The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)(75)

“I hope you have rabies. I really do. It will totally serve you right.”

His left pec joins in, and now it’s like a two-ring pec circus. Lucky me—I’m getting a free show.

“For what? What am I doing, Lindy?”

You’re taunting me with your glorious body. Trying to wear down my resolve at its weakest point.

But also: infusing laughter into my day. Making everything feel brighter and lighter. I hadn’t realized how lonely I sometimes felt with just me and Jo. Or how utilitarian I had become, just focused on what each day’s tasks were and what I had to do. Bringing Pat into my life was like turning up both the saturation settings and the volume. I feel almost like a new person—and this is after only a few days.

“Maybe you should check my back too,” Pat suggests, turning around.

Though abs and chests tend to get the lion’s share of attention when it comes to what women seem to like on a man, Pat’s back is no less a work of art. And without his eyes on me, I can really look. Not for squirrel scratches. No, I’m looking the way I’d imagine an art dealer examines a new painting, trying to decide if they should sell it or keep it for their private collection.

He shifts, and the muscles bunch and ripple in an entrancing way. Definitely the private collection.

“See anything?” he asks.

Too much. Way too much. “No scratches. I guess we’re done.”

Pat turns back to me, and were we always standing this close? “You didn’t check my shoulders.”

“What? I did. With a magnifying glass.”

He shakes his head, and I want to kiss that smirk right off his face. That would teach him!

“The tops of my shoulders. Those evil tree rats leaped off my shoulders. If they scratched me, it would be there.”

I look up, and then up. I’m not short, but Pat is TALL. Tall enough that I definitely can’t see the tops of his shoulders. He seems to already know this and looks way too smug about it. He’s like a smug factory, producing smug at levels way above the government restrictions.

“I’ll just sit on the bed, and you can get behind me and—”

“Nope. No beds. Rule number … whatever.” My mind has gone blank, and I can’t remember which of the rules addresses me and Pat and beds.

“I think you mean rule number four,” Pat says. “But that one only refers to shared bedrooms and shared beds.”

“It applies.” I grab the wooden chair from the corner and drag it over. It’s a little rickety, but it’s better than me getting on a bed with Pat. I know Jo is downstairs and her presence would prevent any major mistakes, but I feel like all Pat needs is an inch and he’s going to take a mile. If I break and kiss him, for example, I think it may all be over.

And that would be bad, why?

The reasons why are getting a little hazy, like I’m looking at them in the rearview mirror through thick fog. Which is why I need to stand on this chair rather than go near a bed with Pat.

“Whoa. You sure that’s safe?” Pat asks as I climb up. His hands hover near my hips, poised to steady me, and I brush them away.

“Just stop talking and let me look at your shoulders so we can get this done.”

The chair wobbles a little, and I curse the furniture that’s been in this house since before I was born. It shakes a little more, and I grab Pat’s shoulders for support just as his hands find my waist. Like this, I’m taller than he is. It should feel powerful up here, but with Pat’s hands on me and mine on him, I’m totally weak. Boneless, spineless, resolveless.

Our faces are so close. Positioned like this, a kiss would have to be my choice. Totally my decision. My call.

Pat is a smart guy. He knows this, and he doesn’t push, he doesn’t make a comment, he doesn’t even move. He’s just right there, inches away, breathing in and out with lips slightly parted, waiting, hoping, letting me take control.

At that moment, my stomach makes a noise so incredibly loud and inhuman that my cheeks and chest immediately flame red. It sounds like a broken bagpipe playing a dirge.

I guess I should be thankful it broke the tension, but I’m disappointed instead.

Pat’s eyebrows shoot up, and he bites his lip. “Was that … your stomach?”

“I’m hungry, okay?”

“It sounded like a whale song,” he says, and that’s when I decide I’m TOTALLY uploading the video of Pat and the squirrels to Neighborly the first chance I get.

With a last glance at his shoulders—no one wants Pat to have rabies, after all—I jump down with as much pride as I still have and head for the door.

“It’s your lucky day,” I call over my shoulder. “After further review, you are totally rabies-free.”





Chapter Twenty-Three





Pat





Tank’s face is lit up like this is Christmas morning and the big asphalt truck is the pile of presents under the tree. James, who I’m surprised is even here for this, looks as stony and unmoved as usual. I wish he had a ticklish spot. I would totally take advantage of that to get some kind of reaction out of him. But throughout our lives, we all searched for it like it was some kind of holy grail, and never managed to find one. My brother, the sole person in the world who isn’t ticklish.