Page 7 of The Older Brother
Cami flops on the dusty black leather sofa near their business office within seconds. The crack from a beer cap pings across the garage where Miguel pulls a cold one from their fridge, and the sound must have piqued Rowan’s interest as he slides out from under the Bronco a second later. His gaze finds me right away, but his expression is blank, as if he were looking at a stranger.
“Kinda early to start, no?” His head swivels as he looks at Miguel. Away from me.
Miquel holds up the beer, then tilts it toward his nearly passed-out sister on the couch.
“Hair of the dog,” Miguel says.
Rowan chuckles, then scoots himself back out of sight. My legs suddenly feel weak, but unlike my friend, my tremors have nothing to do with the alcohol I drank last night. I’m simply perplexed to the point that it’s making me dizzy. It’s not that Iexpected Rowan to rush at me and sweep me into his arms at first sight, but I didn’t exactly anticipate a cold shoulder.
I move from the arm of the sofa to the space right next to my friend, nudging her so she sits up and stays awake.
“Rude,” she gripes.
“I kind of want to go home and take a shower,” I remind her.
She lets out a heavy sigh before grumbling, “Fine.”
“We’ve got a shower in the back,” Miguel suggests.
My eyes go to Rowan, his legs unchanged, hands working at the underside of the vehicle he’s buried beneath. I doubt he even heard his friend.
“I don’t exactly have a change of clothes,” I say through an awkward smile. I’m still wearing cutoffs and a bikini top, and I’m tired of smelling like chlorine.
Showering here isn’t ideal, but also, there’s a part of me that wonders what Rowan would do. Before Miguel can take the offer back, I get to my feet and huff out, “Okay, whatever. But can I at least borrow a shirt?”
Rowan’s movement isn’t fast. He wheels out from under the Bronco in an almost lackadaisical fashion, wiping his hands on a grease-stained rag before hopping to his feet and opening the Bronco’s driver’s side door. He pulls out a long-sleeved gray T-shirt and walks it over to me, not an inkling of emotion anywhere on his face. He hands the shirt to me, but doesn’t let go immediately when I grab it. Our eyes lock, and for a moment, my body flashes white hot. My lips part as I sneak in a tiny breath. Rowan licks his lips, but the dimple never comes. No flicker in his eyes either. But I feel it. Despite the lack of physical clues, there’s a thread between us. A pull. It’s brief, and it dies a second later when he’s back on the floor, wheeling himself back under the Bronco.
“Thanks,” I say, lifting the shirt in acknowledgement before returning my attention to my friend, only to find her face buriedin her phone. Her brother doing the same as he sits on a stool by the tool counter.
Nobody saw that. Not that there was anything to see.
I laugh silently at myself and carry Rowan’s shirt toward the back hallway that leads to their work shower. It’s not a very sexy room, more like a gas station restroom than anything. The space is tight, but it feels good to strip away a day-old swimsuit and stand under a hot stream of water. I spend ten minutes lathering my body with the masculine-scented body wash I find on the shelf, turning the shower off when the hot water feels like it’s running out. I swipe my hand over the glass door to clear away the condensation before popping it open just enough to reach for the sky-blue towel neatly folded by the sink. I don’t realize that the towel was resting on top of my borrowed shirt, and a suddenly appeared pair of gray sweats, until I wrap my hair in it.
I didn’t come in here with a towel or those pants.
My heart starts to kick and my tummy twists, not from fear, but from thrill. It was probably Cami. In fact, I’m sure it was. But what if?
My hand slides from my neck to my breast, then down the center of my body to my stomach as I look back toward the still frosted glass of the shower. I’m not sure how much of me there was to be seen anyhow.
Rather than spiraling any deeper with this stupid fantasy, I finish getting dressed, ignoring the overwhelming scent of Rowan’s cologne on the shirt as I pull it over my head. I hang the towel to dry, then make my way back to the garage, where Miguel and Cami are exactly where I left them.
“Feel better?” my friend asks, not bothering to peel her eyes away from her constant scrolling on her phone.
“Yeah,” I hum, my gaze drifting to the now lowered Bronco. Rowan’s back is to me as he moves a mop around the glossy floor near the rolling doors, but I keep my eyes on him, waiting tosee if he glances at me over his shoulder. I study every twist of his arm, the way his body sways as he moves the mop back and forth. I search for a tell. But there isn’t one.
Shaking my head, I move to the other corner of the couch and flop down to sit next to my friend, joining the doom scroll party as I pull my phone into my palms. The clank from the mop handle falling against the brick wall in the corner snaps me from my sudden trance in time to catch Rowan’s back as he heads toward his Camaro.
“Make sure you pick up more invoice slips. We’re running low,” Miguel shouts to his friend.
Rowan raises a hand in response, then gets into his car and revs the engine.
“Fucking show off,” Miguel says through a chuckle.
My phone buzzes in my hand, so I drop my gaze to my screen and slide up on the message notification. The number isn’t familiar. But it doesn’t matter. I know exactly who it is.
UNKNOWN: You look good in my things.
My eyes dart to my right to make sure Cami is still lost in her own world. Then to my left, where Miguel has moved on to a laptop where he seems to be researching car parts. When my phone buzzes again, I jolt, cupping my phone to hide the screen as I read Rowan’s follow-up.
