“Thank you.”
He smiles—sort of—mouth curving up, eyes warm. Watching me watch him as we drink.
He seems happy being in this place with his brothers. I wonder if he misses the days when things were simpler, and people didn’t want a piece of him.
But.
Perhaps it’s always been like that for him. Maybe he’s always been surrounded by users and people who wanted clout, money, and fame, knowing if they dated or managed him, they’d have it. The idea of that thought makes me sad.
Duke is young. Here, in this house, he looks happy.
The reality of his reality has no effect on this moment and for that I’m glad.
The guys get back to work.
A constant flutter of activity, they move the living room furniture so it creates more space (for parties, Dallas says), hauling two new dressers to the second level for the two bedrooms upstairs. Move a table into the kitchen and add four chairs.
From somewhere inside the house, a speaker begins blaring music—country music, naturally.
I bop my head along to the rhythm as I locate a broom in the kitchen and take it to the front porch, sweeping away the dust and dirt and filth, thinking about how the hell there’s no grass and wondering if we should go to the hardware store and get some seed.
“Nope,” I grumble. “It’s not my problem.”
Sweep.
Sweep the steps, one by one, lost in thought while bobbing my head to the beat of the music.
I get to the bottom step and begin on the short sidewalk.
“Hey there.”
I look up to see two girls in the driveway next door; it’s not clear to me if they’re coming or going, but it’s clear to me they’re extremely interested in what’s going on inside the house behind me.
Or I should saywhothey’re interested in inside the house behind me.
I rest on the broom handle. “Hello.” I pause. “Do you ladies live next door?”
I force my voice to sound pleasant despite the nerves in my belly.
These are not the girls I saw on the porch next door earlier, but who knows how many people pile inside these off-campus rentals.
“No. We’re two houses over.”
Ah. “So just taking a walk, I see.”
Not.
More like they heard there was fresh meat and they came to case out the joint before any other young ladies could call dibs. Ten years might have passed since I’ve been in college myself, but some things will never change, and that’s the siren call of single females looking for a mate.
“Are you their mom?” The brunette’s eyes haven’t left the porch—it’s as if she’s willing one of the boys to come out by sheer brainpower.
I’m sorry,whatnow? Their mom?
“Do I look old enough to be their mom?” Are my eyes bulging out of my skull?Never have I ever been asked if I was the mother of a twenty-year-old man. Are they asking sincerely or are they being assholes? Hard to tell.
“Not really.” The blonde laughs. “But you don’t look like you go here.”
“I’m not their mom. I’m friends with their brother.”