Page 30 of Messing With My Brother's Best Friends

“Don’t do that,” I said finally. “Don’t say that like it makes a damn difference. If they liked me, then they should’ve been in my corner, looking after me, protecting me from Finn and his bullshit. They should have been on my side.”

“Like they are now?” Her words hung between us, but I was saved from having to answer that by a voice calling for Barbie. “Hey, I gotta go. This photoshoot is the job from freaking hell. It’s supposed to be a high-end lingerie campaign, but here I am getting rolled in fucking glitter from head to toe. Apparently it needs reapplication.” She sighed. “I’m gonna have an arse that looks like a disco ball for freaking days. Craft herpes is a bitch to wash off.”

“Craft herpes…” I grinned viciously. “That’s it.”

“What’s it?” Barbie asked warily. “What’s cooking in that head of yours?”

“Gotta go.” I shoved the key into the ignition and then threw the phone down on the seat beside me, abruptly ending the call. The van went sailing out of the carpark and down the road, towards the nearest craft store.

I didn’t expect them to be home when I walked in the door, but the sound of power tools made clear they were. That and the not quite savoury scent of food cooking. I dove into my bedroom as soon as I got in the door, tossing through my suitcase and rifling through my boxes, then checking my bed for any evidence of tampering. The fact that everything was the same way I’d left it was both concerning and almost disappointing. I looked down at one of the bags I was carrying and felt a moment of hesitation.

In it was the cheapest, finest, pinkest glitter I’d been able to find, which would stick like actual herpes to the guys’ skin if my plan went ahead. My resolve hardened when I remembered all the other things they had done in the past. I was staying here until I found something else, but in the meantime, I was getting some revenge. That settled, I stashed the glitter in my wardrobe and went out to find out what was going on.

The smell from the kitchen had my nose twitching, and as I went to grab some water from the fridge, I peered at the big pot. They were obviously trying to cook Bolognese sauce, but as I peered at it, the smell wasn’t right. They’d put meat, garlic, and tomatoes in there, but not much else it seemed. No aromatics, nothing to round out the flavour and render down into the sauce as it simmered. It was also bubbling way too fast. I turned that down, unable to stop myself, because the smell of burnt food was something I’d never been able to cope with, but everything else?

They had an ancient looking spice rack set up beside the oven, the simple look of it making me think it was a woodwork project from childhood. I scanned the contents, seeing they had a generic container of ‘Italian herbs,’ as well as individual herbs, so they definitely could’ve added them.

Or I could right now.

Some dried herbs, the volatile oils slowly released during a long, slow cook, or a hunk of parmesan rind, maybe a splash of balsamic vinegar. Something to add some depth. My fingers twitched, knowing by feel how much it would take to improve the sauce, but instead, I hoisted the other bags I’d brought in onto the kitchen counter. I ignored the pot, now simmering much more sedately, and put my cups of dried ramen and other instant food in the cupboard before forcing myself away from the pot. Out the back door and into a sizeable yard, I realised the noise was coming from a large shed. The three of them looked up abruptly as I walked in the door, looking like a pack of startled cats.

Except cats didn’t strip down to just a pair of shorts as they worked, and they definitely didn’t have every bloody muscle on display. Van was just as golden as he looked in the morning, but now there was a thin sheen of sweat on his skin, along with a whole lot of sawdust. The muscles in Connor’s biceps popped, a thin vein running down the length of it, as he gripped a now silent sander. And Gage? The broad shoulders that I’d seen the other day in the pool were now fully on display as he bent over the engine bay of Daisy, the massive eagle tattoo spread across his back twisting as he jerked his head up and looked back over his shoulder at me.

“Um… just brought you your keys back,” I said, holding the fob out.

“Keep them.” Gage pulled away from Daisy and took a couple of steps towards me, and it took everything in me not to step back. “Your car’s gonna take some work.”

“Work you don’t have to do—” I started to say.

“Have to finish what I started.” He shrugged, a completely unrepentant smile on his face. “Car’s not going anywhere right now.” His hand reached out, but it wasn’t the grease on his fingers that had me wanting to flinch away, it was the heat, the strength in it, as he curled my fingers back around the keys. “You handle the van all right?”

“Fine.” I bit that word off, pulling back and shoving the keys back into my pocket, but my mother’s voice inside my head wouldn’t let me leave it at that. “Thank you.”

Gage pulled away with a nod, turning back to the car.

“So do you make furniture for fun?” I asked, moving towards Connor and Van. A couple of very nice looking bedside tables sat beside them. Strong, rustic in form, and the deep-red wood glowed. I went to reach out and smooth my hand over it, but Van grabbed me by the wrist.

“Not for fun.” Those blue eyes bore into mine. “For you.”

“What?”

“And they’ve just been freshly varnished,” Connor said, straightening up, but he really shouldn’t have. The shed was an eminently masculine space: full of tools and spare parts, lengths of timber and garden tools, along with a couple of cans of beer, but nothing was more masculine than him. That same damn body I’d spent seconds ogling in the morning was on display again, but thankfully with more clothes on. Again, I was forced to redirect my gaze. “They’ll be ready for you to use tomorrow, but right now they need to dry.”

“For me…?” I blinked, then frowned. “You didn’t need—”

“Yes, we did.”

Connor didn’t let me finish a sentence, talking over me, just like he always did. And that had my teeth grinding together, right as my eyes met his steady gaze.

“I didn’t ask you to make me furniture.”

“You didn’t have to.”

That was his answer, no more, no less, but Van glanced at the two of us before straightening up.

“Your bed frame is falling apart, and it’s fastened together using cam lock nuts,” he said, like they were the worst thing in the world. “You need something better than that. This is gonna have shelves in the bedhead.” He gestured to the construction. “That way you can keep all your books there.” He moved towards the bedside table and pointed to the drawers. “One of these has dividers in the drawers so you can keep the books you’re currently reading in there, that way they’re not always falling on the floor like they used to when you were a kid.”

They remembered that? Out of all of the chaos that reigned in our house, that’s what they took away from our childhood? I shook my head, wanting to say so much, but instead I kept it stuffed down. No point in handing them more ammunition to use against me.

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