Giving It All

by Christi Barth

  “Them? You think they’ve never heard of sex? This is D.C., not the Small World ride at Disney World.” Logan tipped back his head and shouted “Sex!” at the bright blue July sky.

  To his point, the men didn’t even pause in their conversation. But Brooke spun in a circle, checking to see if anyone else had noticed besides the two seagulls that squawked as they flapped away.

  “Now you’re just trying to embarrass me.”

  “Yeah. It’s fun to watch your cheeks try to match your hair.”

  Aack. The curse of being a redhead. Her every emotion could be read from her skin tone. “Now you’re embarrassing me even more.”

  The smirk dropped off his face, replaced by a frown. “If anyone in this conversation gets to be embarrassed, it’s me. The twenty-seven-year-old loser sporting the shiner.”

  Finally. “I’m so glad you brought it up. I’ve been dying to ask. Does it hurt?”

  “Yeah. Funny, you always forget how much a sock in the eye hurts until it happens again. I don’t think I’ve had a black eye since college.” And he did look embarrassed at the fact. Like a puppy caught ripping through a roll of toilet paper.

  Brooke stood on tiptoe to press a gentle kiss just beyond the fresh bruising. “You poor thing. Did you get mugged?”

  “Nope.” Logan grabbed her hand, rubbed his thumb over the back of it, and gave her a full hit of those liquid gold eyes. “Now can I read my thank-you card?”

  “You’re not getting this until you’ve seen the last of me.” Stuffing it back into her bag for safekeeping, Brooke continued, “I’ll take it home, put a stamp on it, and send it to you. Suffice it to say that our fling was exactly the kick in the pants I needed to get back to normal.”

  “Are you telling me that the version of you I was with in Dominica was substandard? Because I don’t know if I could handle any more perfection.”

  Brooke rolled her eyes. There was charm, and then there was laying it on like a fresh coat of sticky asphalt. “I’ll bet people all the way down in Arlington could smell that line.”

  “You lobbed me a softball. What was I supposed to do? Not hit it out of the park?”

  Oh. Oh. It hit her that Logan wasn’t flirting. He was evading. Distracting her from the very simple question she’d put to him. “Now you’re the one dodging like a prizefighter. Which is the perfect segue back to…how’d you get the black eye?”

  “Got in a fight,” he said tersely.

  Logan had been nowhere but airports and cramped planes since he left her. It didn’t make sense. “Over what—who got the last bag of pretzels on your flight? Tell me.”

  With a sigh, he went back to leaning against the tree. Then he just let gravity win and slid down its length until his butt landed on his heels. “I realized that I didn’t have Madison’s address. And that, coincidentally, the Naked Men podcast was going down. I went to the station to see my friends and get her contact info.”

  “That’s an itinerary. Not an explanation.”

  “It is, actually. The fight was with Knox.”

  “No. Way.” On the island, he’d told her that they’d never had a real fight before. Going straight to fisticuffs was a huge deal. Overachiever.

  “Hey, he threw the first punch. I just defended myself.”

  Brooke hitched up her dress to kneel on the grass next to him. “I know that you’re mad at him, but Knox is your best friend. Why did anyone throw a punch?”

  He closed his eyes. Tipped his head back. “We had a serious difference of opinion.”

  “Your first hour back?” Talk about horrific timing. It was just bad form to jump all over someone with jet lag. Who was clearly too exhausted to be responsible for anything he said. Men. They had a tendency to be so clueless about dealing with anything that ran deeper than face value.

  “Yeah. I made a one hundred percent justifiable assumption. It turned out to be whack-ass wrong. But Knox didn’t explain that until it was too late. Didn’t cut me any slack, either.”

  Brooke put a hand on his big biceps. “That’s horrible.”

  “I agree.”

  “Were the rest of the ACSs there? Was it an all-out brawl?”

  “Nope.” He shrugged the opposite shoulder. “I mean, they were there. But nobody jumped in to take my side.”

  Wow. Brooke’s protective instincts flooded outrage through her system. They hadn’t treated him right. They hadn’t treated their brother in all but name, who’d been gone for months, right at all. She wanted to run down to that studio and give them all the lecture on loyalty they so clearly needed. “No wonder you haven’t gone in the house yet.”

