The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)(100)

I shake my head. “Everything okay?”

He’s silent for too long, and when I give his fingers a squeeze, it’s again like he’s just waking up. “Sure. Fine.”

Aside from how he looks—where it most definitely applies—fine is not a word that belongs to Patrick Graham. It’s way too middle of the road, not superlative enough to encapsulate the grandness of him.

He seems to have shrunk down into someone I don’t recognize. As the evening goes on, our last evening together, I find myself filling up the space he’s left vacant. I sing silly songs off-key. I play loud music through the speakers he’s had installed through the loft.

We pick up food from Mari’s since the fridge is empty, and after we’ve finished and cleaned up, Jo asks us both to tuck her in. “Patty can read, and you can scratch my back,” she says in a tone that doesn’t allow for questions. I’d do just about anything she asks tonight.

The bed in her new room is bigger than her closet room at the farmhouse, but that’s not saying much when it’s all three of us. We manage to squeeze in together, Jo giggling at the tight fit.

“I like being the jelly in this sandwich,” she says. “We should do this every night.”

Pat meets my eyes over Jo’s head. An aching wound opens up way down deep. I want to choose hope. I want to. But despair and fear are right there, elbowing for dominance. And Pat, who has quickly become my solid ground, seems slippery himself right now.

“We should,” I say, my voice catching a little toward the end.

Pat’s eyes shine, but he blinks and then picks up the book Jo has chosen for tonight. It’s one of the Lemony Snicket series, but I can’t manage to grasp the plot or the characters. Pat does a valiant job with the voices, and Jo giggles while I scratch her back, trying to memorize every second of what feels like the most luxurious kind of tease.

I can smell Jo—the watermelon shampoo and the smell of outside that clings to active kids. But Pat’s scent also rises around me, the two combining into the most perfect smell of home. The name of this scented candle would be Family, and I would hoard them until they were out of stock.

Will we have nights like this again? If so, how many?

I refuse to think about this as our last night. I can’t. I won’t. I invoke the power of positive thinking. This needs to be the start of forever—a lifetime of nights tucking Jo in together, Pat and I the bread in this little family sandwich.

Did you hear me? I INVOKE IT. The invocation has been invoked and shall be as such, forever and ever! Amen.

I must fall asleep shortly after my ridiculous invoking, and when my eyes open sometime later, it takes a moment to realize where I am. Jo is nestled into me, and Pat’s arm stretches above her, his hand resting on top of my head. I’m toasty warm but have a crick in my neck from the odd angle of my head.

Pat watches me with a tender, quiet expression. It’s one that I’ve never seen, and it makes my breath hitch. He’s so still, so perfect. So very MINE.

I know I said we should table the discussion about us, but part of me wants to drag him from the room and confess that I love him. I want to beg him to stay, no matter what happens tomorrow. I want to find lighter fluid and make a Molotov cocktail out of my stupid rules. Just like the rules before, they did NOTHING to guard me against the full-scale assault of Patrick Graham. His intent was to win me and win me, he did.

He tilts his head toward the door and I nod. I manage to extricate myself from Jo’s limbs without waking her. Pat offers me a hand to help me up the rest of the way. He doesn’t let go, keeping my hand curled securely in his. The touch is comforting, but every touch from Pat also lights a fire.

As I quietly close Jo’s door, Pat lets my hand fall from his. In the silence of this new space, he and I enter what can only be described as The Awkward Zone, The Twilight Zone’s much dorkier cousin. We move to stand near the kitchen counter, but I think our minds are both focused on the master bedroom door ten feet away.

OUR bedroom. With the ONE BED.

“So?” The single word comes out of my mouth like a massive, existential question. Not even a little bit rhetorical.

“So,” Pat says, scuffing his foot along the floor, then bending to scratch his ankle monitor.

“You’re going to get an infection,” I scold, not for the first time.

“Maybe I just want to have an excuse for you to nurse my wounds.” His grin appears, then recedes too quickly.

I bite back a flirty response about playing nurse. After the weird overwhelm of today, it seems like a bad idea. Or an idea for what I can hope will be a later date. My eyes flick to the master bedroom door as a yawn overtakes me.

“Tired?” Pat asks.

“Dead on my feet. You?”

He nods, his eyes intense on mine, and then he chuckles, dropping his chin and running a hand through his hair. “Look, Lindy. I can make this easier and just sleep on the couch.”

“Jo would know.”

Because of Pat’s early football mornings, Jo never realized Pat and I were sleeping in separate bedrooms. On the weekends, whenever Jo and I rolled out of bed, coffee and breakfast were already made, and Pat was already blazing like the morning sun. He is never more annoying than he is first thing in the morning. Annoying and also more than a little endearing.

Ever since I kissed Pat at the game, I’ve been debating with myself, feeling like I was plucking petals from a daisy. Only, instead of asking if he loves me or loves me not, I’m going back and forth about myself and mitigating my risks.