Ryan laughed. “No, you don’t, Miss Mag. You gave me a job. I did it. You don’t get to check my work.”
Embarrassed, I rested my hand on the counter, knowing denial would increase my awkwardness. Brodan tossed a pair of tongs in Ryan’s direction. They clattered onto the granite, dinging and clanging the moment away from me.
“Shall we?” Brodan’s quiet voice, not harsh or sarcastic, sent a ripple down my spine filled with an awareness I couldn’t ignore.
Disconcerted at the lack of antagonism in his voice, I nodded, my vocal chords frozen.
Back to the stove, I pulled out the bread, wishing I could climb in and hide until I could calm myself down.
“Need a knife?” Brodan stood so close I could feel his warm breath caress my cheek. I almost screamed. I did, however, linger too long on the tinfoil, burning my fingers in the process.
“No, thank you. I precut the loaves so they’d heat faster.” I whipped my stinging digits in the air to cool them, adding. “But thank you.” Uncomfortable, I distanced myself from him to see the tools he’d retrieved for me.
Ryan joined us on our side of the counter, grumbling about starving and nobody caring.
I separated a heavy plate from its companions and thrust it at him with a smile. “Here, you big baby.” My giggle startled me.
Taking it with a grin, he almost passed me to start with the lasagna when I tugged on his shirt. “Oh, no you don’t. Start with the salad. I haven’t gotten that far.” Trading him directions, I returned to the charming dish with a deep, square-bowled scooping spatula.
Everything about the kitchen appealed to me—the floor, the counter space, the sinks for different uses, even the adorable utensils. The one I’d chosen—made of sturdy velvety silicone, would be in my own kitchen, if the set of three it came in didn’t have a price tag with three digits on it. I had the crazy idea I wouldn’t mind licking it clean. I’d be satisfied, I guess, to use it in my casserole dish—graze the sides and scrape the bottom.
“Okay, Ryan, bring your plate.” He appeared by my side before I could finish the sentence. Faced with his engaging smile, I gave in and smiled back.
Ryan, for a second, helped me forget about the tension binding Brodan and me together, the charged relationship between Dean’s memory and myself and family. He leaned over my shoulder and supervised the delivery of lasagna to his plate. “Couple more spoonfuls like that one and we’ll be halfway there.”
I chuckled, stopping after two. After handing him a plate, piled high with salad and pasta, I was surprised at his disappointed expression. “What’s the matter?”
“I was serious.” He nudged me out of the way and added three heaping spoonfuls to the pile. He grinned at my dubious expression and grabbed four thick-cut French bread chunks from the half-opened foil.
“What if you don’t like it?” I stared at the large pan. Nearly one-third of the lasagna had been depleted by just one man. Dean and I would take the dish to a party with twelve or so people and maybe half would remain.
“You better get your plate filled before he returns for seconds.” Brodan, standing beside me, spoke up. I had the sudden urge to slap him. I’d heard of undressing a person with one’s eyes but never foreplay via undertones.
I glanced at him. How could someone so cold mannered speak with such heat in their voice? “Do you want the same amount?” Disturbed by the meaning in his body language—something predatory I couldn’t put my finger on—I gestured toward dinner to cover a shiver.
By the drinks, Ryan poured himself a glass filled with milk.
Brodan glanced toward his brother also. “Thank you, but no. His metabolism runs a lot faster than mine. He eats close to eight times a day.” He returned his gaze to the lasagna. “One scoop will be plenty for now.”
I did my best to speed the process along. Thankfully, I didn’t drop any or mix the pasta with his salad. He followed Ryan’s example with the bread but tore only two from the package.
Unable to help myself, I stared after him until he reached the beverages. My gaze ran into Ryan’s and I blushed, caught in the act of staring at his brother. He grinned. Forced to divert my attention elsewhere, I had no other option but to hurry to fill my own plate and join them.
Ryan moved near the door to another room, waiting with a very small supply of patience in his tapping foot.
