Page 72 of Someone to Have
“Hold up there.” He lifts a hand. “As you arewellaware, I’m not compensating for anything. I have a great tool belt.”
“Larger than average,” I agree, stifling a giggle.
One minute he’s standing in front of the window, and the next he’s across the room and hauling me against his body so I can very much feel the weight and size of his “tool belt” pressing against my belly.
“How long do you get for lunch, Tink?” he asks, already nibbling along the underside of my jaw.
“We arenotchristening your sister’s potential new home on my lunch break.”
I hear—or rather feel—the rumble of his laugh against my skin. Desire skitters up my spine.
“Do we have time to stop at your apartment?”
“No,” I tell him even as I nuzzle the underside of his jaw. “Not even five minutes.”
He lifts his head and stares at me. “What if I only need one?”
“Like this is all about you? Maybe I need more than one.”
“I can get you there in less,” he promises. It’s true, but I’m not going to admit that out loud.
“Think of it as an extra coaching session. Your first rehearsal of the week is tonight, so you should be extra relaxed for it.”
It’s a fair point, but that’s not why I want to make this lunch into an afternoon delight. I simply want to be with Eric. Any time. All the time.
“I guess I can extend my lunch hour for the cause. That’s what this is all about, after all.” I feel the need to remind both of us.
His eyes narrow slightly, and I wonder if he’s going to call me out on the lie. But he only takes my hand, linking our fingers together.
“If I put the pedal to the metal, we might have two minutes,” he says and drags me through the house.
Laughter bubbles up in my throat, then dies when we enter the family room.
My brother’s big body fills the doorway, hands on his hips, glaring at us.
“What the fuck is happening here?” he demands, his voice a low growl. Toby stands stock-still in paint-splattered jeans, his thermal henley rolled up to his elbows, and narrows his eyes as he looks between us.
Eric immediately releases his hold on my hand, and I’m notsure I’ve ever felt more alone than I do in this moment. What did Toby see? How much of our conversation from the bedroom did he overhear?
“I’m getting your sister’s opinion on the house,” Eric says like it’s no big deal.
“That’s whyI’mhere—to give you my opinion.” Toby scoffs. “Why would you want hers?”
Oh, right. I should be less worried about him thinking something’s going on between Eric and me and more broadly offended at my older brother once again dismissing me.
“Because I have great taste in houses,” I say, stalking forward and poking Toby in the chest. “And believe it or not, I have opinions and viewpoints—good ones, ones that people want to hear. Not anyone in my family, of course.”
“You’re not a contractor, Tink,” he says. “Don’t get all butt-hurt.”
“I’ll getbutt-hurtif I want to,” I snap back. “My closet might not be full of Carhartts and work boots, but Marty Maxwell is my dad, too, Toby. I spent plenty of time during my childhood trailing him around job sites. I’m not a complete moron when it comes to evaluating a property.”
“I never said you were a moron.”
“No, just somebody whose thoughts, opinions, and life don’t matter compared to you and Elise.”
“I never said that, either.” He looks legitimately shocked that I’d suggest it.
“Actions speak louder than words,” I tell him.