  Logan flopped his wrists over his knees. “I’m working up to it.”

  Okay. This was probably crazy. And it would only make her very-much-rekindled crush on the sexy man even harder to shake off once she moved. But Brooke decided to go with her gut. “No, you’re not.” She stood up and offered him a hand. “You’re coming home with me.”

  That popped his eyes back open. “I am?”

  “You’re exhausted. A wreck. The last thing you need is to get into a confrontation with the man who just beat you up, or with the others who stood by and watched him do it.”

  He took her hand and lithely rose. “Let’s be clear. Knox didn’t beat me up. We each got in a good hit. No winner, no loser.”

  “Of course.” It was adorable the way he was both defending his honor and still defending his best friend. Logan Marsh—loyal to the nth degree. Honorable. Nope, he hadn’t changed a bit since high school. Except that all of his good qualities—muscles included—had strengthened. Been honed.

  Logan grabbed his duffel. But then his grip tightened on her hand. “I’m four days past tired. Not fit to be around anyone. You sure you want to do this?”

  Oh, yes. The certainty that she wanted Logan in her house, receiving badly needed TLC from her, was immutable. In fact, Brooke was certain that she wanted to spend as much time with Logan as possible before she left. Or he left. The time she’d spent with him had been so fantastic for her. He’d brought her true self back to the surface. More of him could only be good for her. With the added bonus of those drugging, totally addictive kisses.

  “I’m positive.”

  Chapter 8

  Brooke didn’t know what to say as the elevator whisked them up to her apartment. It was the middle of a Sunday. In her occasional teenage fantasies of sneaking Logan into her bedroom, it had never been in broad daylight. People in her downtown Bethesda building were still walk-of-shaming it back from late brunch. That, or heading out to the gym to sweat off the Saturday night indulgences.

  Nobody brought home a hot guy in the middle of the day. What were the two of them supposed to do in her mostly packed-up apartment, anyway? Protectiveness had made her insist on getting Logan away from his adult frat house. Logic, however, was just coming on shift. And it was using a spear tipped with razor-sharp reason to poke holes in her impetuous invite.

  Logic said the more time they spent together, the more complicated everything would get. Logic said she shouldn’t entangle herself in this massive emotional turmoil vortex swirling in the weird triangle formed by Logan, his best friends, and his unknown sister.

  Logic’s spear, however, couldn’t get all the way through the thick layer of lust surrounding Brooke’s heart. Well, her heart and…other more pertinent places. She peeked sideways at him. At the exhausted slump of his shoulders. At the swelling over his eye. Then she rocked back on her heels to peek at that amazingly tight ass.

  Logic could just sit on the sidelines for a day or so.

  “This is weird,” Logan said.

  Thank goodness he felt it, too. “Omigosh, I know. Right?”

  With a discernible crack, his neck swiveled toward Brooke. “I meant letting someone take care of me. Because I’m a guy. And all grown up. Why is it weird for you?”

  “Oh. Um. No, I was just agreeing with you.” Thankfully the doors whooshed open. Brooke hustled out with her s
uitcase before he could ask her anything more. “I’m down here on the right. Halfway between the elevator and the trash chute.”

  “Best seat in the house,” he said dryly.

  “Hey, not all of us have butlers to do our dirty work,” she teased. Brooke had been flabbergasted to discover the guys had a butler at their house. Sure, they were pretty much swimming in trust funds. But it seemed weird for people under thirty to have something so Regency and somber-sounding. Even if he had opened the door for their famous Fourth of July party shirtless beneath his Uncle Sam suspenders.

  On the other hand, an enormous ex-rectory filled with five men who had demanding careers didn’t run itself. Butler, den mother, executive assistant—whatever the title, they undoubtedly needed help coordinating the groceries, the calendars…and, yes, strategically walking Josh’s hookup du jour down the front stairs while Knox’s second dessert of the evening went up the back stairs.