Shoving formality aside and feeling ravenous for the first time in over ten months, I added generous portions to my plate in quick succession. True, I’d been hungry before this meal—the debacle with the egg-salad sandwich still fresh in my mind. But even though I had little knowledge of these guys, I wouldn’t be sitting at my own table, alone, resigned to another dinner of canned spaghetti to fill my belly.
I couldn’t remember the last proper meal I’d made to feed someone beside myself or my mother—well before Dean died. Cooking for one left little to the imagination, a healthy ingredient necessary for success in the kitchen.
I selected a can of root beer.
Brodan had joined Ryan beside the door and regarded me with a touch more patience, or at least I imagined so. His face, sculpture smooth, held no trace of emotion. He just waited.
“Sorry,” I said, joining them.
“No problem. We can wait,” Ryan offered, able to be magnanimous since I’d finally ended his suffering.
I followed the brothers from the kitchen into a dimly lit room. Nervous to move farther from the door and chance crashing into something—or someone—I remained in the rectangle of light cast from the kitchen.
Shuffling and a clank from someone setting their plate and glass down came to me from farther than I’d expected. A click and lights chased the shadows from the room.
More splendor, simple and masculine, graced the whole area, top to bottom. Honey wood floors offset the cacao leather couches dispersed throughout the room in artful randomness. Thick cream rugs grew wherever they found a home and dark, rich wood contrived by hand into coffee tables and end stands fit into the room’s asymmetry.
I understood easily the placement of the furniture. With a TV covering half the wall, it didn’t matter where you sat, the actors would be sitting with you.
The room itself could eat my house for breakfast with a couch count totaling six, loveseats equaling four and about six recliners, all leather. Old-fashioned framed movie posters spotted the walls adjacent to the king-sized TV hanging from its throne.
“Mag, you wanna watch a movie and eat? Or would you rather eat in the dining room?”
“A movie sounds good.” I ventured into the room, attempting to keep my distance from anything breakable or stainable. Sometimes my clumsiness claimed lives.
“Sit wherever you’d like. Do you have a preference?” Ryan smiled at me. His plate and drink safe on a solid flat surface.
“A preference?” I passed my gaze around at the many seats to choose from.
“Yeah. What type of movie?” He motioned me to sit between him and his brother on the long couch up front in close proximity to a coffee table.
Any hope of maintaining some room between myself and the perplexing emotions Brodan stirred in me shriveled away. I’d be sitting on a couch in dangerous proximity to his muscular form and distracting features…
My appetite fell to the ground and rolled under a nearby chair.
Brodan’s gaze met mine. His well-formed lips curled in challenge, bolstering my courage, albeit mixed with a bit of rashness.
“I’m game for anything but chick flicks or movies with guns in them.” I stepped to the spot he’d indicated, ignoring Brodan. Well, pretending to ignore him while inhaling his cologne wafting suggestively over the scents of dinner.
“A girl who doesn’t prefer chick flicks? Nice.” Ryan moved to a large built-in shelf system hidden in the walls under paneling, pulled a movie from the vast collection and set it into the DVD player below the TV.
I half expected the lights to dim, pleased when they remained on and the volume on the st
ereo system stayed low enough to talk comfortably.
We sat on the firm couch. Brodan and Ryan pulled the table closer and we each set our plates before us.
“This looks good. What do you call it?” Ryan speared a forkful of salad but pointed toward the saucy, cheesy, lots-of-everything-but-pasta lasagna.
“Lasagna.” I used my fork to separate a bite from the pile on my plate. I knew the flavor to expect, but it’d been a while.
Ever the talker, Ryan spoke around his salad. “Maggie, this isn’t lasagna. Lasagna is supposed to have twenty-nine layers of noodles with tomato paste and a tiny bit of plastic on top.” He looked at his overloaded dish, overt suspicion painting his face. “If this is lasagna, what is that tripe you’ve been feeding me, Brodan?”
On my other side, Brodan’s silence ate at the air around me. The injustice hadn’t escaped me—my overawareness made up for his lack of interest, galling me to no end.
I forked another bite into my mouth.
