“Just watch where you’re going.” He doesn’t look over at me.
“How about not telling me how to drive if you’re not going to do it yourself.”
“I’m your guest,” he pops off, still staring out the window.
“You’re a pain in the ass, that’s what you are.”
In the reflection of the glass, I catch him rolling his eyes and do a brake check, causing Tripp to lurch forward.
I snicker.
Ha!
Too easy.
“Knock it off!” His irritation is palpable.
“Then quit ignoring me and I won’t have to beg for your attention.” My eyes are glued to the road in front of me, even though I like to pretend I’m hardly paying attention.
“You’re so annoying.”
I mean…he’s not wrong.
“Can I get you boys anything while I’m up?” Mom worries around the kitchen, hovering like a hummingbird, fussing over her babies.
Me. I’m the baby.
“Ma, sit—you don’t have to fetch us everything. Tripp will get it.” I kick my brother’s shin beneath the table and he flinches but doesn’t rat me out. She’d yell at us both, no matter who did the kicking. “Go help Mom.”
Tripp levels me with a hard stare then rises, retrieving the tray of glasses our mother has set out, and the pitcher of iced tea. Bashes me in the back of the skull with the platter and smirks. “Whoops, sorry bro.”
Sorry my ass.
I glare, jostling him with my elbow, digging it into his ribs when he leans to set the whole thing down. “Knock it off, asshole,” he mutters out of the corner of his mouth.
“Make me.”
“Boys.” Our mother shakes her head, still not ready to rest, or be idle—this is how she is whenever we come by, excited to have us home. Wanting to feel wanted by the two sons who want for nothing. Need for nothing.
Nothing but an orgasm with no strings attached and a beefy taco afterward.
Mmm-mmm delicious.
I lick my chops, mouth watering, reaching for a glass. Grab the pitcher away from my brother as he goes to reach for it. “Loser.”
“Boys!” Mom scolds again, a secret smile tipping her lips.
We might be monsters, but we’re hers and she loves having us home. Granted, we take up all the free space with our giant bodies, but we kind of always have, hitting our growth spurts early on and filling out by the time we were juniors in high school.
Man-children she’d call us because even though we looked like grown-ass adults, we still acted like kids.
Still do.
“So, what have you two been up to besides work?” Dad asks, coming from the office off the kitchen. His thick mustache twitching, he pulls a chair out and plops down next to us.
Dad’s not nearly as big, not nearly as tall—we get our height from Mom’s side of the family, Tripp and I each measuring in at over six foot three and over two hundred sixty pounds.
“Practicing. Hanging out with Harding.”
Noah Harding is one of my teammates, the shortstop on the Chicago Steam, and my best friend. He has a sweet house with a huge pool and—more importantly—a fully stocked kitchen. I don’t know where all the food comes from because I doubt he does the grocery shopping, but I’m not complaining.
“Just hanging out with Noah Harding?” Dad’s brows go up.
“Working on one of the properties I just bought. Would be going quicker if this shithead would help me.” Over the past few months, I’ve been flipping houses, investing some of my income in properties that are run-down. Fixing them up, selling them for a profit. I’m on my third one. “It sure would be nice if I had a partner.”
I glare toward my brother and resentfully stab at the potato salad on my plate.
Tripp rolls his eyes. “Bet you’re still doing that matchmaking thing. You could get paid to do that, like that woman on television who matchmakes for millionaires.”
The fuck, Tripp! Does he have to blab everything?
Apparently so.
“What matchmaking thing?” Mom begins setting a casserole on the table and I take it from her; the ceramic pan must weigh ten pounds.
She kisses the top of my head and I sit up straighter.
Tripp scowls, shooting up out of his chair to fetch the rest of lunch, carrying it back to the table like a server at a restaurant, plates balanced on both arms like a fucking circus performer. “He meddles in people’s love lives without them knowing it.”
“What is he talking about, sweetie?”
“Nothing. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” I kick him again, this time grazing his calf muscle.
But Tripp won’t let it go now that he has me cornered and knows Mom is interested, too. Fuck!
“Your youngest here likes setting people up—on dates and stuff.”
“I think that sounds nice!” Mom gushes, clearly pleased to discover I’m a romantic at heart, even though I’m no romantic. I just love knowing someone is getting laid because of my matchmaking efforts.