  Logan’s hand gently bumped hers off of the suitcase handle. Geez, even injured, he still insisted on being the gentleman. It wasn’t just impressive. His manners, the tiny attentions he paid Brooke, were as droolworthy as his six-pack abs.

  “Jerry isn’t a butler,” he insisted as he effortlessly carried both their bags down the hallway. “He doesn’t stand around in tails and a bow tie. Heck, he was a linebacker before he blew out his knee in his first season of the pros. I don’t even think he could fit into a tux.”

  Brooke pulled her keys from her purse. And decided to push Logan on this a little bit more, because his discomfiture with his butler’s job title was adorable. “So what is he? Because he introduced himself to me as the butler last time I was at your house.”

  “He’s a guy who was down on his luck. We hired him to clean up our yard, and he ended up staying to clean up our lives. But I hate butler. It’s pretentious as fuck.”

  She bit back a gurgle of laughter as she pushed open the door. “What would you prefer?”

  “I don’t know. I’m barely there to worry about it. It’s too long to fit on a business card, but Jerry just makes our house work.”

  “I sort of think house worker makes him sound like he’s the pimp at a brothel. But maybe I have a dirty mind.”

  “Feel free to exercise it around me anytime.” He let out a long, low whistle as he hip-checked the door shut. “Wow.”

  Brooke knew his surprise wasn’t at the stacked-three-high packing boxes along the walls. Or at how empty her tabletops and shelves were, due to the aforementioned packed boxes. One thing, and one thing alone, engendered pretty much the same reaction of everyone who stepped foot into her apartment.

  “If you were trying to find a polite way to ask if the entire city of Paris threw up in here, don’t bother. I’m well aware.”

  Logan set their bags next to the white bookcase with filigreed cutouts. Walked toward the black-and-white-striped curtains that swooped more than the main drop at the Kennedy Center. Or a circus. Ran his hand along the brushed pink velvet of her couch. Gaped at the black lacquer cabinet with a marble top, which looked as if it’d been swiped right off the bar of a bistro. “If you love Paris this much, why’d you vacation in the Caribbean?”

  “I don’t. I love my parents this much.”

  “Your parents don’t live here with you.”

  It was a dead tie as to which of them looked more horrified at the idea. “Nope, this is a one-bedroom. Mom wouldn’t survive a summer without the chance to wale on Dad on their tennis court every night. He went through three different pros last year, and his backhand got worse, if anything.”

  Logan pointed at the ornate gilt mirror over the couch. Swept his arm left to include the multitiered crystal chandelier. “Explain.”

  “Mom wanted to buy me a house. For my twenty-fifth birthday.”

  “Really? Guess I was a chump when I asked for new ski boots. Should’ve set my sights about three-fifty thou higher.”

  “She’s not thrilled that I support myself on my teacher’s salary.” Which was the most candy-coated way of describing how her mother complained and moaned and poked and prodded about the state of this apartment at least once a month.

  “It is a job underpaid by about a zillion percent. Teenagers are all hormonal and loud and a pain in the ass.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly how I remember you back in the day.” They grinned at each other, right back in lockstep like always. “Mom worries that I’m slumming it.”

  “In a Bethesda high-rise with a security desk?”

  “Yes.” Brooke pointed at the sofa. Logan had to be at the end of his rope, because he sank onto it without either pause or protest. “That I’ll never keep the right friends or attract the perfect man in my ‘drab cell of an apartment.’ ”

  “These are sweet digs. Color scheme aside, of course. Your mom’s off her rocker.”

  “I think the words you’re skirting are pretentious snob. Which isn’t news. The thing is, I know she means well. I know that deep down Mom truly believes my future happiness is negatively impacted by my twelve-hundred-square-foot abode. So I concentrate on the part where she worries because she loves me. And I ignore the part about how shallow and judgmental she is.”

  Logan flung an arm across his forehead. “Lots of people couldn’t segment their feelings like that. Only focus on the good and push aside the bad.”

  “Maybe I should give you lessons. To help you deal with your father and his big bad.” Brooke meant the offer as a joke. Too late, she realized what a mistake she’d made bringing up the volatile subject. The whole point of Logan coming here was to relax him, not get him riled again.

