Hopefully she liked peaches, or he was screwed.
When he returned to the apartment he managed to haul everything up in one load. Ben still sat at the table, working on the laptop.
70 Tymber
Dalton
“You need help?” Ben asked.
“No, I got it.” He piled everything onto the counter. He glanced at the clock and realized he had two hours to get everything ready.
Plenty of time.
“Why is this so important to you?” Ben quietly asked.
He pondered the question as he put things away in the fridge.
Eventually he turned to his brother. “I’m grateful we found such a perfect place, for starters. And yes, I feel sorry for her. So shoot me.”
Allan didn’t miss the slight frown on Ben’s face as his brother refocused his attention on the laptop. “Okay.”
“You know, you can sit there and pass whatever kind of judgment you want on me, but the truth is you don’t know me as well as you think you know me.”
“I know what I read in the gossip columns. And what my friends in the department relate to me on a regular basis. How my party-boy brother lives it up at night on a regular basis and is seen going home with a bunch of different women.”
Allan clenched his fists and took a deep breath. “Fuck. You.”
Ben lifted his gaze to his brother. With his voice soft and level, he said, “Don’t hurt her. Don’t you dare.”
“Or what? Not that that was my plan anyway.”
Ben leaned back in his chair. “If I think you’re fucking playing her, or trying to get into her pants, or any of that kind of bullshit, I’ll put you on your ass myself. Don’t think I won’t.”
Stalemate. They stared at each other in an uneasy silence for several minutes. “Why are you so insistent on goading me, huh?”
Allan asked.
“Because I spent the last three years of my damn life with these fucking animals. I know what they’re capable of. I’ve seen them do stuff to women that made them wish they’d gone ahead and killed them.”
“Well, if you think she’s in such danger, why the hell did we take the place?”
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71
“She’s only in danger if we put her there. Which we won’t.
Right?”
Allan tried to remember all his brother had gone through. It was the only thing that helped him hold on to his temper and back down.
“Right,” he agreed. He tried lightening his tone. “Look, seriously. I just want to do something nice for her. Have her get to know us, what little we can let her, so she knows we’re not jerks.” He stepped forward and extended his hand to his brother. “Please?”
Like ice calving off a glacier, he watched as Ben deflated, his expression turning sad. He took Allan’s hand and shook. “I’m sorry. I just… You have no idea.”
Allan took this as an opening and put cooking out of his mind for a moment. He slid one of the chairs out and sat, switching to his “kind prosecutor” mode. The I’m-on-your-side persona he’d used countless times to ease witnesses through the trauma of preparing for a trial.
“We’re on the same side, bro. Honestly. The impression I got from Grover on Saturday was that she rarely goes out, has hardly any social life. She could probably use the distraction as much as we could.
That’s it. That’s all. I’m man enough to store it up in my brain for at night when I’m alone, or for in the shower.”
That earned him a smile from his brother, which was what he’d hoped for. “I don’t know who yelled louder,” Ben said, “you or Mom, when she accidentally walked in on you that time. You dumb-ass.
You should have had the water going so she could hear you were in there. Or locked the door.”
“You have no idea how long that ruined shower sexy time for me.”
Ben let out a long sigh. “I missed you.”
Allan leaned over and hugged Ben, pleased when his brother hugged him back. “I missed you, too, bro.”
72 Tymber
Dalton
Chapter Eight
Libbie dove into her Kindle again. Which wouldn’t have been a problem, except that regardless of how the author described the heroes, she now had absolutely no trouble superimposing Charles and Ken on their features.
Unable to focus on her reading without sexy thoughts of her new tenants-slash-neighbors filling her mind with deliciously dirty thoughts, she opted for a little work. She needed to place her wholesale order tomorrow morning in order to have everything delivered Wednesday afternoon.
At least I can get something accomplished.
When she finished that, a sudden, horrifying thought struck her.
What am I going to wear tonight?
This time of year she was completely comfortable lounging around the house in men’s flannel sleeping pants and oversized Tshirts. Especially when it was cool out.
As she stared down at her black and grey plaid bottoms, she knew she couldn’t go over there looking like that. It didn’t matter she’d worn them to the bank, because she’d used the drive-through and never got out of her car.
I can’t have them see me like this. Gay or not, I want to make a good impression on them.
She burrowed into her closet, which was still in disarray from the move, and finally opted for a long, dark charcoal maxi skirt that would be both warm and reasonably presentable. She could wear leggings under it, and her Ugg-lookalike boots, to keep her even more comfortable. She selected a long-sleeved forest green cowl-neck shirt It’s a Sweet Life 73
to complete the ensemble. Laying the items out on the bed, she nodded in approval. She wanted to take another bath before going over there, more to ease her aching body than because she felt she needed one.
As she studied herself in the bathroom mirror nearly an hour later, she opted to let her hair fall loose over her shoulders. Naturally wavy, she only managed to get her hair cut once every few months. Usually, she kept it pulled up in a ponytail, bun, or braid, held in place by a hairnet or bandana while working. She rarely got an opportunity to go out in public with it long.
For the first time, she realized it had crept past her shoulders. I need to call for an appointment and get it tamed.
She briefly considered putting on makeup, then decided against it.
That’s overkill. Not that she had much makeup to choose from. Just powder, two different sets of eye shadow, some tinted lip gloss, and blush.
I really am turning into a schlub.
Galileo watched her from the bed.
“Don’t give me that look. I know what you’re thinking.”
The cat stared at her without blinking.
She looked in the mirror again. “He’s probably thinking he’s owned by a crazy lady who likes to talk to herself,” she muttered.
After taking several deep breaths to calm herself, Libbie walked across the hall and knocked on Charles and Ken’s door at exactly 6:01.
“Come on in,” one of them called out.
It struck her, as she reached for the doorknob, that the men sounded alike in addition to looking very similar. They could almost be brothers instead of cousins.
Well, except for the hair. Why on earth does Charles think that 74 Tymber Dalton
color looks good on him?
She stepped in and felt her stomach immediately growl at the wonderful aromas floating through the apartment.