Hook, Line, and Sinker (Bellinger Sisters)

Brendan was staring at him, brows drawn. Uncomfortable.

“Of course Hannah can stay here. But are you sure it’s a good idea?” His stomach drew in on itself. “People might notice she’s staying here. With me.”

The captain hedged. “I think certain speculation might be par for the course. As long as what folks are speculating on isn’t really happening.”

“Say it plainly.” Fox made an impatient sound, growing increasingly aware of what was coming. “Tell me not to fuck her.”

The captain rubbed the center of his forehead. “Look, I hate having to say this to you more than once. Feels like overkill and . . . Jesus, your sex life is your own business, but it could be different with her staying here. Close quarters and all that.”

Fox refused to make the conversation easy for his friend. And he suspected Brendan had known that coming here. They were men who regularly took responsibility for each other’s lives. They didn’t lecture each other. It was overkill. Maybe that was why the conversation hit below the belt this time, when before it felt more like a minor slap.

When the silence extended without Fox saying anything, Brendan sighed. “She’s my future sister-in-law. She’s not temporary in any way, okay? Hands off.” He made a decisive gesture. “That’s the last time I’ll bring it up.”

“Are you sure? I can pencil you in for tomorrow—”

“Don’t be a jackass.” They both visibly shook off their irritation, adjusting shirt collars and pretending to be interested in the television. “We probably didn’t even need to have this conversation, considering she’s still got a crush on this director guy. Sergei.” Brendan tapped his knee. “Am I supposed to do something about that situation, too? Go threaten to break his jaw if he takes advantage of Hannah?”

“No. Christ, it’s not the guy’s fault she likes him.” Fox said the words in a burst to relieve the pressing weight on his chest. He’d known about this crush of Hannah’s since summer and she’d still been pining for him in February, so it had probably been stupid of him to hope the infatuation had run its course. It wasn’t his favorite subject to discuss. On account of any mention of the director making him want to kick a hole through his drywall. “You’re going to be busy with your parents while Hannah is here. I’ll keep an eye on it, if you want. This thing with the director.”

Why on God’s green earth did he offer to do that?

Not a damn clue.

But he’d be lying if Brendan’s immediate gratitude didn’t ease the sting of their prior conversation. Fox might be a manwhore, but he could be trusted to protect someone’s back. He’d made a career out of it. “Yeah?”

Fox jerked a shoulder, took a sip of his beer. “Sure. If I think something is developing there, I’ll . . .” Sabotage came to mind. “Make sure she’s safe.” He didn’t even want to explore why those words spread like warm honey on his agitated nerve endings. Protecting Hannah. What a responsibility that would be. “Not that she isn’t capable of that herself,” he added quickly.

“Right, sure,” Brendan said. Also quickly. “Even so . . .”

“Uh-huh. Watch him like a hawk.”

Brendan filled up his barrel chest and let out a gusting exhale, slapping the arm of his chair. “Well. Thank God this is over.”

Fox pointed his beer straight ahead. “Door’s that way.”

The captain grunted and took his leave. Fox didn’t even pretend to be interested in his beer after that. Instead, he got up and crossed the room, stopping in front of the cabinet he’d picked up at a rummage sale. Buying furniture went against his grain, but he’d needed somewhere to store the vinyl records he’d started collecting. He’d bought his first on their trip to Seattle. The Rolling Stones. Exile on Main St. Even Hannah had approved when he’d picked it out at the record convention.

Anyway, the damn thing had started looking lonely, just sitting there all by itself, so he’d walked over to Disc N Dat and purchased a few more. Hendrix, Bowie, the Cranberries. Classics. The stack had grown so much, it felt almost accusatory in its silence, so—after trying to talk himself out of it for a couple of weeks—he’d ordered a record player.

Fox reached back behind the cabinet where he kept the key, sliding it out of the leather pouch. He unlocked the door and looked at the vertical rainbow of albums, only hesitating for a second before pulling out Madness. Dropping the needle on “Our House.” After listening to it all the way through, he pulled out his phone and started the song again, recording an audio clip and firing it Hannah’s way.

A few minutes later, she sent him back a clip of the Golden Girls theme song.

Through music, they’d just acknowledged she’d be staying in his guest room—and this was how it had been since she left. Fox waiting for the messages to stop, holding his breath at the end of every day, only releasing it when the text came.