The Secret (Winslow Brothers 3)

I knew I was a little off-kilter, but apparently it’s worse than I thought. Fuck, man, get it together.

“Work is good. Good group of students this year. Even a couple who aren’t taking my class just to get the course credit.”

“They’ll get over that by the end of the semester.”

A soft chuckle jumps from my throat. “Screw you.”

“I’m just saying…I can’t believe you somehow conned your way into a tenured position at a prestigious university. You. The guy who dipped his cock in green paint for Saint Patrick’s Day when he was thirty-five years old.”

“Hey, that was a one-time deal, and it wasn’t paint. It was edible candy coating, and if you’d experienced what I had as a result, you sure as fuck wouldn’t be making fun of me.” To an outsider, it might sound like we’re having a squabble. But for me, falling into the easy rhythm of shit-talking each other is oddly comforting. For the first time tonight, I’m feeling a little bit like myself.

“You really are disturbing on so many levels. No wonder you haven’t settled down with a woman. They’re generally looking for men at this age.”

“You haven’t settled down either, you bastard.”

“Yeah. By choice. You hold America’s Next Girlfriend auditions every moment of your waking life.”

“I keep the company of women because it’s better than not keeping the company of women. I’m not auditioning anyone for shit.”

Though, technically, you haven’t kept any company for over a month…

My brain wants to pause on that thought, really fixate on the fucker, but Rem’s next question brings me back to the present.

“You don’t want to find someone like Jude and Flynn?”

An image of Rachel slipping into her panties in front of me this afternoon flashes through my memory, singeing my brain at the edges and allowing the discomfort of a few minutes ago right back in. My stomach turns and my pulse elevates, and I have to wipe a nonexistent bead of sweat off my brow just to give my shaky hand something to do.

Rachel’s panty tease was hot as hell, sure, but why am I thinking of it right now? When Remy’s asking me about settling down, for fuck’s sake. It’s not like it meant anything. It was just taking our game to the next level. That’s it.

“Helloooo…earth to Ty.”

I blink to glance over at Remy, and he’s looking at me funny.

“What?”

“What is with you tonight? When’s the last time you got laid, bro? Don’t tell me you’ve already managed to run your dick through all five boroughs.”

I open my mouth to answer with any number of pithy comebacks I know are waiting to be used in the back of my mind, and none of them step forward. All I can think about is how much I don’t want a random girl from the rolodex. Or any random woman, for that matter. All I can think about is how badly I want to get laid—by one specific person.

Remy’s forearms release completely, laying the menu on the table and crossing his arms over his chest. He knows something is up, and I’ll be damned if I get out of here without at least pretending to get a problem off my chest.

Shit. How am I supposed to come up with something to play this off when I’m barely even functioning on a basic level? Would I be better off just giving him a glimpse?

I could just skim over the details, give Rem a little insight into the scrambled eggs in my head. Maybe it’d actually help to get some of it out there. To word vomit some of the sexual tension just to evacuate it from the confines of my body.

“I don’t need to get laid,” I murmur easily enough, adding, “I think it’s the opposite problem, actually.”

He laughs. “What? You’re getting laid too much? Surely that can’t be right.”

“No.” I chuckle a little and shake my head. “Wanting to get laid with the wrong person, is all.”

The waiter approaches the table then, interrupting at quite possibly the most inopportune time. Remy’s chuckle is annoying, and I can’t tell him to go fuck himself with a knife in front of a stranger. I mean, even brotherly shit-talking has its boundaries. Namely, not getting the police called on one or both of us.

Remy orders first, his laughter continuing to roll around in his throat the whole time, and I glare at him with rays as powerful as the sun. He’s immune to their strength, though, as I suppose any eldest sibling of five would be.

The waiter turns his attention to me, and I rattle off my standing order out of pure habit. “An order of shrimp cocktail to start, and a ten-ounce rib eye, medium, crab cake combo, with mixed vegetables and risotto on the side. Oh, and a Guinness.”

The waiter nods and scribbles, smiling briefly before walking away and leaving Remy and me to fuck with each other again.