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Cole whistled. "I don't know how many times I tell him he's overdoing it. He won't listen."
"The doctor has banned him from work for a while."
Concern etched itself across Cole's rugged features. "Shit. I hope he's all right."
"He just needs to rest. But it means he can't work on my dad's bar."
Cole's eyes narrowed. "Right." He considered this for a moment, nodding thoughtfully. "Don't worry. The work will get done."
"You're going to do it?"
His reply came hard and cold as a ball bearing. "Nope. But I'll talk to Ethan. See if he can get it done."
"Your brother," I said, swallowing hard. "Good idea."
"He runs an auto shop in town, but he's pitched in with construction projects before. He knows what he's doing." His hazel eyes bore into mine, and I couldn't help but notice how he seemed eager to distance himself from the project—and me. "Yep. So. Anything else?"
"No. That's all I got."
"Okay. Have a good day."
The door closed. I hadn't been expecting anything else, but still, I was disappointed.
Maybe Lily was right. Maybe I should have tried to talk to him about the kiss. Maybe I should have jumped his bones. But it seemed pretty clear he didn’t want his . . . bones anywhere near mine. So, I was going to have to erase those glistening muscles from my memory and forget all about that giddy feeling in my core.
It was for the best, anyway. I had pastry to focus on. Hot, sexy pastry.
And that was all I needed, right?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Cole
When people found out that Ethan, Jack, and I were triplets, they often didn’t believe it. You heard triplets, you thought identical. But the three of us couldn't have been more different.
First, there was Jack. Jack the Jock was his nickname at school. Big-shot NHL superstar, a winger for the Montreal Canadiens, a notorious womanizer. A lot of people thought Jack was just some freakishly talented asshole, but that wasn't right. I knew differently. He was a freakishly dedicated asshole. The countless hours he logged on the ice while Ethan and I were busy being normal teenagers? That was the real secret to his success.
Dad used to leave him at the rink for as long as humanly possible while Ethan and I found other ways to pass the time. Mostly arguing, if I'm being honest.
Jack didn’t take after either of our parents much in the looks department. Cleft chin, reddish-brown hair, fair skin—all his own. He did inherit Dad's build, though. Solid, stocky, perfect for throwing his weight around on the ice.
Ethan, on the other hand, was the spitting image of Mom. Jet-black hair, piercing blue eyes, full lips, striking features. Obviously, there were some differences between them. From what Dad tells me, Mom wasn't built like a tank. And from the pictures I've seen, she most definitely didn't have an untidy beard. But apart from that? Dead ringer.
While Jack had the charm of a rogue, Ethan had the charm of a gentleman. Me? I had the charm of a porcupine.
Looks-wise, I was Dad's clone. Muddy-blond hair. Brown eyes. A hard jaw and heavy brow. Dad's face was quicker to smile than mine, but once there, our smiles were the same.
The three of us might have been different, but we were close. We'd only had Dad growing up, so we'd had to mature quickly. We grew up fast and learned not to sweat the small stuff. These days, we always had each other's backs.
Which was why I was hopeful that Ethan would come through for me today.
When I rocked up to the auto shop, I was greeted by the sound of Metallica and an angle grinder. The place was a gearhead’s mecca, cluttered with tools and spare parts. A pale pink classic car stood in the center of the room.
Ethan had his hands buried deep in the guts of the vehicle when he heard my footsteps and glanced up.
"Cole!" he greeted me, wiping his greasy hands on an equally greasy rag. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
"Good to see you, Ethan."
