boiling. “I can’t take it, Graham. I can’t. I can’t see her cry because of some crazy fucking thing like this!”

I think Graham is holding the phone away from his mouth. I think he might be chuckling. I think I might kick his ass when I see him next.

“So my little brother is in love.”

“I am not,” I counter. “What the fuck do you know about love, anyway?”

“I know it when I see it. And I’m looking at it, I’d say.”

The cake is sitting on the table. The smell of Columbian Roasted coffee fills the kitchen. I have three bottles of creamer plus regular milk sitting beside a brand new pink coffee mug with paint brushes on it.

Is this love? Am I in love with Danielle Ashley?

The heat turns to a stone-cold chill.

“I haven’t known her long enough to be in love with her,” I say.

“You don’t have to convince me,” Graham says, not bothering to stifle his chuckle. “Work on convincing yourself.”

The doorbell rings and my eyes skirt to the clock. “She’s here. I gotta go. Call me back if you remember the second thing.”

He doesn’t say goodbye, just laughs as I hang up. My phone goes sailing across the kitchen table as I jog to the front door.



Danielle

I’ve never been so happy to see him and, this time, it’s not because he’s basically naked or that his body looks like it was sculpted by the hands of a saint. It’s because I just need to be in his arms.

I don’t have to wait long. At all, actually. As soon as it registers that it’s me standing on his porch, he pulls me inside and into him. My arms wrap around his waist, his skin warm against my face. We don’t speak for a long time, just stand in the doorway in the midst of a pile of sneakers and duffle bags.

“How are you?” he whispers against the shell of my ear.

“Better now.”

His lips twitch; I feel his smile against my neck. It makes me smile too. Pulling back, I touch his cheek. I fight back the wetness in my eyes. So I don’t fall victim to the mushiness I feel sneaking up on me, I stand on my tiptoes and pucker my lips. It takes him all of two seconds to touch them with his.