She shook off the pang of guilt. Tough. Patrick was getting increasingly terse whenever she brought up Brandon, as if he had to clamp down on everything in his head and heart in order to control his response. When he wasn"t actively distracted by something or someone, he was either pacing or staring off into space. He"d never run scared from anything in his life. It was just plain crazy that he was running from his own best friend. She kept hoping he"d snap out of it, but so far he hadn"t shown any sign of getting a grip.
Dinner preparations were well underway when the doorbell rang. Farley was apoplectic as he wriggled and danced in the front hall. Taking a deep breath, she plastered a smile on her face, used a knee to keep Farley in the house and pulled open the door. She was going to ask why Brandon hadn"t used his own key, but the words got caught in her throat.
Brandon stood in the fading light, his smile sad, as beautiful as ever. Maybe more.
He wore his thirties well, turning a face that had been almost too pretty on a teenager into one more traditionally handsome. The high cheekbones and sculpted lips looked more masculine and comfortable with crow"s feet and smile lines to keep them company. His bright-green eyes were still startling, but his light blond hair had faded from cornsilk ringlets to soft honey curls.
She could probably spend hours just staring at him. She had on more than one occasion in the past. But perhaps now wasn"t the time.
“Hi. I"m so glad you"re here,” she said, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing a smacking kiss to his cheek. When she would have stepped back, his arms banded around her waist, lifting her right off the stoop and against his chest, her feet dangling above the painted planks of the creaky old front porch. He was a wall of warm, hard muscle. She fought the urge, as she had many times in the past, to writhe against him like a happy cat.
She couldn"t help the spread of arousal, like warm syrup in her veins. She wanted to purr when he tucked his face against her neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin.
27
Samantha Wayland
“I am having the worst fucking week.” His voice was hoarse, his breath warm where it sighed over her skin. Her heart twisted.
“I know, baby. I"m so sorry.” Running a hand through his hair, she hugged him close before nudging him to put her down. She led him back to the kitchen with his hand in hers.
She"d no sooner tucked him into his chair in the breakfast nook and returned to the oven to check on dinner when the front door opened, then slammed shut.
“Hey, Kitten! Where are you?” Patrick called out as he walked through the door.
He"d known she"d be waiting for him when he got home and it felt good. The big, old house got lonely sometimes.
There was a beat of silence before Destiny responded from the kitchen. “Back here.” She sounded cheerful. Overly cheerful, actually.
Then he heard the murmur of a deep voice and knew immediately what she"d done. He was in denial but he wasn"t stupid, damn it. He loved Destiny, really he did, but later he was going to have a serious conversation with her about butting her nose into other people"s business.
Bracing himself, he strode toward the kitchen, coming to an abrupt halt in the doorway. Brandon sat at the kitchen table, the same kitchen table Patrick and Destiny had made love on the day he"d moved into the house and god help him, his imagination immediately started conjuring images that made his knees weak.
Jesus Christ, he needed to get a handle on himself.
Brandon, damn him, appeared to be relaxed, leaning back in the chair he"d sat in a thousand times before, one hand resting casually on the table top, the other in his pocket.
Patrick wasn"t fooled. Brandon had to be pissed.
Brandon nodded once, speaking softly. “Hey, Patrick.” His feet were glued to the floor. “Brandon.”
“I hope it"s okay. Destiny invited me to dinner.”
“Sure, why wouldn"t it be okay?” he asked, forcing a smile and jerking his body into motion. Nerves were going to eat him alive. He wasn"t nearly as good at playing it cool as Brandon was.
Snagging a beer from the fridge, he popped the top and chugged half of it before swinging around to face Brandon. “Beer?”
“Sure.”
He grabbed another, opened it and turned to pass it to Brandon. Brandon reached out, still as calm as a lake on a clear morning, the bastard, and wrapped his long, lean fingers around the bottle. Their warmth brushed along Patrick"s skin and he jumped, the beer bottle slipping from his grasp and Brandon"s before plunging to the floor. With a hard knock and a spin, beer spewed everywhere.
28
Destiny Calls
“Shit!” Patrick jumped back as the jet of foam soaked his shoes. Christ, he hadn"t been this nervous since the night he"d kissed Destiny for the first time. Even then he"d been able to hold his shit together better than this and he"d been a teenager. Grabbing a wad of paper towels from the counter, he knelt to sop up the mess.
Brandon, a bunch of napkins from the holder on the kitchen table in hand, came toward him. “Here, let me help.”
Brandon was close. Too close. Patrick didn"t think before he swiped the napkins out of Brandon"s hand. He needed some space, goddamn it. “I got it. Thanks.” Brandon crouched down beside him, their thighs brushing,
