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“Wait,” James pauses. “Do we owe you an apology?”
“I don’t think so.”
“When we first got here, you said, this was your house and your rules, and we weren’t allowed to gang up on you.”
“That was before I learned there are ways I like being ganged up on.”
Then they spend the rest of the night ganging up on me in all the best ways.
Eight
Maggie
Mystomachtightensasplit second before the unmistakable growl fills the room. The Pop-Tart snack we ate in the wee hours of the morning has worn off.
“Our Angel isn’t immortal…she needs food,” James teases.
The guys reluctantly peel themselves away from me. Surely, they’re hungry too.
Finding my glasses and trudging on wobbly legs to the kitchen, I glance at the clock on the microwave then out the window at the road. “Crap, guys. We have to be at Mom and Dad’s in two hours, and it’ll be a thirty-minute drive in this snow, and we definitely need to shower.”
I rip the foil open on another Pop-Tart pack and pull one out. Ford takes the other pastry. Bypassing the toaster, I nibble the outer edge before downing the yummy, frosted, chocolate-filled center.
My brothers don’t see what the hurry is, but they follow my lead. It’s almost like they’re lovesick puppies afraid to let me get more than a foot away. Their adoration empowers me and makes me feel special—the polar opposite of what I thought of myself before last night. I’ve learned a lot about myself, and that’s what causes the spring in my step and the confident outlook.
It’s entirely possible our parents will freak out about us getting together—if not for the stepsibling thing, then for the abnormal relationship.
After gulping the water that’s left in someone’s cup on the counter, I head to the bathroom. The guys are hot on my heels. I’d never thought about how good my ass looked, but after all of their praise, I’m fine with them trailing behind me.
I adjust the shower water and turn around just in time to see Ford grab my toothbrush.
“Whoa! Put that down.”
“Why? What’s wrong?” He holds the toothbrush up and inspects it. “Is this what you use to clean your fishbowl or something?”
“No, that’s what I use to clean my teeth.”
“Excellent decision for a toothbrush. Those nerdy glasses aren’t just for show.” Ford cracks himself up. “I was going to brush my teeth.”
“You can’t use my toothbrush.”
Heath and James are leaning against the counter, watching, but I can’t tell where they stand on the shared toothbrush thing. No one comes to my defense. It could just be a matter of enjoying seeing their brother get told no.
“Why not?” Ford asks.
“It’s gross.”
“Do I have to remind you where your mouth has been? Or that you just drank out of my water cup?”
I shake a finger at him.
He stares at me in stunned silence. Steam starts to escape the shower, and in the brief second that it catches his attention, I snag the toothbrush from his hand.
“Alright, guess I’ll use my finger.” Ford pulls the top drawer open, grabs the tube of toothpaste, and flips the cap.
Anxiety rises in me as his fingers wrap around the squishable container.Oh no!He’s a tube crusher. This drove me crazy when we were growing up.
“Wait!” I reach for the toothpaste, but it’s too late. The ridiculously long strip of paste on his finger is proof that the damage is done.
