The Firefly Cafe (Billionaire Brothers, #1)(5)

This whole island couldn’t be more different from the urban rush of Manhattan. And Dylan had yet to see more of Sanctuary than the quaint “downtown” area bordering the town square where his grandparents’ house stood.

As he located the leaky pipe under the kitchen sink—number five on The List—Dylan rolled his sore shoulders and admitted to himself that as unusual as the situation was, he’d needed this.

Man, when he got back to Manhattan, he was asking for a refund from his personal trainer. The strenuous daily gym routine hadn’t prepared him for a full day of manual labor. Dylan’s muscles ached. But it was a good ache, a clean, pure soreness that let him know he’d used his body well today, and he’d likely sleep well that night.

And something about the blend of mindless, repetitive actions like hammering the loose floorboards on the front porch back into place combined with figuring out the intricacies of nineteenth century plumbing had allowed him to completely tune out all the stress and drama he’d left behind in New York.

With a contented sigh, Dylan wedged his shoulders into the under-counter cabinet hiding the leak and started tinkering.

A thud from out in the kitchen behind him startled him into cracking his head on the edge of the cabinet. “Crap!”

“What the hell are you doing?” The sharp male voice had Dylan backing out of the cabinet on his hands and knees, wincing against the sting of his bruised temple.

A teenaged boy stood next to the oval eat-in kitchen table, hands on his hips and backpack on the floor beside his scuffed sneakers. That must have been the thud Dylan had heard.

Who was this kid?

“Well?” the boy said, narrowing his light hazel eyes and putting his big puppy paws on his skinny hips. Whoever he was, he was packing way more attitude than his lanky frame could back up. He had the weedy, gawky look of someone whose body was growing and changing so rapidly, he was having a hard time catching up to it.

Dylan remembered how that felt. Remembered, too, the horrible awkwardness of being caught between childhood and manhood, teetering on the cusp and trying desperately not to fall on his face. The memory of how he’d coped with it all—badly—prompted Dylan to stand up straight and wipe his hands on his jeans.

Holding out his still-smudged right hand, man to man, he said, “I’m Dylan. I’m the handyman. And you are?”

The kid slowly reached out and shook Dylan’s hand. His scowl lightened a bit as he unconsciously squared his shoulders.

“Answer my question first,” the kid said stubbornly, crossing his arms over his chest.

Dylan tugged the creased, water-spotted list out of his back pocket and waved it in the air. “I’m the guy who’s been working his way through this list for the last seven hours. Does Penny Little know you hang out here when she’s at work?”

Dylan and his high school buddies used to break into empty apartments to smoke and raid the absent owner’s liquor cabinet. This kid, in his baggy polo shirt and too-short khakis didn’t exactly look the type, but you never knew.

Giving Dylan a look that clearly communicated searing scorn, the kid said, “Uh, yeah. Since I live here.”

The snark made Dylan bite down on a smile—sarcasm didn’t sit well on the young, unlined face, with those bright green-gold eyes. Eyes the same unusual color as Penny Little’s.

With a sense of dawning comprehension, Dylan said, “You’re Penny’s … brother?”

Another look of withering disgust. “No. I’m her son. Matthew.”

Dylan blinked. “Wait. She’s married?”

“Divorced.” Matthew crossed his arms over his thin chest belligerently. “You’re pretty slow.”

“Hey! Give me a break. You’re what, sixteen? Penny looks—well, she can’t be old enough to have a teenaged son.”

Those eyes he’d inherited from Penny became narrow and suspicious. “I meant you were slow because it’s taken you seven hours to get to the leaky sink.”

Ah. Awkward. Dylan kept his expression serious with an effort. “I take pride in my work.”

Raising his brows, Matthew said, “Oh, man. You are totally perving on my mom.”

“What? No, I’m not,” Dylan denied, feeling his cheeks heat even though he didn’t know what he had to be embarrassed about.

Clearly unconvinced, Matt made a grossed-out face. “Yeah, you are. You called her Penny, you noticed how she looked, asked if she’s single. I’m not an idiot.”

“Look, kid.” Dylan raised his hands in surrender. “Sorry if it freaks you out, but your mom is an adult. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t need you to protect her honor.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway.” Matt jerked his chin in the direction of the door. “Since you’re leaving.”

“What?”

“You can go now. I’ll take it from here.”

Dylan raised his brows. “Yeah? Your mom didn’t say anything about that to me. I wouldn’t want to leave the job half-finished.”

“Not even half,” Matthew sneered. “But Mom isn’t here.”

It sounded like he was grinding his teeth, and his deep voice cracked a little on here. Flushing angrily, he tilted his chin up in a way that reminded Dylan vividly of Penny.

Raising his voice, Matthew grated out, “I’m the man of the house. Which makes me your boss, and I say you’re done.”