Ryan studied me. Warily, he filled his fork and delivered the bite to his mouth. So easy to talk to and just hang with, perfect friend material. My guard lowered another notch around him. His brother, however, received extra shielding.
Ryan turned his attention toward me, shoveling another bite full into his already stuffed mouth. The delight on his face said all I needed to hear. I grinned in reply.
Suddenly shy, I turned to see if Brodan enjoyed the food I’d brought. For some reason, his opinion mattered. His expression told me very little. Desperate to know and feeling a bit like I begged for a compliment, I asked, “What do you think, Brodan?”
The saying “you win a man through his stomach” had never rung true to me. Dean had eaten and that’d been that. Brodan, however, nodded, the satisfaction clear in his gaze. I imagined a tenable truce remained between us, at least while he partook of that particular meal.
Satisfied I’d done my job, I ate in silence between them. Even Ryan was too busy eating to talk.
Halfway through my plate, Ryan left for the kitchen, returning with a brand-new pile of food. I’d seen him eat the previous plateful and his abandon on the second helping was amazing. He acted like he hadn’t eaten and was just then joining us.
Brodan ate at a more sedate pace.
Underway, the movie received very little attention. The volume was lower than the clinking from our forks on the plates.
Brodan disappeared to the kitchen a moment later, sticking his head back through the door to ask if I’d like anything. I blushed out a no-thank-you, nearly choking on the black olive and mushroom slice in my mouth.
The difference lasagna could make. I wished I’d thought further ahead and brought along dessert. Especially a frozen treat in the warm weather we’d been having. Maybe he’d rub my feet in exchange.
I smiled to myself, enjoying the crisp bread along with the path my mind had taken. A subservient Brodan didn’t exist, but the idea provoked possibilities.
Brodan returned with his plate filled once more. Silently, I wondered if any remained for Ryan to have thirds.
Coming up for air, Ryan set his fork on his slicked plate and leaned back into the couch with a loud sigh. “If I smoked, I’d be finishing with a cigar.” He patted his still-nonexistent stomach.
“I’m glad you liked it.” I too set my utensil onto an empty plate.
Brodan worked steadily in silence next to me.
“The movie already started. Should we start it over or try something else?” Ryan sighed again.
Between bites, Brodan further surprised me. “Ryan, pull out a card game or something. It’s nice outside. We could sit on the back deck.”
“Yeah, a game sounds fun.” I moved to pick up Ryan’s deserted dishes, asking before stacking them on my own, “Are you finished this time?”
He grinned, winking. “For now, thanks. I’ll grab a game. Any ideas?”
Leaving the brothers to discuss our options, I carried the empty plates into the kitchen. Yep, an olive and some baked-on cheese were the only evidence the pan had ever been full.
“Leave it. Let’s go play.” Ryan passed through the kitchen on his way to the glass doors leading outside.
Abandoning the dishes didn’t require much persuasion. I was all too willing to procrastinate cleaning up. Behind him, I came upon the view of the backyard bit by bit. When he slid the door open and stepped down onto the deck, his head and shoulders stopped blocking the entire picture.
I paused midstep, overwhelmed by more green hues and tones than I’d ever imagined possible.
Pine trees, willows, aspens and more I didn’t recognize forested the back area, sparsely at first and thickening farther from the thick, golf-course-style grass carpeting. Through a break in the trees I made out the glassy surface of water, its size lost behind the curtaining woods.
The sinking sun pushed the house’s shadow past the second wooden level.
The deck skirted the house, falling in a train blocked from the drive’s view. Set in four wide layers draping down a gentle slope, the first two bordered with built-in cushioned benches. Two steps separated the upper level from the consecutive level beneath it.
“Nice, huh?” Ryan reached out and tugged on my wrist. “Come on. This way.” He pulled me away from the Montana landscape pampered with money and talent toward a covered section furnished with wood tables and chairs. A fan hanging from the patio rafters stirred the evening breeze, cooling any lingering heat from the day.
Ryan directed me to an oversized Adirondack padded and cushioned enough to qualify as an easy chair. I sank in, amazed I could sit up to the table while being so comfortable.
