Page 48 of The Older Brother
“Was that show for him, or me?” I ask as he spins us in a slow circle in the water, every pair of eyes at the lake on us for certain.
He leans his head to the side a tick and glances up as if in thought before meeting my gaze.
“A bit of both.” His expression remains still, void of clues, as his eyes search mine. I wish I knew what thoughts were racing behind those eyes of his. I’m not sure what came first, the blue-green water or the shade of his eyes.
“He can’t talk to you like that. I don’t care what’s happening between us. He has no right. Never did. Never will. Nobody will. Not if I can hear it.”
His gaze bores into me, and I lick my dry lips, suddenly nervous and excited. My heart pounds in my chest, inches away from his. I’m sure he feels it.
“Thank you,” I croak. They’re the only words I can think to utter. I know my worth. I’ve just struggled my whole life to announce it to others. But Rowan is showing me that there’s power to my voice. There’s power in telling people what I don’t like, in voicing what hurts me and what makes me feel whole. I need to say what I want.
“I want to stay with you tonight. In your bed.” I hold my breath, ready for him to stop our slow dance in the water, but his body continues the slow spin, and his eyes never leave mine. He doesn’t even blink.
“Okay.”
Chapter 15
I should stop askingmyself what I’m doing. It’s a stupid question. I knowexactlywhat I’m doing. I’m getting involved with my brother’s ex, a girl I always thought of as my little sister. And it’s not just about hooking up. I’m starting to feel things. Possessive things. Protective, but less like a brother, and more like... fuck, I don’t know.
It’s strange having Saylor in my personal space. She’s not just a girl I picked up at the car show, or one of the women who hang around the courts to watch me shoot. I have always been upfront with any girl I brought home with me for the night. It’s alwaysfor the night.There’s an agreement between us. No expectations or false hopes beyond two people making each other feel good for a while.
No matter how hard I try to force that conversation now with Saylor, though, I can’t seem to get the words out. I don’t want this to be the only time she’s here.
And that’s a problem.
For a lot of reasons.
“You must really love your work,” she says, dropping her small backpack by the door then running her palm along thesmall kitchenette counter in my studio apartment attached to the shop.
“Saves on security costs,” I joke, tossing my wallet, phone, and keys on the small card table that doubles as my dining room.
Saylor glances at me with a short breath and a smile.
“So that shower I used the other day . . .” She tilts her head toward the open door that leads to the garage and the short hallway to the shower.
“It’s more of a shared shower, but yeah. That’s mine,” I say, my mind drifting to the memory of her naked, wet body through that barely opaque glass. Her gaze lingers on mine for a moment, her lip curled up on one side in this half-guilty, half-seductress way.
I pull out one of two wooden chairs at the table while she continues to explore the room, pausing at the set of framed photos propped up on my dresser. She picks up one of Caleb and me when we were kids at the go-kart races.
“How old are you in this?” She flips the frame around and clutches it to her chest. I don’t need the visual, though. I remember that day as if it were yesterday, though. It was one of those few perfect family moments, before . . . well . . .before.
“Ten, I think. Caleb was five. It was his birthday, but he wasn’t tall enough to drive on his own, so he rode with me.” I chuckle through a growing crooked smile. “His helmet was too big, too, so our mom took the pads out of her bra and stuffed them in the helmet to keep it from slipping over his eyes.”
Saylor’s laugh is soft, and her gaze shifts back to the photo as she puts it back in its place.
“It’s probably dusty up there. Sorry,” I say, my head falling to the side as I study her.
She shrugs before blowing the dust from another photo.
“You keep a tidy place. You can’t be perfect,” she says, her eyes crinkling at the sides to match her wide grin.
“I don’t get a lot of guests,” I admit.
Her eyes dim as her lips purse.
“Hmmm, I doubt that. I bet there’s been a fewguestsin this place, maybe sleepover guests?” Her brow arches, and her curious expression makes my chest tighten. I don’t really want to talk about the women who have been here for some reason. I would rather she thinks of this place as a tightly guarded secret that I’m only sharing with her. Because in many ways, it is.
“Okay, there have been a few, but no one who . . .” I leave it there, perhaps a little afraid of what my own next words were.
