Two Weeks and a Day (Finn's Pub Romance 2)

“What?” My head might start spinning soon. “He was suspended and evicted? Today?”

“Right?” Brendan says indignantly, reaching up to tug on my hair playfully. “The evil condo landlord says I can’t have wild orgies on the premises. Even when I’m not there to enjoy them. Says he already gave me a warning about it last week, but I didn’t get that either. I was away in London.”

Austen’s chuckle sounds uncomfortable. “Is this conversation supposed to be making sense?”

“Only if you speak drunken jet lag.” I tighten my hold on Brendan, trying to evade his roving hands. “Come on, B. I think we all need some fresh air.”

Brendan shakes his head aggressively, almost dislodging himself from my grip. “We just got here. Royal is in love and we’re his wingmen, remember? We have to get these two crazy kids together so he’ll stop talking to me about his feelings. It’s a mission of mercy.”

My face flames in sympathetic embarrassment as I look over at Austen and Royal. “I think he thought he was whispering.”

“Don’t worry about it, big guy.” Austen looks up at an embarrassed Royal and gives him a wink. “I think it’s kind of cute, you calling in reinforcements.”

A few minutes ago she thought it was a high-school move, but I’ll die before I remind her. “A little help here?”

Royal takes over for me, holding Brendan upright with one arm the size of a tree trunk so Austen can gather her things before we head out to the parking lot.

“I’m assuming you won’t need a ride home,” she says as we follow the two men to a rented Range Rover and watch Royal lift Brendan into the backseat as if he were a child.

“No. I really am sorry about this, Austen. He isn’t usually like this.”

“Everybody has a rough day now and then.” She slips her arm around my waist and squeezes. “Stop apologizing. I actually had fun. And I’m not judging anyone. I think you’re pretty wonderful, so I don’t imagine you would care about him as much as you do if he wasn’t a good man.”

I squeeze back gratefully and then notice Royal sending me a look that tells me to get my “wonderful” self lost so he can make his move.

Speaking of high school.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I promise, reaching for the front passenger door.

Royal blocks me with one massive hand. “That seat is occupied. Anyway, I need you on babysitting duty. On the way here, your friend tried to hug me from the back seat and nearly ran us off the road.”

My friend? But I nod and head to the back, climbing in beside my now-scowling charge. “What’s that look for?”

“I don’t need a damn babysitter,” he mutters petulantly.

“That’s a relief. I retired from that career over twelve years ago—the pocket change isn’t worth the pain and suffering.” I gird my loins and reach across his lap for the seatbelt. “Now let’s get you buckled in.”

His big hand cups the back of my head, holding me in place while he plays with my hair.

I clench my teeth to fight back a moan. He has to know what he’s doing, right? Has to know how I’m positioned? What this would look like to anyone watching?

He’s affectionate, remember? Even when he’s sober. It doesn’t mean anything.

I can’t resist looking down at the lap I’m hovering over, but what I see is just as confusing as it is arousing. Brendan’s dick is hard, long and perfectly outlined against the dark fabric of his dress pants. I mean, I knew he was built—six years is a long time to resist checking out your sexy friend’s junk, and I’m not vying for sainthood—but I’ve never had the opportunity to study it up close and in person before.

My ass clenches instinctively as I imagine what he would feel like inside me. I’ve bought a few dildos over the years for those times when my hand wasn’t getting the job done. And yes, most of them were used while thinking of him, and one might even be named Brendan Two. But the original is definitely thicker.

Did I mention he was hard?

Why is that happening? I could have sworn I’d heard drinking made it difficult to get it up.

It’s not about you. It can’t be. Seatbelt, asshole. Remember who he is.

Family. Friend. Heterosexual.

Off limits.

“I was looking forward to tonight,” Brendan says, completely oblivious to my silent perusal. “You and I haven’t been out in years.”

I was too. But there’s no way we can have a coherent conversation about anything right now, so I just buckle him up and put some much-needed distance between us instead.

“I remember the last time I took you out drinking,” he muses, eyes narrowed as if trying to focus on me. “You weren’t one full glass in before you started singing at the top of your lungs. I wish I’d recorded it. You know you made a few of the girls at that bachelorette party cry?”