This might be a little inappropriate, but one of my brothers was KNOWN for hanging out in his room as a teenager, stroking things . . . if you catch my drift. So one day, my other brothers (when our parents were gone, of course) staged a fake fire while he was doing the dirty with his hand. We screamed in the kitchen that there was a fire, had the smoke alarms going off, and waited as our brother came flying down the stairs in his boxers, sporting a boner. The look of mortification is something I will never forget. Easily my favorite memory.
This reminds me, I should probably bring up that moment with my brothers again. It’s been a while since I have.
Sending Hugs,
YSPP
Chapter Eleven
BRIG
Brig: Remember the time Reid came flying down the stairs in nothing but boxers and a boner?
Griffin: Oh fuck, that was one of my favorite days of all time.
Rogan: Why do I envision the tenting so well?
Reid: Probably because you lesser men admired the tenting. #DaddyBigCock
Griffin: Don’t call yourself that.
Rogan: That was douchey.
Brig: Total douche.
Griffin: Then again, wouldn’t expect anything less from Reid. He’s always been the biggest douche in town.
Rogan: Bigger than Tracker, you think?
Brig: Tracker isn’t a douche, he’s a player.
Reid: I’m not a douche.
Griffin: Have you ever read the word douche too many times and want to add a KER to it? Like . . . ker-douche.
Rogan: No
Reid: Not once.
Brig: All the time. Ker-douche. Ker-douche. Ker-douche.
Rogan: Why do I say that out loud and think of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang?
Reid: I just said it out loud multiple times and thought the same thing.
Brig: Don’t bring Chitty into this. He does not deserve to be compared with a douche.
Jen: Do you know who’s a douche? That creepy toy-loving, twinkle-toes king. What a whack job.
Griffin: Never liked the guy.
Rogan: Who did?
Brig: Reid liked him.
Griffin: And that’s why Reid is a douche.
Brig: I love it when things come full circle.
Reid: Let me guess . . . makes your nipples hard?
Brig: Not as hard as your dick during the epic Knightly Kitchen Fire.
Griffin: Now it’s full circle.
Brig: *Old lady dance flossing GIF*
Rogan: *Monica Gellar bouncing beaded hair off breasts GIF*
Griffin: *Ron Swanson dancing into office GIF*
Jen: *SNL Target Lady raising the roof GIF*
Reid: *Will Smith scratching head while flipping the bird GIF*
* * *
“Hey Mom,” I say, walking into my childhood kitchen and planting a kiss on her cheek. “Smells good.” I look over her shoulder into the pot of my dad’s famous chili. “Does he know you’re touching it?”
“No, and you better not tell him.”
Chuckling, I ask, “Where is the old man?”
“Bathroom.” I watch as she secretly adds a few more dashes of onion powder into the mix and gives it a stir.
“Does he know you do that?”
“What do you think?” my mom asks, stepping away and acting as if she didn’t just toy with my dad’s prize-winning chili.
“Do you do that every time?”
She raises a brow and says, “Behind every great man is an even better woman, adding onion powder when the man is too stubborn to admit it’s needed.”
I let out a barrel of a laugh just as my dad walks into the kitchen. “Brig, how are you?”
“Good, Dad, how are you?”
“Feeling pretty great. Rogan was telling me about all the help you’ve been offering Ruth from Snow Roast. Awfully kind of you.” He wiggles his eyebrows.
“Oh my, is there something going on I don’t know about?” Mom asks just as Rogan and Harper step inside from the deck.
“Nothing’s going on, but we’re friends. She’s my work neighbor and she’s trying to do all the renovations herself. Didn’t feel right knowing she was over there tearing up the floor alone.”
“Oh, you’re talking about Ruth,” Rogan says. “Did Brig tell you he’s running with her every morning? Been at it for a week now, right?”
“She’s stressed. Thought it would help her.”
Joining in, Harper says, “I caught Brig staring at her boobs the other day at Snow Roast after one of their runs.”
“Brig,” my dad says sharply. “We don’t stare at breasts unless they belong to us. I married your mother, therefore I get to stare at her boobs whenever I want. But you need to put a ring on it first.”
“I wasn’t staring at her boobs,” I say, even though I know it’s a lie.
“I have photographic evidence,” Harper says, with a pop of her hip.
“Ugh, fine, I might have been staring, but they were all glistening, and those bras she wears . . . hell, they make her boobs all perky. Anyway, it’s hard not to stare, okay?”
“I don’t have a problem with it,” Rogan says with a smirk.
“That’s because you already have a pair to stare at.” I point to Harper.
“Still can resist.”
“Whatever,” I say like a petulant child, as I grab a can of Sprite from the fridge and head to the table. “Are we going to plan out this rehearsal dinner or what?”
“Not quite yet,” Mom says, leaning against the kitchen counter. “I want to know more about this relationship with Ruth. I always thought you two would be the perfect couple.” Wait . . . what? Since when—
“I think everyone in town thinks that,” Rogan mutters while taking a seat.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” Rogan says while Harper elbows him in the arm.
“Wouldn’t they be cute together?” Mom asks Dad.
He’s busy stirring his chili when he says, “Yeah, sure. They’re wonderful.”
