When you walk in on your brother with his arms around your wife, leaning in with his mouth half an inch from hers, and she’s a blushing, flustered mess, shit gets real.
You get territorial.
Your fists go on autopilot.
Your throat can’t roar loud enough, even when it’s shaking the whole house.
And years later, you meet your brother for dinner at the local diner, instead of making him welcome at your kitchen table. Last minute change, I know, but he doesn’t argue.
Doesn’t matter what was going on between me and Abby.
He could’ve at least waited till we were done sorting our shit and officially separated before he made his move.
Too bad Holt’s always liked having things he shouldn’t.
That’s where the rush is for him: the wrong woman, the wrong decision, the wrong three-day bender in Venice with a half-plastic Italian chick on his arm.
The fact that he’s here looking for reconciliation with me and a relationship with my daughter is just sending up so many red flags it’d make the old Soviet commies blush.
Since Holt always wants things he shouldn’t, it makes me wonder why he wants this.
At least he’s keeping my mind off Peace, though.
Off the way the sunlight buried itself in her hair like loving fingers as she bent over me, caressing that vivid red to gold fire dipped in blazing purple.
Off our last weird little interaction. Where I knew I’d said too much, and she felt me holding back, and both of us maybe regretted being too open, too intense, too real.
We’re perfect strangers. And even if I saved her from a pretty routine fire under the hood and she massaged away my pain, we don’t know each other. We’ve got no good reason to.
Fuck. Right. Not thinking about Peace.
Not that the subtle glare Holt gives off is much better.
He’s Mr. Congeniality, all smiles as he regales Andrea with tales of New York City. Hell, I hadn’t even known he’d lived in NYC so long. Last I heard, he was still in Coeur d’Alene with Ma and then spending time in the Air Force, but I guess he’s been living it up rich with the money she left behind.
But as he gears up into a story about a one-night stand with not one, but six supermodels, I grunt, leaning forward to pick up the soda I really wish was a beer right now.
“Hey,” I bite off. “That’s not appropriate in front of my kid.”
Andrea’s smile vanishes.
So much for putting out fires.
My fucking talent is killing my daughter’s buzz.
“God, Dad,” she groans. “I’m not a kid. I’m sixteen. There’re worse things on Netflix.”
Holt grins—that wide, charming devil’s grin I despise. “She’s right. I mean, when you were sixteen you were—”
“Hey!” I snarl, my ears going red-hot. “Listen, that’s definitely not appropriate in front of my kid!”
But Andrea’s eyes light up, and she’s all for it, leaning in with a wicked grin that makes the Silverton blood resemblance shine. “Oh, no. I think this is definitely appropriate. You’ve got embarrassing stories about Dad?”
She’s not even paying attention to her food going cold on her plate, the ice cream in her root beer float melted away into a foamy white slurry on top of the soda.
There are no words for how much I hate this, even if it’s making my daughter smile.
And even if I know it’s technically Holt’s job as her uncle.
I might not trust him, but at least he’s doing his best to get along with her.
“Look, babe,” Holt says, spreading his hands with the devil’s own grin. “Your dad was an even bigger player than me in his day.”
“I was not a damn player!” I protest.
Holt turns a sly look on me. “How many high school girlfriends did you have?”
My eyes widen. I recoil. “I, uh…can’t remember. Long-ass time ago. Why’s it matter?”
“You mean you lost count.” He smirks. “I didn’t. I was jealous. The answer is sixteen, by the way. The freshmen used to say you’d get a new girl every season.”
Holy crap.
I’m dying.
And Andrea just laughs herself red in the face, a little hyena slumping back in her seat and covering her mouth with one hand, watching me over her fingers. “You’re such a hypocrite, Dad.”
But she’s not saying it with any malice, just giving me a dig, and I accept it with a reluctant grunt.
“Eat your food, Andrea,” I growl.
“’Kay. But you puff up like a porcupine if I even think about a guy, and you were like, sleeping with everyone in high school.”
“Yo!” Oh fuck, people are gonna stare at us if I get any more flustered. Or loud. “No one ever said I slept with all of them, and I don’t need that kind of talk coming out of your mouth. I’m your old man.”
Andrea just sticks her tongue out merrily.
Damn.
She’s got me by the tail and she knows it. She’s enjoying being the one to embarrass her stupid dad for once.