  To her relief, he snorted in amusement. “Couldn’t hurt.”

  Whew. Aside from the whole fistfight-with-Knox episode, Logan was still even-tempered. A man who preferred to float calmly above perceived slights or snits or dramas. Quite the useful talent back in high school—and it would serve him well working his way through the currently messed-up state of his family dynamic.

  Brooke toed off her shoes and hurried into the kitchen. Her days often ran late, with cheerleading practice after school, and then chatting with whoever stuck around afterward. Stir-fries were quick and easy to throw together when she got home. Bags of frozen peppers, broccoli, and, yes, peas filled her freezer in readiness. She’d just honestly never planned to grab one to use on a black eye.

  Brooke wrapped it in a towel. Grabbed the ibuprofen from the kitchen cabinet and two ginger ales from the fridge. “The bottom line is that Mom cares. I’m glad she cares, even if she has a funny way of showing it. So after I turned down the house, she countered with an offer to decorate my place. It seemed the lesser of two evils. Every birthday, she does another room.”

  “All Parisian? Or is there a whole globe-trotting thing going on? Woks on the kitchen walls with a rice paddy painted on the floor? Tower of London in the bedroom?”

  “Well, I thought about it, but I got worried their ravens would peck at me in my sleep,” Brooke deadpanned.

  Logan high-fived her as she neared the couch. “Nice.” Then he spotted the bottle of ibuprofen in her hand and all but snatched it from her.

  “They’re not candy, Logan. No more than four.” She uncapped the soda, knowing full well he’d dry swallow the pills given half a chance. It earned her a glare. But he still glugged back half the bottle to wash them down, so she counted it as a win. “Scoot over.”

  She sat in the corner of the couch, and then pulled him over until he lay with his head in her lap and his filthy boots hanging over the opposite arm. Thinking of how her mom’s decorator would absolutely freak out if she saw those boots near the pink velvet made Brooke smile. Okay, maybe it actually felt more like an evil smirk. A promise had already been extracted—with much care taken not to hurt any feelings—from her mother not to have a decorator touch Brooke’s new place in North Carolina.

  “Now what?” Logan asked.

  Instead of answering, Brooke simply ran her fingertips across the crown of his hea
d in a soft caress. The first pass fluttered his eyes shut. The second one extracted a soft moan of pleasure from him. By the fifth time, as she settled into a pattern, Logan finally let go. The stiffness in his muscles melted, and she could see his body sink lower into the cushions.

  “Holy shit, that’s good, Brooke.”

  “I’m glad you like it.” Not that keeping up the soothing rhythm was any hardship on her part. Brooke loved the feel of his broad shoulders pushing against her thigh. Loved gliding her fingers through the softness of his thick brown hair. Didn’t mind at all getting to stare down at the sharp planes of his handsome face. Relaxed. Unguarded. Very much the way she remembered him from high school. Without all the adult responsibility hardening his expression.

  “Why would anyone ever leave this position?” he murmured.

  “Oh, they all find a way,” Brooke said dryly. Not that she minded. All her boyfriends had been nice, at the time, but nothing more than that. There’d been no great love of her life that she still pined after. Although right now the thought of Logan walking back out of her life by the end of the day was a pretty hard pill to swallow.

  “Idiots.” He flopped down his arm to curl his warm palm around her calf. “Did you stroke their heads like this? Or have you just discovered this witchcraft?”

  Good grief. It wasn’t a move from the lost second volume of the Kama Sutra. “Logan. I’m happy that I can make you feel even a modicum better. But come on—someone must’ve done this for you before.”

  “Huh-uh. I’d remember. The same way I remember my first blow job.”

  Ooh. The chance to get some dirt…even if it was more than a decade old. “Was it Kate Dochinger? I heard a rumor that she could suck the skin off a kiwi.”

  Pursing his lips, Logan let out a low whistle. “Man. Girls are brutal.”

  “Is that a denial?”

  Logan wriggled a little to look up at her. “Did you go to our ten-year reunion?”

  “Of course. I work at our alma mater. Kind of hard not to be in the loop. Unlike you, who sent the lame old excuse of being on another continent or something.”