My mom waves at my dad, dismissing him. “Have you asked her out?”
“What? No.” I shake my head. “She’s my friend, Mom. Plus, I’m sort of seeing someone.”
Rogan snorts and Harper elbows him again.
“I am.”
“Are you?” Rogan asks. “If you’re seeing someone, tell me what she looks like.”
“Oh yes, do you have a picture?” Mom asks with excitement. “It’s been so long since you’ve dated. I’m glad you’re finally at it again.”
“I don’t have a picture.” I clear my throat. “I don’t technically know who she is.”
“What?” Mom asks as Dad hums about his cornbread being the best cornbread there is. “How do you not know who she is?”
Hating the giant smirk on Rogan’s face—this was his idea anyway—I say, “It’s a program Mrs. Davenport created called the Summer of Love. Basically, people applied, she matched them up, and we send letters to each other. I don’t know who she is, but after a week of letters, I can already feel myself getting captivated by her.”
Insane, I know, but sometimes when you know, you know. I can feel my mind maturing, because I’ll do everything in my power to hold on to this, to nurture it, and make sure I bring this relationship to life. I’ve never felt this before.
And then I’ll be cured.
No one can stop our relationship morphing from letter writing into a true, full-fledged relationship. SPP is my future, thank fuck. There is no way I can fail. No way she won’t be mine.
“What if it’s Walter tricking you again?”
“I asked Mrs. Davenport if the girl was real. She said very much real and that she actually lives here in Port Snow. She said she shouldn’t have told me that, but she was so excited about our match. It gave me relief, knowing she’s a real person and I’m not being tricked.”
“Oh how exciting. I wonder who it could be.” Mom taps her chin. “Maybe Mrs. Farrel’s granddaughter. She
moved here for the summer and is considering staying to help out at the gas station.”
“She has a granddaughter?” I ask as Harper and Rogan whisper to each other. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but they’re making a big enough deal to distract me. “Care to share?” I ask.
Harper looks up, guilt laced in her eyes. “Nope.”
Sitting taller in my chair, I say, “Do you know something?”
“No,” she says way too quickly.
“You do know something.” I’m practically out of my seat now. “What do you know, Harper?”
“Nothing.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “And I would appreciate it if you didn’t interrogate me. I’m sensitive with all the wedding planning. The last thing I need is a little brother asking me questions. Now, can we please focus on the rehearsal dinner, the reason we’re here?”
I don’t believe her.
Not one bit.
She’s hiding something, and I’m bound and determined to figure it out.
“Fine, we can get on with the rehearsal dinner, but you’re not off the hook. I’ll be figuring out what you’re hiding from me.”
“Good luck,” Rogan says and pulls out a notebook from his back pocket. “Let’s get on with it.”
* * *
“What the hell, Ruth?” I say when I walk inside the Parlor and see the walls completely covered in the white paint we picked out yesterday. “I thought I was going to help you.”
She sets down a roller and wipes the back of her hand over her forehead, brushing away some loose hairs. “I got a jump start and then just thought I would do the whole thing. Wasn’t bad.”
“Did you prime?”
She gives me a get real look. “Of course I primed.”
“How on earth did you do it all without me?”
“I’m not incapable, Brig.”
“That’s obvious.” I sigh, looking over all her work. “I’m sad.”
“Sad?” she asks, brushing her hands off on her shorts, and that’s when I catch those denim shorts again. Although, her legs are more toned from our morning runs. “Why are you sad, Brig?” She goes over to the register countertop and pulls out a tray of sandwiches from underneath. “Don’t be sad when I have things for you to taste test.”
That’s one way to perk me up.
“Are you serious?” I ask, far too excited.
“Yeah, it’s why I got this done ahead of time. I wanted to surprise you, to spend the rest of the day going over samples of what I’ll be serving. Heard you’re a sucker for pastries.”
“Are you saying there’s more than just sandwiches hidden under the counter?”
“Possibly.” She eyes me playfully. “Are you still sad?”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “Not even a little. You can paint all you want. Give Daddy the goods.”
“Oh my God, please don’t ever call yourself that.” She chuckles and moves to the back room where she brings out two chairs and a folding table.
“What’s this?” I ask, watching as she creates a cute dining set for us. Not speaking a word, she moves back to the counter, pulls out a tablecloth and sets it on the table, followed by a bud vase with a single wildflower in it. Teacups, dainty plates, and a thermos are added to the table next. When she’s done, she looks at her display in appreciation and then back at me.
“Care to join me?”
“Fuck yeah.” I take a seat and try not to knock the table with my legs as I get comfortable.
She takes a seat as well, unveils the sandwiches and starts divvying them up.
After our run, I spent all morning helping my parents with some projects around the house while the boys took care of the garage. At this point, I don’t do much work there unless I want to. I expected to come to the Parlor and paint, not sit across from Ruth and taste test sandwiches, but I’ll tell you right now, I’m not mad about it.
“How do you have time to do it all?”
“Woke up early, did some things before our run.”
“So you’re trying to tell me you’re superwoman?”
“Maybe.” She smirks, glancing at me for a second so I can catch the smile in her eyes.
