Flirting with the Frenemy (Bro Code #1)(29)

He waves good-naturedly and heads down the road.

“Aww, now I feel bad,” she says. “Where’s he going to watch the game?”

“His TV’s not broken,” I tell her. “He’s just spreading that rumor so the rest of his family doesn’t crash his place.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Spend enough weekends in Shipwreck, you’ll know what color underwear everyone wears too.”

“What color underwear are you wearing today?” Jason asks Monica.

She grins at him. “Want to see?”

“Ack, not here.” I shoo them both away. “Go on, go do your soon-to-be-newlyweds thing somewhere else. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

We pass around hugs, and I climb into my car for the drive up the mountain. The sky’s still a hazy gray-blue, but the sun’s dipped below the mountain ridge to the west and dusk is settling. I make it home without incident before darkness has fully engulfed the roads, and when I limp into the basement from the garage, I find Wyatt and Tucker snuggled on the basement couch watching the Fireballs game.

They’re oddly adorable, odd in the sense that I shouldn’t find anything about Wyatt adorable. He’s a military man through and through, his body a machine, his mind sharp, his expectations high, his hair short.

But sitting there with his legs propped up on the coffee table and his arm tucked around a sleeping, bony little boy in pajamas and messy hair, he doesn’t look like a military man.

He looks like a father.

Mortal.

Compassionate.

Vulnerable.

Holding his world.

A world I always wanted but might never have.

He glances up at me and shakes his head. “Hurting again?”

“No.” It’s habit to be a petulant ass around him, and I sigh, because now I’m frustrated with myself. “Yes.”

“Sit.”

I limp to the edge of the couch and sag into it, then dig into my purse for the over-the-counter painkillers I prefer to the prescription stuff.

He passes over a stainless steel water bottle, and I thank him politely.

Because I cannot use Wyatt as a punching bag.

I’m better than that.

Plus, my problems aren’t his fault.

And I really do need to be able to pull off looking like one half of a happy couple in front of Patrick’s parents tomorrow.

They’re the worst, and they’ll throw the sharpest darts.

I lift the footrest with the controller sitting in the couch’s cupholder and look at the screen after passing Wyatt’s water back. “Do I want to know who’s winning?”

“Maybe if you’re a Pittsburgh fan.”

The inning comes to an end with the Fireballs striking out, and I wince as the score flashes on the screen. “Can’t win them all.”

“Still three innings to go.”

Tucker snores, and a gentle smile softens the hard angles of Wyatt’s face. I turn my attention to a commercial about jock itch. “Too much fun wore him out?” I ask without looking their way.

“He’s an amateur.”

A surprised laugh slips out of me, because fun and Wyatt aren’t two things I usually put together.

Except they probably should be. Anyone who hangs out with my brother knows a thing or two about fun.

“I’m sorry about Patrick,” I tell him.

He shifts, and I realize he’s watching me, puzzled.

“For him being so rude at lunch,” I clarify.

“Happens,” he says with a shrug. “Not your fault.”

“It was my fault I dated him,” I mutter.

“True enough.” The puzzlement fades into a frown. “Think I deserve to take some shit. I still haven’t said I’m sorry for what happened. Six months ago. For making you upset enough to leave. But I am. Sorry, I mean. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

I freeze for a half a second, because he’s not supposed to say he’s sorry. “Can’t live in the past,” I say quietly.

I should go check my phone to see if it’s working yet, but I want to sit for a little bit longer first. Not for the company, I tell myself, but for the rest.

The game comes back on, and he shifts. “Before I forget…”

He holds out my phone.

A shiver rolls through me, because was the man reading my mind?

“It works, and I didn’t prank call anyone.”

I stare at the device stupidly for longer than I should before taking it. Our fingers brush like they did over ice cream at Christmas. I remember the feel of his lips against mine, and a flush heats my entire body. “Thank you.”

He frowns. “You okay?”

And there’s more stupid staring going on as I blink blankly at him, because there’s something in his tone that’s not quite normal.

“You didn’t yell at me for not letting you do it yourself,” he clarifies.

“Twenty-something years of yelling at you hasn’t worked, so maybe it’s time I give it up.”

He shifts to lean over and touch the back of his hand to my forehead. Tucker grumbles in his sleep, but doesn’t wake up.

“Yep, definitely warm,” he says. “You should probably strip.”