The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)(89)

“I’m up here!” I call. “Cleaning up the mess you made me make.” I mutter the last part as Pat stomps his way up the stairs. One of these days, he’s going to go right through the wood steps.

He’s almost to the top when the memory of last night slams into me, along with the realization that we are in the house ALONE. Totally, totally alone. I freeze, the compact still in my hands, powder still everywhere. I’m supposed to be at the school in twenty minutes, but that leaves at least ten minutes to either replay that kiss or to pretend it didn’t happen.

I fell asleep thinking about THE KISS. I woke up thinking about it. Heck, it played a starring role in all of my dreams. I planned to wait up for Pat last night, unsure whether I would tell him the kiss had been a one-time thing or—more likely—pick right back up at home where we left off at the stadium. Only slower. Longer. And without worrying about scaring small children or having announcers give a play-by-play.

But last night I fell asleep before he made it home. I’m sure they had all kinds of post-win celebrations, but I was more than a little disappointed.

What do I say now? Should we acknowledge it? Are we on kissing terms now? Make-out buddies? Husband and wife with benefits?

Or should we just pretend it never happened?

I’m so nervous, I drop the compact again. Pat’s big form fills the doorway, but I keep my eyes on the powder I’m unsuccessfully trying to sweep back into the compact. The same way I’m trying to sweep my feelings for Pat back into a nice, safe container with a lid.

When you’re looking for them, metaphors are everywhere.

“How was your first post-win practice?” I ask, trying to keep my voice totally neutral. But there is nothing neutral about Pat’s voice as he shoves his phone in front of my face.

“How could you not tell me about this?” he demands.

Okay, then. Guess this answers my kissing questions. We’re just going to go on like it never happened. Cool. I didn’t think about it much either. Kiss? What kiss?

His phone is open to the Neighborly app. Specifically, to a thread rating the Graham brothers based on the way their butts look in jeans. There are even photos, some taken at the Backwoods Bar before their arrest and still more from the internet back when Pat, Collin, and even Tank played football.

I could say I haven’t spent time looking at the photos, but I wouldn’t swear to it in court.

It’s a good thing Winnie deleted the thread that popped up last night about THE KISS. Apparently, that post had a lot of VERY strong opinions. I didn’t ask Winnie if they were positive or negative because the last thing I need when I’m already questioning a decision is to have all of Sheet Cake weighing in.

“Oh,” I say, infusing my voice with as much casualness as possible—look at me, cool and casual Lindy! “Yeah, the Neighborly app. What about it?”

“What about it? That’s my butt on there!”

It most certainly is. I try not to look like I’m ogling the photo of his posterior—though I totally am—as I elbow him out of my way. I wonder if he saw the—

“And you posted the flaming squirrel video? I didn’t even know you took a video!”

“It just kind of happened.”

Pat slides the phone in his pocket before crossing his arms over his chest. “Taking the video just kind of happened? Or posting it?”

“Taking the video. I meant to post it.”

Plucking the compact from my fingers and setting it on the counter, Pat slides a hand around my waist and spins me toward him. He lets go far too soon. Which is probably a good thing. Because he wants to talk about Neighborly while I’m still thinking about THE KISS. Have our roles somehow been reversed? Now I’m the one obsessing over him while he’s cooling things down.

“Lindy, you knew about this app?”

His face is so shocked, so incredulous that I have to bite back my laughter. “Neighborly is Winnie’s app. It’s her baby. She developed it and runs the whole thing. Every Sheeter knows about it. Well, old Sheeters. Maybe some new ones too.”

“I didn’t know.”

“You’re not a Sheeter.”

“I married one. Seems like something you might have mentioned. Seeing as how I’m the subject of a number of posts.”

“You mean, how your butt is the subject of a number of posts.”

I turn back to the mirror. Putting on mascara is a great way to keep me from looking at Pat’s face, which is only inches from my own. It’s a little embarrassing to be the only one thinking about THE KISS.

Did the big win for the team overshadow it?

Was it just a game for Pat, and now that he’s got me begging, he’s going to change tactics?

I don’t like any of these thoughts. Not even a little bit. Guess my lips should be prepared to winterize again. The feral cat yowls with displeasure.

“Where are you going?” Pat asks. “You look nice.”

“I have to volunteer at Jo’s school, helping the PTO Mafia.”

“There’s a … mafia?”

I consider how to explain in Pat speak. “It’s like … the Plastics.” Referencing Mean Girls always works. He maintains that Tina Fey’s writing is simply brilliant. “And Tabitha Waters-Graves is Regina George.”

“Huh.” He rubs a hand over his jaw, and the sound of his palm over that unshaved skin makes me shiver. “Who does that make you?”