It’s endearing . . . charming.
There’s something about Ruth that I can’t quite figure out. Something . . . I like. Her naturally blonde hair looks silky soft, the cute slope in her nose highlights a light splattering of freckles under her eyes, and her lips . . . they’re, hell, they’re full and pouty but not on purpose. Just naturally pouty.
Do I . . . hell, do I find my friend attractive?
As she delivers tea to each of our cups, I scan her once again.
She does have great tits; I’ve stared at them enough to know that. Her smile captures me, makes me smile as well. And those eyes of hers. Call me an asshole, but I’ve always been into blue eyes. But brown, deep, sultry brown with thick black lashes, now there is a pair of eyes I could—
“Are you listening, Brig?”
“What? Yes. Tea.”
One of her eyebrows rises in question. She doesn’t even have to point it out anymore.
“I was admiring your freckles,” I say with a grin.
Caught off guard, probably not expecting that comment, her fingers run over her freckles as she says, “Oh . . . uh, thanks.”
“They suit you.”
“Well, haven’t heard that before. I used to get picked on for my freckles.”
I frown. “Who the hell picked on you?”
“Doesn’t matter. Let’s get to the sandwiches. Now, the circle one is—”
I place my hand on hers and ask again, “Who picked on you?”
“Brig, it was high school. It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does.” And then a sick feeling washes over me. “Fuck, was it me?”
“What?” Her eyes widen. “No. Is that . . . is that something you did?”
“No.” I shake my head quickly. “But I was also an idiot back then, still kind of am.”
“It wasn’t you.”
“Was it one of my brothers?”
“Brig, let’s drop it, okay? Let’s just focus on the sandwiches.”
I sit back in my chair and fold my arms across my chest. “Which brother was it? I will slap their balls so hard—”
“It was Tracker,” she says, exasperated.
“My friend, Tracker?”
“Are there more Trackers here in Port Snow?”
“Right.” I take out my phone from my pocket and start typing out a text.
“What are you doing?” she asks in a panic.
“Making things right.”
“No. No need to do that.” I don’t listen to her and continue to type. “Brig, I’m serious.” Still typing. “Brig.” She gets up from her chair and comes over to my side, making a swipe for my phone. Just in time, I move it out of her reach, but she doesn’t stop. She puts one hand on my shoulder and propels herself forward to reach for the phone, only to tip us both backward in the chair. My legs fly up, hit the table in front of me, scattering the delicious food and charming place settings to the ground.
Glass breaks.
The thermos clatters to the floor.
Sandwiches split open.
It’s an utter disaster.
Ruth lands on top of me, her soft breasts landing on my face.
And then she pauses.
The only remaining sound is a tray swirling closer and closer to the floor until it finally falls flat.
“Great view,” I say, my voice garbled as I talk against her boobs.
“Oh my God,” she says, scrambling to get off me.
I grab her by the waist and settle her down as her knees swing awfully close to my sensitive man area. “Please don’t knee me in the balls,” I say quickly, so she understands what I’m trying to do.
“What?” She sits up and that’s where I find her, straddling my lap, cheeks flushed, hair a little messy and mother of fuck . . .
Hands on her hips.
Pelvises connected.
Heavy breathing . . .
I’m . . . hell, I’m turned on.
I’m turned on and she’s sitting on my lap.
Abort, abort. Get her off.
Without even thinking, I toss her to the side where her arms fly out and land directly on the discarded sandwiches as she smears them across the floor.
Hell.
“Shit, Ruthie, I’m sorry.”
“That’s . . . okay,” she says as she struggles to get up.
“Are you okay?” I scramble to help, but I’m slow due to the ache in my groin.
“This was a bad idea. I’m . . . I’m sorry.” She sits up and when she turns around, I see sandwich smeared all down her chest. Fuck. “I think I should go wash these off.” She stands and starts to walk toward the door when I finally get up from the floor and catch her before she leaves.
“Let me drive you back to your place.”
She shakes her head, avoiding all eye contact with me. “It’s fine. I can walk.”
“Ruth, let me drive you—”
“I said it’s fine, Brig,” she snaps and then takes off quickly down the street toward Main.
Fuck.
Hand in hair, I glance back at the mess of the table.
Broken teacups and plates.
Discarded sandwiches.
Tea spilled all over her new floor.
All because I can’t control the blue balls in my pants.
I feel like a complete jackass.
* * *
It’s been long enough.
I open the door to Snow Roast and go to the counter where Beck is drying off a few mugs.
“What’s up, Brig?”
“Hey, uh, do you know where Ruth is?”
“Went up to her place. Why, what did you do to her?”
“Why do you think I did something to her?” I ask.
“She came in here, told me to close, and then went to her place. There were tears in her eyes.”
“What? Really?” I ask, my gut immediately starting to churn. “Fuck. How do I get up to her apartment?” Not answering, Beck just studies me. “Please,” I beg.
He sighs and nods to the back of the coffee house.
“Thank you,” I say, taking off toward the back where I see a set of stairs. Just like me, she lives above her business, and I take the stairs two at a time into a small hallway with a red door at the end.
That Swoony Feeling Page 13