“Brodan has a, shall we say, ‘thing’ for surrounding himself with beauty.” He sat across from me in a loveseat-size chair similar to mine. He glanced at the yard and back to the house. “The front part of the deck is all that remains from the original house. It burned down when he was in college.”
“Your parents did this? Why don’t they live here?” The table, worn smooth with artistic skill, had a charm all its own with knots and whorls patterned in lights and darks.
“Well, Mom and Brodan’s dad divorced when he was about three. She met my dad, had me, Dad left and she raised us in a house on the other side of town. Brodan’s dad owned this piece of land until he passed away a couple years before the fire. He left everything to Brodan.” He cut the story short when the door slid open and Brodan stepped out.
“Bro! We were just discussing how much you like beautiful things.” Brodan’s glower toward his brother changed the subject. Good to know he used it on other people as well. “Did you bring the cards?”
Brodan tossed the box onto the table, taking the seat at right angles to Ryan and me. “I thought you were supposed to get them.”
“Right.” Laughing, Ryan picked up the face cards, proceeding to shuffle the stack with the moves of a Las Vegas dealer. “Rummy? Five-card draw? Any favorites?” A rainbow arced between his fingers, the cards blurring in their choreographed dance.
Mesmerized, I failed to answer, listening instead to the soft slapping.
“Let’s play rummy. I left the chips inside.” Brodan tapped his finger on the tabletop, leaning back into a chair fitted similar to mine.
Ryan dealt the cards, stacking the rest between us.
Three games of rummy and an attempt at poker later, the sun’s light had faded. Brodan excused himself to turn on lights. Ryan lounged deeper in the cushions, his feet pulled up to the empty spot next to him. He stretched, yawning with a smile.
The chair’s comfort called to me. The fatigue crept through me and I relaxed deeper into the cushions.
Ryan drifted to sleep. A soft snore escaped him. I’d wanted to talk to him but the moment had seemed more appropriate for silence. Brodan returned minutes later, his arms laden with a tray filled with drinks and a cookie plate. Spying his brother, he chuckled. “Too much excitement for the day, huh?” He set the tray down to hand me a bottled sarsaparilla.
Brodan, noticing my glance, turned serious. “Are you interested in him?”
Taken aback, I stalled, drawing a long gulp from my drink.
Waiting for my response, he watched me while he too drank from his bottle.
Chill, Mag. The beverage’s sweet sting cold on my tongue. With feigned calmness, I set the drink down. “To be honest, I should be.”
Brodan arched his brow. I had the sudden urge to trace it with my finger. My reaction to his reaction rushed my explanation.
“He’s the exact opposite of my ‘type.’ He’s considerate, smart, funny, sweet and not wrapped up in himself.” I fiddled with the bottle’s neck. I glanced at him, his other brow arched to match the first. “What? Do you think it’s stupid I’m normally attracted to men like you? Dean taught me the difference between the two types. I’m not falling for it again.”
Angry with the words I’d allowed to escape, irritated with the man I’d all but confessed my attraction to, and disgruntled I’d spoken about Dean, I grabbed my root beer, strangling the bottle while I chugged its contents into oblivion. Oh, how I longed to go home.
Holding an empty container, I looked around at the night closing in. I realized I’d just told him he’s my type, the opposite of Ryan, and made him sound stupid, dull, rude and egotistical. I’d insulted the man. No wonder he hadn’t responded.
“Look. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to say you aren’t nice or whatever, I’m just—”
“No. It’s fine.” His jaw set tight, squaring his features and exaggerating the fullness of his bottom lip.
Discomfited with my crassness, I chose my words with care, placing my hands in my lap. “No, it’s not ‘fine.’ I’m sorry.” I met his gaze. “I didn’t think through what I’d said. If I had, I wouldn’t be apologizing. But—” I waved my hand toward myself, “—I am because it’s not exactly what I meant. Ryan’s like the little brother I never had. He’s fun and easygoing. I like that. But no, I’m not interested in more than friendship with anyone.”
Breathe Again Page 6
