The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)(66)

I hear her squeal because the house is not even remotely soundproof. Which would be a real buzzkill if I hadn’t told Pat we were sleeping in separate bedrooms. NON-NEGOTIABLE.

Other than my closet for crying, I haven’t needed soundproofing for the past five years, and I certainly don’t now just because I’m …

I’m …

I’m … married.

The word doesn’t feel real. Neither does the idea of Pat living across the hall for the foreseeable future. Even a hallway isn’t enough space between us. He’s already wearing an ankle monitor—maybe I could tack on one of those dog collars for an electric fence and set it up between our bedrooms. Just in case.

I’ve been adamant that this is a marriage in name only, though I saw the gleam in his eye, making me glad I wrote up a set of rules. The moment Jo is in bed, he and I will be going over those rules, and he will agree to them.

Then we will abide by them and everything will be FINE. And if, at some point down the road once the hearing is done, I want to consider the whole attraction and feelings thing and give this a real chance, we can toss the rules. But for now, they are my shield.

I lean back against the counter, closing my eyes. This is a mistake. Isn’t it? Everything in my life feels so infinitely fragile. I’m like the little pig who’s built a house of toothpicks and tissue paper, and Pat is the big bad wolf, here to blow it down with one breath.

“Why are you putting your things in the guest room?” Jo’s wobbly voice carries to me. It’s her about-to-cry voice.

I set down my mug and bolt for the stairs. When I reach Jo, it’s just in time. Her lip is trembling, tears at the ready. Pat looks to me with huge eyes.

Jo’s voice is breathless and wavering. “Are you getting divorced? Henry’s parents got divorced, and he said they slept in different bedrooms. You just got married.”

Like I could forget. Also, who’s Henry?

A tiny sob follows Jo’s words.

“Oh, Jojo. Don’t cry.”

I reach for her at the same time Pat does, and suddenly, we are three-way hugging. Because Pat and I are both kneeling, we’re rocking unsteadily. Especially as Jo clutches at us with her scrawny arms.

Our heads end up behind Jo’s back, our faces much closer than I want them to be. When our gazes hook and catch, a zip of something hot and electric moves through my body. Pat’s dark eyes grow even darker.

It shouldn’t be possible to think about kissing him when Jo is right here, crying, and yet, somehow it is. Kissing Pat is all I can think about until Jo gives a little sniff, dragging my focus back to where it needs to stay.

“We’re not getting divorced, bear cub. Pat was just putting his things in the guest room because there’s no room in my closet,” I explain, my eyes still glued to Pat’s.

This is true. My closet is full of the crying coats. But it is also true that he’s not, no-way, no-how going to be sharing my double bed.

But he could, the feral cat whispers with a suggestive purr. They don’t call it a marriage bed for nothing.

I can’t seem to get rid of this stupid feral cat in my head. She’s like a lipstick stain on a white T-shirt—near impossible to remove and just as difficult to ignore.

“Okay,” Jo says.

I try to pull back, but Jo tightens her grip and I lose my balance. I never excelled at crouching. Maybe if I’d done more work on my leg strength…

We topple over, Pat taking the brunt of our weight with a loud oof. The three of us end up sprawled in the tiny hallway between the bedrooms and bathroom. When Pat chuckles, Jo bounces up and down, and his laugh vibrates through my cheek and chest, both of which are plastered to him.

Jo giggles, which makes my tension ease. Instead of jumping up the way I should, I relax into Pat, into Jo, into this kind of perfectly imperfect moment.

I lean in, letting Jo’s laughter and Pat’s familiar scent curl around me like smoke rising from a fledgling fire. His arm tightens around me, warm and strong, and just for a few seconds, I let myself sink into him, into the moment.

Family, I think. This feels like family.

The sensation is strange and new, yet as worn as the pair of jeans I can’t bring myself to throw away, the ones with holes where my thighs brush as I walk. I’m shocked by the fierce fire of longing, exploding from wherever I’ve kept it locked away for years.

Longing, hoping, dreaming—they’re liabilities I haven’t been able to afford. Not even if there were some kind of no-limit, no-interest credit card could I consider these things. At least, not if I don’t want to be buried alive under disappointment later. I swallow, my mouth feeling dry and papery. Can I possibly allow myself to feel these things now?

“I have an idea,” Jo says brightly, sitting up suddenly. The beauty of the moment bursts like a soap bubble—delicate and beautiful, then gone.

I force myself to stand on wobbly legs, then hold out a hand to Pat before I can think better of it.

He rises slowly, much too close to my body, his eyes fixed on mine. Pat doesn’t let go of my hand when he’s on his feet. We are inches apart, the lack of distance feeling strangely obscene, even though we were just pressed together closer than this. I hold my breath, counting the number of boards in the wood paneled wall behind his head.

“You guys,” Jo says, grabbing at us both, her whine a reminder that she’s trying to tell us something. “My idea!”