The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)(90)

I think for a moment. “Kevin Gnapoor.”

He chuckles, I guess already over the whole Neighborly thing. “Can I come? I love a little good Plastic sabotage.”

It’s tempting. Pat would provide a distraction, fabulous entertainment, and also be the best kind of buffer between me and the PTO Mafia. Then, I imagine Tabby in her flawless makeup and skintight leggings batting her heavy fake lashes at Pat. I mean, she’s married, but I could see her wanting to upgrade from a Graves to a Graham. She wouldn’t even need to change any of her monograms. Yeah … no. Just no.

“I’ll be fine. Oh—did you see the thread on Neighborly about the game last night? They had good things to say about your coaching. Especially how you pulled Mark Waters.”

Pat’s eyes light up. “Yeah, most people seemed happy. Hard to be sad with a win, though. We’ll see if we can pull it off again. I have a long list of notes from the Bobs.”

He leans back against the counter, his shoulder brushing mine. Even in my periphery, Pat’s presence is so distracting I almost stab my eyeball with the mascara wand. Instead I end up with a black streak on my face. Fabulous. I scrub it away and turn to face Pat, taking as much of a step back as I can in the small space.

“I’ve got to go.”

I push my palms into his chest, shoving him lightly out of the way as I tell my hands not to linger. Just keep moving, ladies. Nothing to feel here. When I’m safely past him and out in the hall, I pause, turning back to face him.

“I voted for your butt, by the way.”

Pat’s expression morphs into pure pleasure. He looks like a puppy who’s been released into a room full of shoes to chew on.

“You voted for my butt?”

His voice is rich and sweet, honey dripping straight from the comb. It brings to mind lazy mornings, long hours spent wrapped up in his arms, his mouth on mine. I keep moving for the stairs. If I’m late to help out, Tabby will probably send her minions to burn my house down.

I give Pat a quick, teasing smile. “I had to. It’s the butt I married.”

Pat makes a frustrated noise, and I don’t tell him that, marriage aside, I’d vote his butt the best any day. Even if he’s going to act like THE KISS never happened.





“Good of you to join us, Lisa!”

Tabby’s voice is like the first sip of a Diet Coke, a rush of fake sugar and carbonation so strong it makes your eyes sting.

The classroom lights are off, but the room is well-lit by the big windows off to the side and a floor lamp by the teacher’s desk, where Tabby is holding court. A handful of other PTO Mafia members are squeezed into the tiny plastic chairs around the room, looking every bit her loyal subjects. Just the way good old Tab likes it. They’re all wearing the required Mafia uniform: athleisure. Based on their trim bodies, they all probably met at the gym beforehand for Hot Spin Yoga or whatever the newest trendy class is.

I don’t own any athleisure wear because my life is devoid of both the ath and the leisure. Also, it’s expensive as all get-out for clothing designed for sweating.

“It’s Lindy,” I remind her. “And I’m on time.”

She waves a hand. “Oh, we always like to show up early. You know how it is—it’s just such a joy to serve!”

You mean, a joy to make people your servants.

Ignoring the tiny chair Tabby points to, I stand near the window where I can glance out at the class on the playground. I locate Jo almost immediately, sitting underneath the slide, reading a book. No surprise there. But while I watch, she sets the book down—using a bookmark because I didn’t raise a heathen—and joins in a round of tag.

Good for you, Jojo. Diversify those interests—reading AND playground games!

I turn back to Tabby, whose eyes narrow on me.

“You must be so tired after the big game last night,” she says.

“I didn’t actually play in the game, you know. Spectating isn’t all that strenuous.”

“I didn’t mean the spectating part,” Tabby says, and I know where this is going. Right to my VERY public display of affection. The one I need to forget, since Pat obviously has.

Before she can weigh in any more on the topic, I cut her off. “Yes, I’m tired. And I’ve got work to do, so if you could let me know how I can help, that’d be great.”

Undeterred, Tabby taps her perfectly manicured nails against perfectly pink lips. “Let’s see what’s left. We’ve already done so much without you.”

Each woman has a pile of perfectly cut-out stars. Lots and lots of stars. By the look of things, they’ve been cutting since before the sun came up. The woman closest to me glares while massaging her fingers, like it’s MY fault Tabby is a ruthless dictator.

As if to further prove my estimation of her, Tabby’s eyes narrow like a cartoon villain. “Actually, I do have something. A very important job I saved just for you.”

Well, that sounds ominous. “Sounds great!” I try to infuse cheerleader levels of enthusiasm in my voice, but it sounds more like sarcasm. Okay, maybe it is sarcasm.

“I hope it’s a two-person job,” an all-too familiar voice calls from the doorway.

Pat saunters into the room looking even better than he did twenty minutes ago. Did he put on a tighter shirt? The gray tee he’s sporting is basically like an anatomical diagram showing all his muscle groups. It would be highly educational for a unit on anatomy.