The Stepbrother (Red's Tavern 5)

Sam had always hated when I made fun of him for talking an hour to get ready in the morning.

And clearly, he still hated me now. I listened, still quietly laughing as my stepbrother verbally murdered me right in front of my eyes.

“What’s so bad about the guy?” the cowboy bartender asked.

“He’s the cockiest motherfucker on planet Earth,” Sam continued. “Mom and Greg texted him a Christmas photo from last year and all he texted back was a picture of his new Tesla.”

Aw. That was true, but at least I’d written Merry Christmas underneath.

Sam laughed as he turned around, quickly heading over to my side of the bar. He looked up at me, his green eyes meeting mine. I grinned, watching as his face slowly turned from a smile to confusion to raw panic, all in the span of about two seconds.

I sat back on the barstool and reaching my arms out in front of me.

“My favorite stepbrother. Bring it on in for a hug?”

“Oh God,” he said, all of the color draining from his face.

“It’s fine, Sam,” I said. “People talk about me like that every day.”

“Shit. I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know you were here—”

Sam Hartman was many things, but at the root of it, he definitely wasn’t an asshole. He was all gym-bunny muscle and jokes on the outside, and an absolute marshmallow on the inside. In high school, I’d once seen him rescue his friend’s escaped mouse running around in the halls, even though he hated rodents and had dramatically sworn and shrieked the whole time.

“Quit apologizing and make me a martini,” I said.

Sam cocked an eyebrow. “Okay, now that you’re being demanding, I don’t feel so bad about shit-talking you,” he said, relaxing a little.

“With vodka, please. Do you have Absolut?”

“Oh no sir, we’ve only got moonshine out here in hickville,” he said, sarcastically batting his eyelashes. “Of course we have Absolut. This is a bar.”

“Yeah, but the kind of bar where you’re allowed to wear a tank top covered in fake diamonds,” I said, gazing down at the front of his shirt.

“You’re damn right,” he said, reaching for a martini glass. “I bedazzled this one myself.”

The tank top said Ready for Action on the front, each letter outlined by a little line of flashy rhinestones. I watched as he prepared my drink—pretty well, actually—and even included an extra olive.

He slid the glass over to me on the bar, surveying me like I was some sort of criminal suspect. His long lashes flicked up and down, confusion finally settling over his face.

“I had no idea you were already in Amberfield,” he said.

“I got in this morning,” I said. “Figured if I’m going to be driving that big RV, I may as well get some practice in.”

His eyes widened. “You drove here all the way from New York?”

I shrugged one shoulder, taking a sip of my martini. “This is perfect. And yes.”

He just stared at me, his mouth slightly open in shock.

“Close that mouth,” I said. “I left two days ago. I planned on making more stops along the way, but once I got driving, I just wanted to keep on going.”

“You didn’t sleep?”

“Not much.”

He let out a little concerned sigh, reaching out to gently touch my forearm. “That’s not safe,” he said. “Be careful driving that thing.”

I was so surprised by the small touch it took a second for me to process. There was nothing wrong with it—his hand was soft and warm, comforting, even. But I couldn’t remember the last time somebody had showed any concern for me losing sleep.

In New York, my friends wore lack of sleep like a badge of honor. It wasn’t healthy, but it was the norm.

I cleared my throat. “I’m careful,” I finally said. He took his hand away like it had been nothing at all, going right back to his work.

“Do Mom and Greg know you’re here yet?” he asked, eyeing me.

“I stopped there right before I came here,” I said. “I’m going to stay with them until the road trip.”

“Okay, now I know you’re lying,” Sam said, waving a hand. “Why would you ever stay back at home when you could pay for any hotel you wanted around here? Hell, you could buy any hotel you wanted around here.”

“A hotel feels too impersonal,” I said. “Your mom and my dad have a spare bedroom. Figured I’d take it for a week. And now I’m close enough to come bother you here and listen to you insult me all night long.”

“I’m sorry about the insults.”

I cracked a smile. “No you’re not.”

“Okay, only a little,” he admitted. “How did you even know I was here?”

“You’re kidding, right?” I asked. “You tag every photo you put on social media with exactly where you are. It’s really not a good idea, actually.”