The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)(45)

I’m vaguely aware of Val and Winnie flanking me a few steps behind. They’re making sure I know they’ve got my back while giving me enough room to do my thing. Not sure what my thing is yet, but I’ve always been pretty good on the spot.

I stop short of the bars, just out of reach. Pat’s touch has the power to undo me, so I can’t give him that chance. I may be strong, but I’m not that strong. I point my finger toward the center of his chest. If I had a laser, it would blast right through his heart, making this a heck of a lot easier.

“You do not get to smile at me that way.”

That’s not what I meant to lead with, but I guess it’s a start.

One corner of his mouth kicks up a little higher, and he flutters his lashes at me. Long, thick lashes people like Tabitha pay good money to poorly emulate.

“Whatever do you mean?”

I hate how well I know him. Because I immediately know Pat is quoting Tombstone, a movie we watched together at least half a dozen times. It is a Pat staple, for watching and for quoting. I haven’t been able to sit through a Val Kilmer movie since. The man ruined Val Kilmer for me—just another thing to add to the list of his crimes.

“You can’t keep showing up here, interrupting my life, buying my town, making trouble.”

“Trouble? Me?” He puts a hand to his chest, mocking offense.

“Yes. You—the one in the cell. I’d call this trouble.”

Pat grabs the bars in his strong hands. They are the kind of hands made for catching footballs. But I also remember the way those same hands cupped my cheeks tenderly or squeezed my waist with a possessive strength that always made my stomach tumble like an Olympic gymnast performing a floor routine.

Winnie puts a hand on my arm, and I regain some control over my wayward self, taking a big step back.

“What—is this town not big enough for the both of us?” Pat teases.

“Something like that.”

Pat’s eyes soften. And that’s even worse. I can fight his big, confident personality. This tender side, though—it might undo me.

“It’s good to see you, Lindybird. Let me introduce you to my family.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

As if my words pinged harmlessly off his thick skull, Pat steps back, gesturing towards the other men in the cell. Whom, let’s be honest, I haven’t paid a lick of attention to, because they aren’t Pat.

He points to the biggest and surliest looking man, who’s leaning against the back wall looking bored. “That’s James. He’s my least least favorite.”

I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing. No one else seems to know either. Pat gestures to the one with the shortest hair and the broadest shoulders, his pecs practically bursting through his T-shirt. “The one who looks like he’s on steroids—and just to be clear, he’s all natural—is Collin.”

Collin glares at Pat, then offers me a polite smile. “Nice to meet you, Lindy.”

“And this is our newest brother, Chase.” Pat throws his arm around the third man, who looks enough like them to be an actual brother. “He married my baby sister, Harper.”

Chase holds up a hand. “I’d like to clarify that Harper is not literally a baby. She is an adult woman. Sorry for all the trouble, by the way. We probably should have stayed home.”

“At least one of them has brains,” Winnie mutters. “Not just muscles.”

My head is spinning, and I need to get back on track. The goal was to get Pat gone, not become further entrenched in his life. “Okay, now that we’ve gotten introductions over with, it’s time for you to—”

A crash followed by a cacophonous sound makes me jump. We all turn to the door, and my heart plummets.

It’s Wolf Waters. With his shaggy beard, a whole lot of flowers, and … part of a drumline from the high school marching band?

“This should be good,” Val says.

One of Pat’s brothers says, “Hey, isn’t that the guy from the bar?”

Wolf gives them an apologetic smile. “Hey, y’all. Sorry I turned the fire hose on you. Now, if you won’t mind me. I’ve got a woman to propose to.”

No. No he is not.

Wolf’s proposals were usually light-hearted and in passing, like when he yelled, “Marry me!” out his truck window last week. I never thought they were serious or I would have shut him down for good a long time ago. It’s hard to take the man seriously about anything when he lives in a self-built underground bunker and runs Backwoods Bar.

Chevy groans. “Wolf, you can’t come in here and—”

Wolf gives some kind of signal, and the six boys and one girl with drums strapped to their chests begin drumming, drowning Chevy out. Wolf, with his classic Waters grin and none of their refinement, drops to one knee, holding out the flowers, which look like he clipped them off one of the bushes out front. He even has a ring, I realize, though it looks like he got it out of one of those machines for a quarter.

“Lindy Mae Darcy,” Wolf shouts, his voice barely audible over the drums. “Will you do me the honor of being my wife?”

From the cell, I hear a sound that can only be described as a rumbling growl. The kind of sexy sound always described in books, one I’ve never had the pleasure of hearing. I like it more than I’ll ever admit to a living soul.