“About you.”
***
It’s not often we get the drop on Joel. He’s the bossy one, the one directing our moves and hauling us into his big embrace—but today we have him sandwiched between us on the sofa, still in his silly apron and briefs and nothing else.
Jet’s gaze has gone dark as hell and heavy-lidded. He has an arm slung over Joel’s broad shoulders and he’s quiet. He’s clearly pitching a tent in his black jeans.
I’m dying to do something about that, help him out—but not now.
Also, we need to discuss his clothes color. I get why he’s been wearing black all this time, mourning his mom’s death, mourning his dad’s actions and apparent madness, but he needs to start putting it behind him.
I’m not an asshole. I know it will take a long time and lots of therapy sessions, and at least he is going to therapy and I think it’s helping, but let’s face it: outward appearances don’t just reflect one’s mood. They also influence it.
I need to take Jet shopping…
“So, J. Spill.” Jet scratches at the dark stubble on his chin, then reaches down and adjusts himself through his jeans, not trying to hide it. “What’s gotten your pink panties in a twist this time? Is it the new job?”
“What?” That snaps me out of my wandering thoughts. “You got a new job?”
Joel grunts and folds his muscular arms over the apron pocket over his chest. His brows lower over his bright eyes. “Yeah, I got a part-time job in a small company until I figure out how to do this thing I wanna do.”
This thing. “The publishing company?”
He nods. Glares at the far wall.
Oh boy. “It will be great, I know it. Jet and I will help, and Simone was saying today that she has been working as a freelance editor and formatter, and would love to be part of this project.”
“She did?” Jet’s brows arch.
“Yeah, she’s totally interested.” Okay, she said it sounded like an interesting project, but I bet she was dying to ask if she could take part. I’ve almost figured her out, okay?
Almost. She’s like a fuzzy pink landmine.
Unlike Brylee. I know Brylee, got to know her much better during the year we lived together. She’s crazy, but in a good way, and she’s dependable, as long as you don’t ask her for love—even less sex—advice. Then you’re better off reading children’s books and watching Disney movies.
See: fairytale obsession.
“That’s good,” Joel mutters. “It’s fucking awesome. I mean, it’s a crazy idea anyway, so why the hell not? Now, if you guys don’t mind, I’d like to finish that pie and go for a run before—”
“Not so fast.” Jet tightens his arm around Joel’s shoulders. “If it’s not the job, then what’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on,” Joel snaps.
“Yeah right.” Jet scowls. “The last time you cooked so much was after the scandal with Ellen. I had to knock on the door of every apartment in the building and then go down to the street and offer pies to everyone.”
“Shut up. It wasn’t that bad.”
“You shut up. We still had to throw away pies.” Jet sighs nostalgically. “Damn good pies, too. The pecan ones, man. You should bake those again.”
I gape at them. “Guys. Are you serious right now?”
Boys and food. Jesus.
Joel looks affronted. “My pecan pie is to die for.”
“You still haven’t told us what’s bothering you.” I slide my hand up his muscular thigh, perilously close to his crotch, close enough that I feel the heat through his cotton briefs. “Come on, J.”
“Nothing’s bothering me.” He starts to get up again, not seeming to notice where my hand is heading. “Like I said.”