Stone (Pittsburgh Titans 2)

I don’t budge an inch. “You were neighbors with my brother? Is that how you met?”

She shakes her head, and I note for the first time just how long and glorious her hair is, flame-red licks around her shoulders and down her back. She’s wearing a fitted green turtleneck, dark jeans, and fuzzy socks—also green, and covered with leprechauns.

“I lived here before Brooks. When that unit became available, he bought it.”

“Oh,” I mutter, looking back down the hallway at my new home and wondering how I feel about living next to this woman who was such good friends with my brother.

A woman who clearly knew his deepest secret, which means she knew far more than the fact he was gay.

While she could be the answer to all the questions I’ve never even considered asking about my dead brother, I’m not sure I want that knowledge.

I take a step back. “I just came by to ask if you could hold the noise down.”

Harlow’s face flushes, and she ducks her head. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize we’d gotten loud.”

“Yeah, well… alcohol can do that,” I grumble as I start to turn away.

“Wait,” she exclaims, reaching out and touching my forearm. “Please come in. At least meet everyone. You’re going to be neighbors for a long time, and it’s a great group. We all help each other out.”

“I could be back down in the minors next week,” I growl, and then immediately hate myself for admitting that insecurity.

Harlow snorts. “Please… you’re playing superbly. You and Gage Heyward are carrying the team right now. You’re going nowhere.”

My eyes flare with surprise that she’d be in tune with the Titans and our progress so far. It’s been barely a month since the plane went down. It’s been two weeks since our first practice.

We’ve played five games, winning only one, on the road yesterday in Houston. That was a good game, which made up for the ass-kicking we took in Phoenix the day before.

“Come on in,” Harlow urges me again, jolting me out of my thoughts. “Just stay for ten minutes. I’ll make introductions, then you can feign exhaustion and head out.”

I glance down the hall to my door and back. Cocking an eyebrow, I ask, “Is your dog going to attack me for entering his abode?”

Harlow grins and leans forward. “Here’s a tip. Bobby and Marcia brought meatballs tonight. Slip Odin one, and he’ll be your friend forever.”

I stare at her skeptically, thinking that could be good advice, or she might be willing to let me lose a hand in retaliation for storming her office that first day. Frankly, it could go either way.

Having spent so much time isolated from people the last few weeks and refusing to develop relationships while I was down in the minors, my comfort level will be stretched by accepting the invitation. I’m an introvert by nature, whereas Brooks was always the outgoing one.

I really don’t give a fuck about meeting my neighbors, and I don’t feel like tangling with that beast of a dog, but ultimately, I nod in acceptance.

The true reason I step over the threshold is because Harlow intrigues me. She’s the key to the mystery of my brother, and perhaps the mystery of my family’s dysfunction.

But if I’m honest, she’s also fucking gorgeous and sexy, and I’m attracted to her. Knowing she and my brother weren’t a thing means she’s not off-limits due to the bro code.

Not that I’m looking for a relationship. That’s totally not my jam. But a hot-neighbor fuck buddy isn’t a bad thing to strive for. If she’s interested, of course. I’ll have to judge that over time.

For now, I want to keep her close in case I decide I want to learn more about my brother.

“Hey, everyone,” Harlow announces to the group as we enter. “I want you all to meet our new neighbor, Stone Dumelin.”

I look around and note that her unit is the exact flipped layout of mine, but her décor is far more casually comfortable. Brooks’s house—rather, mine—looks like an art museum. Harlow’s looks like a mishmash of styles that range from quirky, a harlequin-checked moose head over the fireplace—to the downright weird, a painting going up the staircase of a dragon in a tutu doing a handstand on a gymnast’s balance beam.

Her furniture seems to have been chosen for comfort, with thick, deep cushions that look perfect for settling down to watch a movie. The floors are covered with lush rugs of varying colors and patterns, but they seem to complement each other.

“Hey, man,” someone says, and I blink to find a guy standing there with his hand held out. “I’m Bart, down in unit one. My wife, Shannon, is an emergency room doctor. She’s on duty tonight. You’ll have to meet her some other time.”