The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)(82)

I settle a little as Pat begins rubbing my feet in earnest. It’s impossible not to—the man has good, strong hands. If I’m not careful, I’m going to be imagining his hands elsewhere.

“I’m going to bed,” Jo announces.

“Who do you want to read to you tonight?” I ask, already guessing what the answer will be. Since he moved in, it’s Pat. Always Pat.

Jo waves me off, looking like a mini adult more than ever, which is saying something. “It’s okay. You can finish your mating ritual or whatever.”

“Our what?” Pat’s hands freeze on my feet, and he looks like he’s having a heart attack.

“Did you say mating ritual?” I ask, attempting to keep my voice level. I’ve learned that’s key: whatever shocking thing comes out of her mouth, I can internally freak out, but outwardly, I need to stay steady and calm.

Right now, steady and calm is a challenge. I’m not ready for this conversation. I should have years to prepare for any conversation around the topic of mating. And it will under no circumstances involve that term.

Jo shrugs. “It was in one of the animal books. When they want to mate, they puff up their feathers or do complicated dances to get the other one’s attention. Then they mate. Which I guess is like being boyfriend-girlfriend or whatever.”

Air comes back into my lungs, and Pat’s hands start rubbing my feet again.

“Right,” I say. “Yeah, mating rituals. I’ve heard of that.”

“Can I have pancakes for breakfast?” Jo asks.

“Yep,” Pat says. “I’ll make some before I leave for practice. They’ll be hot and ready when you get up.”

“Cool. Goodnight!” Jo calls.

Her door closes, and it’s on my lips to call out a reminder to brush her teeth. Instead, Pat and I both sit statue still for another few moments, then sigh at almost the same time.

“I thought we were going to have to explain—” Pat starts just as I say, “That was close.”

We both laugh nervously, and I turn, setting my feet on the scarred wooden floor.

“Want to help me with dishes?” I ask, not because I need the help, but more because I don’t trust myself next to Pat on this little couch without Jo as a chaperone.

Pat gets up, holding out a hand to me. “I’ll help with dishes only if you’ll show me your complicated mating dance.”

I get up without his help, shoving him lightly as I pass. “Wouldn’t you like to see it.”

He chuckles as he follows me, and his low voice is like a fingertip dragging lightly up my spine. “You have no idea how much.”





“This is oddly domestic,” I tell Pat, handing him the last plate to dry. Tonight’s dinner was courtesy of Pat and the new stove he purchased and had installed while I was out today. I didn’t even protest the expense because his homemade shrimp and grits was to die for. He even got Jo, who doesn’t like seafood at all, EVER, to try it. She didn’t like the grits, but she ate a dozen shrimp.

“Domestic—yes. Odd? No.”

I glance his way without fully turning my head, letting my hair provide a curtain between us. “You don’t find this a little strange?”

Pat stacks the dish on top of the others we’ve washed, then tosses the dish towel in the washing machine. He leans a hip against the counter, facing me. “What’s strange about it?”

“This,” I say, gesturing through the air. “You helped with dishes and just put a towel in the washing machine.”

“Uh huh. I see your point,” he says, rubbing his chin. “It’s so weird when guys do helpful things, domestic things.”

“Shut up. We aren’t talking about stereotypical gender roles or the patriarchy. We’re talking about me and you.”

“Ah. Good. I much prefer that particular subject. Care to take this discussion outside? There’s a swing with our names on it.”

I hesitate. “I’m not sure it will hold us.”

But Pat only grins, holding open the door to the porch. “It will now.”

I hadn’t noticed earlier, but Pat has replaced not only the rusted chains but also the swing itself. I can smell it before I really see it—the scent of fresh sawdust. I run my hand over the back of it, freezing when I see what’s carved into the wood.

“Pat and Lindy,” I whisper.

He sits first, hooking his arm over the back, careful not to cover up the words. “Told you it had our names on it. It’s a wedding gift.”

I sit down next to Pat. Not close enough, I guess, because he drags me closer, keeping an arm around my shoulders. “From whom?”

“James.”

“James? The brother who spends all his waking hours glaring—he made us a wedding gift?”

“He’s not so bad once you peel off the grumpy exterior,” Pat says.

“I’ll have to write him a thank-you note. So, he does beer-making and wood-working? Sounds like a regular Renaissance man.”

Pat smirks a little at that, then pushes his toe gently against the porch, sending us in a gentle swing. “Yes. Both very good gifts for a man who seems to have a life goal of being a hermit.”

We’re quiet for a few seconds. But Pat doesn’t do quiet well. “This is nice,” he says.