Love Handles (Oakland Hills #1)(58)

“Really, Bev. I could have handled her.”

“Of course you could,” she said in that preschool teacher voice that made him want to go back to her psycho sister and beat the crap out of her. But Bev’s body was an effective distraction. He lifted his arm out of her grasp and rested it across her shoulders so she was plastered up against his side, soft and strong and sweaty, and her steps faltered.

“Did she beat you up too?” Liam asked.

Bev chuckled, and the soft rumble tickled his senses and heightened his awareness of each inch of her next to his skin. “What were you doing in our driveway? Before eight on a Saturday morning?”

They were almost at his front door, and he didn’t think he could slow his steps any further without looking pathetic. “Packing up for a backpacking trip with my brother. I saw the car and didn’t think it looked right.”

She stopped and looked up at him. “You were worried about me?”

Oh, boy. He had a shallow, tight feeling in his chest, probably from the strain of not peeling her wet t-shirt off of her. “I didn’t want to have to sleep on your couch again.” Then the image of him climbing into her bed struck him between the eyes, and he froze.

“Here you go.” Bev extracted herself just enough to tap on the front door. She turned the handle and popped it open. “You’d better go first.”

He didn’t let go. It was insane but he couldn’t, and Bev wasn’t helping. She rotated in his arm and faced him, though not meeting his eyes. The side of one full breast brushed against his chest. And just like that he lost it. He reached past her, pulled the door shut, and backed her up against the side of the house. His heart thrashed in his chest.

Bev held still, eyes dark and blue, her body tense in his arms. He caught a strand of her hair in his fingers and pressed his thighs against hers.

The devil in his brain told him he’d already crossed the line once—the damage had been done; he might as well—

“You’re hurt.” She raised her hand to his mouth. The sight of blood on her fingers shocked him into sense, and he drew back.

“Sorry.” Pressing his hand to his mouth, he broke away from her and went into the house, struggling to clear his head. What the hell was he doing?

“Where’d you go?” Mark barged across the living room with a pack over his shoulder. He pushed past Liam and ran right into Bev standing on the landing. “Oh!” he yelped, jumping back. “Excuse me.”

Liam sighed. “Mark, this is Bev, your neighbor. Her sister just beat me up for no reason.” True to form, Mark panicked at the sight of an unexpected female and blinked his eyes, saying nothing. “Bev, this is Mark, my brother. Show mercy and ignore him until he recovers.”

“Nice to meet you, Mark.” Her voice was unsteady but she waved a greeting. “There was a misunderstanding. My sister just has the wrong idea. Do you have a first-aid kit? I can’t tell how bad it is, because of the blood—”

“Blood?” Mark asked weakly, swaying.

“Now you’ve done it.” Liam grabbed his brother’s arm and pushed him down onto a chair. “Head down. Just don’t think about it.”

Bev followed. “What happened?”

“Faints at the sight of blood,” Liam said.

“Christ, you’re dripping,” Mark gasped.

“I’ll get a washcloth.” Bev ran off into the house.

“Faints at the sight of girls, more like it, you sissy.” Liam said, rubbing Mark’s back. “Chill. Just us menfolk now.”

Mark bent over and put his head between his knees. “Fuck you. Vasovagal syncope has nothing whatsoever to do with my masculinity. Father was the same way.”

Oh, Liam remembered. Years ago, Liam had smacked his head on the starter block climbing out of the pool, and the sight of blood had brought his father to his knees. The humiliation of passing out in a chlorinated puddle of water in front of dozens of strangers—even just during practice—had inspired his father to take away fifteen-year-old Liam’s driver’s permit until he was eighteen. Liam had almost wished he could go back in time to when he was a fat seven-year-old nobody, far beneath his father’s notice.

“Here you go, you poor guy.” Bev rushed in carrying a damp washcloth, but instead of coming to Liam she fell onto her knees at Mark’s feet. “It’s an awful feeling. I know. Just horrible.”

Mark lifted his hand to take the washcloth while his pale cheeks flooded back with splotches of color. “Thanks, uh—”

“Bev. Don’t exert yourself.” She twisted around and looked up at Liam, who was pointedly bleeding down the side of his face. “Liam, go clean yourself up before your brother sees you again.”

Liam stared at her hand resting on his brother’s knee and felt an inexplicable rage bubble inside him. He could probably see right down her shirt from where he sat, the big faker. “Of course.” He didn’t pretend to hide his contempt. “If I faint from blood loss just leave me there. The mice can have my body.”

He heard Bev mutter, “Such a baby” as he walked down the hall to the bathroom. While he waited for the water to run hot, Liam wiped away the congealing blood off his lip and realized he was clenching his teeth and fighting the urge to drive his fist through the mirror.