Ryan (Mallick Brothers 2)

Perfect.

She was as close to perfect as I had ever seen.

She gave the guys at the door a somewhat uneasy smile as she held a paper towel to her forearm, bright red blood stripes already wetting it through.

"Sorry, I didn't know you were coming or I would have had him away already," she said, moving out of the way and the men charged inside.

"Just get rid of the damn thing," Bry said, his voice softer, putting his hand on her shoulder to move her out of the doorway. And I wasn't fucking imagining it when her entire goddamn body stiffened at the touch, like every single nerve ending was recoiling from the contact, but she knew she couldn't jerk away so she endured it.

As if sensing my inspection, her gaze drifted to mine, her lips parting slightly, her eyes showing every bit of discomfort and uncertainty she felt in that second, giving me an almost overwhelming urge to charge across the hall, grab the guys by the backs of their jackets, and toss them down the stairwell.

But that was fucking insane.

Before the thought was even fully formed, Bry had moved her out of the way and slammed the door to her apartment.

I stood there for a long moment, trying to convince myself to shake it off, let it go, that it was none of my business what was going on behind her door.

Eventually, that voice won out and I walked into my apartment and closed the door. I flicked on the lights, but I refused to put on music like I usually did.

I tried to tell myself it was because I just wanted silence after a long, noisy day. But that was such a ridiculous lie that I immediately accepted that the real reason was that I wanted to make sure there was no scuffling or yells or anything from across the hall.

You know, just being a good neighbor.

I rolled my shoulders as I peeled off my jacket and hung it in the closet inside the front door where I stored my dry cleaning for my housekeeper or assistant or whatever the fuck she was called to pick up and take care of like she usually did.

My apartment was oversized and, if my sister-in-law Fee was to be believed, screamed 'bachelor'.

Would your balls fall off or something if you put a color in here that wasn't brown or black?

That was what she first asked when she stepped inside for the first time.

She wasn't wrong. I definitely chose a dark palate. All the walls in the main space were a deep coffee brown. Directly inside and to the front, the window overlooking the street, was my living space with an L-shaped black sectional facing a black TV stand and large flatscreen. There was a canvas hanging over the short end of the couch, a brown and black and tan abstract piece entitled Aspen that I had found for sale on the wall in a coffeeshop in town. It fit the overall look to the room and at just under five-hundred, it was really a steal for the large size.

Just inside the door to the left, nestled between the dry cleaning closet and the living space was a small nook set back that had three black shelves and a a low black liquor cabinet. On top was my usual bottle of scotch, though I had a whole array of other liquors stored inside. My dock was sitting on one of the shelves beside framed (Fee sent them to me in fucking pink frames that I had Anita, the housekeeper, replace with black) pictures of my three nieces.

Inside the door and to the right was my kitchen with black cabinets and black and white marble countertops.

The hall ran off the kitchen, leading to two bedrooms and the bath. Much to Fee's chagrin, the bath had the same black and white marble as the kitchen and the bedroom was very likely the darkest, blackest room in the whole space.

I found light colors assaulting to the eye.

And after a long day in the kind of work I did, I needed a place to go home and relax in. Even if it did scream 'bachelor'.

The smell of steak met me as I passed into the kitchen.

Now, my mom taught me to cook. In fact, she taught all of us to cook.

I won't be having any son of mine demanding a woman do the cooking all the fucking time. You are going to learn to take care of your damn selves.

That was Helen Mallick for you. Never mind that she did the vast majority of the cooking for us when we were growing up. She claimed that that wasn't the point. The point was we should never expect it to be done for us simply because we were the men and they were the women.