The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)(50)

“Chevy. On both counts.” He nods toward the bar.

My head snaps up, and Chevy waves from where he’s parked in front of the margarita machines and a TV showing some football game. The traitor! I hope my stare adequately conveys the ways in which he’ll pay for this later. It must, because he ducks his head and turns back to the television.

“So,” I say.

“A needle,” Pat answers with a broad grin, and my stomach flutters.

This is a game. OUR game. I’m supposed to say far next, to which he’ll add a long, long way. It’s our shorthand version of the famous song from The Sound of Music.

Back when Pat and I dated, we spoke our own language peppered with movie quotes and song lyrics. And though we spent little time with friends and none with family—per our rules—anyone hanging out with us for more than a few minutes got seriously irritated.

“Which brings us back to so.” My restrained smile has Pat practically wiggling with delight. The man is like an overgrown puppy sometimes. I wish it weren’t so endearing.

“You remember,” Pat says, his voice bright. I can only nod. His look turns assessing. “You just don’t seem to want to.”

I fumble for words, finally settling on the very lame, “It’s hard, looking back.”

Hard being with him. Hard not wanting to climb over the top of the booth to sit in his lap. Hard maintaining this emotional barrier, to keep the vest fastened tightly around my heart.

“I’m sorry,” Pat says. “I know I said it, but I can keep saying it until you believe it—I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

“You don’t have to keep saying it.”

What’s different about Pat now? I can’t quite put a name to it. Could it be—maturity?

Pat has maintained the same boyish charm, the effusive and effervescent joy that drew me to him in the first place. His dark eyes always seemed to hold mischief, and that hasn’t changed. There is the slightest crinkle now in their corners. Not laugh lines yet, but a hint of where they’ll be one day. He still has the broad shoulders, the sheer power barely contained by his clothes. He looks like a slab of perfectly cut stone, aged to perfection.

I’ve been staring too long. My eyes snap to his, waiting for a teasing comment asking if I like what I see.

“Are you sure you don’t want more chips?” Pat asks instead.

“Maybe just one more basket.”

I need something to do with my hands other than grab this man by his shirt, something to do with my mouth so it doesn’t get any ideas.

It would be so easy to stop fighting this.

I don’t know where that thought came from, but I serve it up an eviction notice, effective immediately. Begone, ye trespasser!

Pat signals a waiter. We place our orders as another server brings fresh chips and salsa. Then, it’s just me, Pat, and the chips again. Their crunch is carrying the conversation.

“So, your family bought Sheet Cake, huh?” I ask.

Pat gives me a wry grin. “Did I not mention that the other day?”

“You did not.”

“It was Tank’s idea. A family project of sorts. He roped me into it—which wasn’t hard when I found out which town he bought. Now, we’re just trying to get my brothers on board. What are the odds, right? My dad happens to buy your town.”

“Don’t tell me you think it’s a sign,” I say.

“I don’t think it’s not a sign. And now, thanks to this very stylish ankle monitor, I’ll be here for the foreseeable future.”

I heard about that hours ago from Winnie who heard from Chevy. Her brother clearly did not tell her all the details, like the fact he gave Pat my number and drove him to meet me for dinner.

“Thank you for agreeing to have dinner with me,” Pat says.

“What can I say? I'm a sucker for Tex-Mex.”

“I remember. You could almost out-eat me. But only in tacos. Remember that time we tried the—”

“Taco buffet,” we say in unison.

I don’t even try to hold back the goofy grin on my face. It feels slightly painful, like the muscles in my face aren’t used to making such happy expressions. “I shouldn’t have tried to keep up with you, plate for plate, taco for taco.”

Pat chuckles. “It wasn’t your best idea.”

“One of my worst. But I didn’t throw up!”

“No—you just had to lie very, very still on the couch for a few hours. And if I so much as touched you with a pinky finger, you screamed.”

“You just couldn’t keep your hands off me.”

“No,” he says, his eyes darkening. “I couldn’t.”

The heat in his gaze and the memory of his touch flips some kind of primal switch in me. The thing is, it’s not just physical with me and Pat. It never was. He always reached some much deeper level in me, and he still does.

Now, I want to kick myself for tumbling face-first into his flirt-trap, leading us on a comfortable stroll down Memory Lane. It’s a little overgrown and unkempt, but the views are still good. I need to reroute back to Heck No Highway.

I shoot Pat a narrow-eyed look and gesture between us. “This isn’t happening.”

Pat blinks with innocent Bambi eyes. “This … as in dinner together? Sharing a basket of chips? Talking like normal people?”