The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)(18)

I’m not sure what to offer, considering I can’t afford to do anything at all. Not to fix the driveway or his car, not to get a tow truck. Sweat prickles along my hairline.

Tank holds up a hand, smiling gently. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got AAA, and a tow truck is on the way. It’s fine. My son will be covering the damages. Right, Patty?”

Jo laughs. “Your name is Patty?”

Pat grimaces. “My name is Patrick. Most people call me Pat.”

“But you can call him Patty,” I tell Jo. “He really likes that nickname.”

“He loves that nickname, right, Patty?” Tank throws an arm around Pat, then winks at me. I love him for it.

When Pat doesn’t answer right away, Tank squeezes him. It’s comical how Pat—not a small man by any means—is dwarfed by his father. The obvious closeness between the two men makes me ache. My father was never in my life, not even my earliest memories. Even after he died, I never missed him, specifically, but I long for this. My breath hitches, and I clear my throat to dislodge the sticky emotion there.

You have family, I remind myself. You have Jo. Mari and Val. Winnie and her brother, Chevy. Big Mo. And so many other people in this town who have given you support these past five years.

And yet, the display I see in front of me, as Pat playfully shoves Tank, whose booming laugh makes even my grinchy heart smile—this, I don’t have.

“Can we get you something to drink?” Jo asks, so easily offering the hospitality I should have thought of. “We have water, sweet tea, and those fizzy flavored waters.” She wrinkles her nose at that one, making Pat chuckle.

“I think we’d do just fine with water,” Tank says. “And then, how would you like to show me around? I thought I saw a barn.”

“I’ll show you the barn. Two waters, coming right up!” Jo bounds up the steps, making sure to hop over the one with the gaping hole in the center.

The door slams behind her, screen flapping from where Beast ran through it months ago to chase a squirrel. I’m suddenly and intensely embarrassed, remembering what terrible shape my house is in and how it must look to them.

Pat and Tank are probably both used to luxurious homes, or at least ones without massive holes in the driveway, a porch ready to detach from the house any minute, and knee-high weeds instead of grass in the yard. There’s more white paint chipping off the exterior than on the wood at this point.

“Is that okay if Jo shows me around?” Tank asks. “I have a feeling you two have things you need to talk about.”

Pat shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t say anything. I wonder if this is the longest stretch of quiet he’s ever maintained in his life.

The last thing I want is to dissect our past. We don’t need a postmortem on this relationship because it’s DEAD. Or, undead, if I’m going by the zombie butterflies.

Still, I need to tell Pat in no uncertain terms there is no future here. If I don’t slam the door firmly this time, he’s going to stick his boot in the crack and wedge the door back open, like he’s clearly trying to do right now.

My mission, should I choose to accept it: make Patrick Graham flee. For good this time. Then kill all the undead insects swooping in my belly.

“It’s fine,” I say. “Just watch out for snakes and broken boards.” Tank’s eyes, the same dark brown as Pat’s, go wide at the mention of snakes. “I think we got all the snakes out, but sometimes they come back once they’ve nested somewhere. Jo knows what places to avoid. You’ll be fine.”

Jo flies back through the front door, almost plowing into Amber, who has gone to sleep on the middle of the porch. Jo passes out two bottles of water, then grabs Tank by the hand. It’s hilarious to watch her drag the giant man behind her. Beast bounds after them.

As they disappear around the corner of the house, I hear him ask, “Your Aunt Lindy said you knew where to avoid the snakes?”

“Don’t worry,” Jo says, her voice fading. “Snakes are friendly, and I’ll keep you safe!”

It’s all suddenly too much. Without meeting Pat’s eyes, I sink down on the top porch step. Amber’s tail thumps but she doesn’t get up. I give her a quick scratch behind the ears, needing the touch to ground me.

“May I?” Pat asks, using the toe of his boot to gesture to the spot beside me.

“Might as well,” I answer. “I’m not likely to get rid of you otherwise.”

He sits down, and I’m hit with the scent of him. I asked Pat once what cologne he wore, because I was obsessed with it. He gave me the name of some generic store brand body wash and deodorant. In a moment of weakness years later, I bought both. But something in Pat’s skin or his essence must combine with the scent in the products, because on their own, they did nothing for me.

Except make me cry.

Now, that same combination of product plus Pat makes my hands tremble. I’m fighting the urge to grab him by the shirt and kiss him. I may be a messy tangle of emotions, but the desire for physical connection with Pat is very uncomplicated. I remember exactly how his mouth fit perfectly to mine, the heat of his body, and the way it felt to be wrapped up in his strong arms.

“You have a chicken,” Pat says, and I glance over to see Elvis strutting around the porch.

“A rooster, actually.”