The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)(81)

“What are y’all looking at?” I ask, tilting the phone screen toward me and then going still when I see what’s on it.

Hairstyles. Pat is searching up hairstyles for Jo. I’d tell my heart to be still, but it’s no use. I’m pretty sure my heart has already vacated my chest cavity and is lying prostrate before Pat, crying, Take me! Take me! I’m yours!

Inwardly, I’m a weeping, wilting mess. Outwardly, I keep my voice steady as I say, “I like that one. It would look cute on you. I could always try it.”

Jo tilts her head. “You want to wear double braids like that?”

“No, I mean I could try doing that to your hair.”

She goes back to her book, and I try not to be offended when she says, “That’s okay. Patty will do it. He’s better at it than you.”

Well, then. I raise my eyes at Pat, who looks like he’s about to burst out laughing. “No need to rub it in. Where’d you get your beauty school certificate?”

Pat takes his phone back and gives me a crooked grin. “My brothers and I used to take turns doing Harper’s hair.”

That mental image is almost too much. Could the man be any more irresistible? It’s like he’s completely composed of the human equivalent of catnip. What would that even be called—man-nip? Ew. That sounds way too nipply. We’ll stick to the human version of catnip. And Pat is practically leaking it from his pores.

“At least, we did until Harper punched James and told us all she didn’t like us touching her hair and could fix her own ponytails, thank you very much.” He chuckles.

Pat sets his phone down, and before I can stop him, he sweeps my feet up into his lap and begins rubbing them. I don’t have an aversion to feet or anything, but I can’t remember the last time anyone touched mine. It’s way too intimate, especially when I’m feeling all squishy inside. I try to twist away, my protests quickly dissolving into giggles. He tightens his grip.

“Stop manhandling my feet!”

“I’m not manhandling them. I’m trying to massage them. You look like you need to relax.”

I stop fighting him. Both because I do need to relax, and because he noticed. I’m beginning to feel like he notices everything. Pat is a star pupil, majoring in Lindy with a minor in Lindy studies. Which means he can sense my stress.

It’s not that I had a bad day or anything, but the weight of things with Jo has hung heavily over me today in particular. Each day we inch toward the hearing feels like watching a doomsday timer. What will the courts decide? What will it be like to see Rachel again? What will happen if they take Jo away? I know I’m being too clingy with her, mostly because she’s told me as much.

Pat sighs roughly and angles his big body toward me. The big body I can easily picture in high def, thanks to how often he is shirtless. Let’s see, there was the toilet fixing incident which ended with him pressed up against me in the bathtub, then the squirrel examination, where I got up close and personal with his chest. Then there are his daily workouts. Sprints and push-ups and some kind of jumping things in the backyard. Not that I’ve watched him through the faded eyelet curtains in my room. Only creepy stalkers would do that.

Just this morning, I stepped out of my bedroom as Pat came out of the bathroom wearing only a towel. Steam swirled around him and the bathroom light caused a kind of halo effect. Beads of water ran slowly over the planes of his chest and the distinct ridges of his abs. The many, many ridges. Even all these years out from being in the pros, Pat’s body is unreal. I feel like I need to hand someone a ticket stub just to view it. But he seems to enjoy giving me free shows.

I was mid-yawn, and I choked on my own spit at the sight of him. I bolted downstairs, locking myself in the bathroom until he left the house. He took his time getting ready too. What I didn’t think about until later is that Pat probably assumed I was pooping for like half an hour.

Super sexy, Lindy. Super. Sexy.

“Does this feel good?” Pat asks, jarring me back into the moment. The one where he’s almost putting me to sleep with this amazing foot rub. “Too hard? Too soft? Just right?” He grins, eyes glinting with mischief.

I lie back and put a pillow over my face. “It’s good,” I mumble through the fabric. “But massage at your own risk. I have hobbit feet.”

I hear Jo set down her book and shift in her seat, probably pulled out of her story by hearing the word hobbit.

“You don’t have hobbit feet,” Pat scoffs.

“I do!” I wiggle them so he can get a good look. “See how wide they are? You have no idea how difficult it is for me to find shoes.”

Pat lightly runs his fingers over the tops and sides of my feet. His touch sends a cascade of signals through my nervous system, from my toes all the way up to my scalp. Even my eyeballs suddenly feel hot. I take the pillow off and fan my face with it. Jo is leaning forward, elbows on her bent knees, watching us with interest.

After a moment, Pat says, “I’ve done a full examination. You are officially not a resident of the Shire.”

Jo giggles, and Pat winks at her, which does something entirely different, though no less powerful, to my body. He’s been so good with her, so warm and patient and perfect. And Jo has been soaking in his attention like a sponge.

There’s that echo again, the word family carried on some invisible breeze, a whisper making my chest pinch with longing.