The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)(73)

“You should be.”

“Okay, then I am,” I say.

“Fine, then.”

“Fine.” I pause, then add. “Are we having our first married fight?”

When Lindy laughs, I feel the vibration through my whole body. My fingers flex on her back and I steal a quick nuzzle in her hair. Hair smelling isn’t listed in the rules, though I guess technically this all falls under rule number one—no unnecessary touching.

“I guess it is. The first fight of many, I’d wager,” she says.

Leaning in even closer so my stubble lightly scrapes her cheek, I murmur, “Does this mean we get to make up now? I’ve heard making up is the best part of fighting.”

She shoves me with one hand, while her other tightens in my belt loop. It’s exactly symbolic of her state of mind—she’s pushing me away and pulling me close at the same time.

She relaxes against me again, and my muscles bunch—this time involuntarily—as she traces her way up my side.

“What are we doing?” she murmurs, and I don’t even know how to answer.

“It looks to me like you’re preparing to consummate this marriage,” Chevy says from the doorway.

He startles us both, and Lindy jumps back. Her fingers are still curled through my belt loops, so she yanks me with her. We tumble into the bathtub, taking the shower curtain and all her body products with us.

I do my best not to crush Lindy as we fall, cupping my hand around the back of her head and using my other arm to keep my full weight off her.

As our eyes meet, I’m suddenly aware of all the ways our bodies are pressed together, and of how close our mouths are. If I just leaned forward—

“Yep. Definitely about to consummate,” Chevy says, his voice disappearing as he lumbers back down the stairs.

Lindy screams with frustration as I extricate myself and stand, pulling her up with me. The back of her shirt is soaked in her body wash, which is now forming a lake in the tub.

“You’ve got a little something right here,” I say, tugging at her hem.

She cranes her neck to see, then makes a growling sound I shouldn’t find sexy but do. “Will you be my alibi?” she asks.

“I’ll be your everything, darlin’.”

She blinks rapidly at this, her lips parting at my words. Tension cracks like a whip between us.

Then Chevy’s deep voice carries from somewhere on the first floor. “Just kiss him already!”

With that, Lindy is gone, flying down the stairs. I hear Chevy’s laughter fade as the back door slams.

“Lindy!” I call. “Your alibi for what?”

“Murder!”

The door slams again, and I catch my reflection in the mirror, smiling like I don’t remember doing in years. When I glance out the window, I see Lindy closing in on Chevy, the dogs not far behind.





Chapter Twenty-Two





Lindy





One of the perks to marrying Pat is the fact that the man can cook. And I don’t mean like mac-n-cheese from a box, cake from a box, or chicken nuggets from a bag in the freezer, which are my household staples. I’m talking FOOD food.

I’d almost forgotten how in college, Pat would don an apron and whip up some amazing meal for the two of us: risotto with goat cheese, grilled steaks and asparagus, or glazed chicken with roasted veggies. My stomach cramps just from the memory of it.

Tonight is the first time since the wedding he’s been able to show off his prowess. And show it off, he is.

Jo and I are seated at the table, watching like this is Kitchen Stadium and Pat is the Iron Chef. She and I are not admiring him in quite the same way though. Jo is impressed because, aside from Big Mo and Mari, she hasn’t had much exposure with actual food preparation. Evidenced by the fact she didn’t know until five minutes ago we owned cutting boards.

Me? I’m watching Pat with an appreciation falling somewhere between the way you eye a delicious steak—what he’s fixing—and a deliciously hot man in an apron. Is it normal for a man to look so good in an apron? Or while chopping vegetables? My stomach rumbles, and I’m not sure what it’s hungrier for—the man or the dinner he’s cooking.

Oh, you’re sure, feral cat purrs. It’s definitely the man.

I don’t even bother mentally arguing with her this time. I’m beginning to concede that it’s a lost cause and I should go ahead and give her a name, slap a collar on her, and let her sleep in my bed.

“What are you doing to the steaks?” Jo asks.

“I’m seasoning them. This is sea salt with dried garlic, cracked black pepper, and a little fresh rosemary. Smell this.”

He leans closer to Jo, which brings him closer to me as well. She smells the sprig of rosemary. I smell Pat.

“Ooh, it’s like Christmas,” Jo says.

It certainly is.

She giggles as Pat tickles her nose with the rosemary. Then he turns back to the stove.

In addition to getting the toilet fixed this week, Pat went grocery shopping. We now own actual seasonings as well as a whole fridge stocked full of fresh foods. I’m still feeling uncomfortable with the expense of it all, but the man is like a freight train. Also, it’s hard to complain about a second toilet and a dinner with actual food groups.