AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Hi. Our father was brought in tonight. Gunner…I meanGeorgeWinters. Has he been given a room yet?” She was so used to hearing everyone call her father by the name he used during his football career, it felt strange to say his given name. But tonight was full of oddities, including the lingering sound of Dylan’s voice whispering through her mind.Looking forward to that rain check, Summers, but I’m also a hell of a good listener. If you need an ear, I’m in apartment 801. You can even bring your phone.
Chapter Three
“I DON’T KNOW, Dyl. You left flowers at her doorandyour phone number on the card this morning, and it’s”—Dylan’s youngest brother, Brett, checked his watch—“six o’clock. The chick isnotgoing to call.”
Dylan climbed down from the ladder and set his tools on the workbench. It was Sunday evening, and they were working on his kitchen renovation. He chugged half a bottle of water and unhooked his tool belt, thinking about the way Tiffany had turned the tables on him in front of the bar last night. She was a fierce one, and he couldn’t wait to get to know her better. He’d thought about her all night, wondering what happened with her father and hoping she was doing okay. A quick glance at the mailboxes had revealed her apartment number, making it easy for him to leave her flowers.
“She’ll call.” He was sure of it. Their connection had been white-hot from the moment they’d first set eyes on each other, and he had a feeling there was a lot more to the hyper-vigilant phone-checker than her good looks and snappy wit. He’d been surprised to find out she was Rocco’s sister, but that wasn’t going to deter him from pursuing her. Hell, he wasn’t sure anything would at this point. One taste of Tiffany Winters wasn’t nearly enough.
Brett set his tool belt on the tarp covering the hardwood floor and took a swig of his beer. “You’re dreaming, bro. She reps a few of my clients, and I’m telling you, she has balls of steel. If you get her at all, it’ll be for a quick fuck, on her terms. Nothing more. And that’s not really you.”
Dylan met Brett’s knowing stare. Of his three brothers, Brett was the most like their father, sharing his square jaw and deep-set eyes that held an ever-present warning not to get too close, despite his flirtatious banter with every woman who crossed his path. He was an ex-cop and co-owner of an international security firm with their brother Carson. Where Carson was the strong, quiet type, Brett was a bull in a china shop, which made them the perfect team, since he loved playing the heavy hand.
“She’sballsy,” Dylan agreed. “But trust me, Tiffany’s one hundred percent woman. And, by the way, this underscores how different we are. You’re like all the other guys out there. You see a hot woman and take her at face value. One day you’ll learn to see the real woman behind the facade, little brother. Shewantsyou to see her as a hard-nosed businesswoman, which she is, no doubt. A fucking bulldog, according to Mick. And Christ, I fucking loved that aggressive side of her when we were making out in the cab. But I held her in my arms in the hospital, and I felt the restraint it took for her to keep her emotions in check.” He chugged his drink, the memory of her in his arms making his palms warm. “She’s got shit going on in her head, and a few nights in my bed might loosen her up. I’ll tell you what, bro. I sure ashellwant to be the man who tries to shake her up. Besides, what’s the big deal? Everyone bottles shit up. That’s the way life works.”
Brett scoffed and finished his beer.
“You know I’m right, bro,” Dylan insisted. “You think you work out like a monkey on steroids for fun?”
All the Bad brothers were tall, strong, and broad, but Brett spent hours in the gym working out the rage left over from when their younger sister, Lorelei, died from leukemia at the tender age of eight. It was a loss that had significantly affected Dylan and each of his brothers, and had eventually cost their parents their marriage. The twentieth anniversary of her death had passed, terribly silent and gruelingly painful, a few weeks earlier.
“I do it to keep the old bod in prime shape for the ladies.” Brett patted his six-pack abs.
“Bullshit. You’d explode if you didn’t work out. Carson stifles every damn thing he feels. And Mick? He never let a woman into his life until Amanda broke through his barriers.”
Brett gnashed his teeth together, narrowing his dark eyes. “And you’re as touchy-feely as a chick.”
“Whatthefuckever. I’m just not burying my head in the sand. We all have our ways of dealing with it.” And byit, he meant the loss of their sister, which didn’t need spelling out. Especially to Brett, who hadn’t become a ticking time bomb until after they’d lost Lorelei.
His brother’s eyes sailed over his torn-apart kitchen. “Like renovating your kitchen every few years? You know, most guys hire contractors to do this shit.”
Most guys didn’t have the same demons as Dylan. He was twelve when they’d lost Lorelei, which was old enough to have loads of treasured memories and young enough to be confused and devastated at losing one of the people he loved most. His sharpest memories were of baking with Lorelei after everyone else was asleep. They’d sneak out of bed and make cupcakes.Always cupcakes. They were all protective as hell over her, and he, like his brothers, would have done anything for her. Lorelei had the type of sweet and trusting personality that made you want to see her smile. If she wanted cupcakes, he baked the damn cupcakes. No matter what time it was. Why she chose him as her personal fucking baker, he had no clue, but after they’d lost her, he was glad they’d had that time together. Their parents knew of their midnight baking fun. How could they not, with fresh cupcakes left on the kitchen table along with silly notes from thecupcake fairies? Before Lorelei died they were a close-knit, loud, loving family, and their midnight fun was seen as Dylan and Lorelei’sthing. After they lost her, their family was never the same.
“I like the physical labor.” He needed a change of subject. He had too much to do to get mired down in memories this evening. “I’ve got to clean up and get out of here. Bethany’s waiting.” Bethany Weaver was one of the kids he spent time with at the Ronald McDonald House, where he’d volunteered since college. She had Hodgkin’s lymphoma and was about halfway through her treatments.
Brett’s expression softened. “How’s she doing?”
“Good. She’s got another few treatments, but she’s a pistol.” Dylan had never been able to mask his awe over the courage of the children he visited, and he heard it in his own voice now. “Remember I told you she was crazy about Anika Bouchert, the professional snowboarder?”
“Yeah. Have you been able to reach her?”
“Not yet. Mick reached out, but he hadn’t heard back before his honeymoon. Hopefully Sophie will hear back while he’s gone and we’ll be able to connect.” Sophie was Mick’s assistant, and one of the women Brett was constantly trying to hook up with.
Brett got a hungry look in his eyes, and Dylan waved his finger at him. “Back off. She doesn’t need you bugging her. Anyway, I found an autographed picture of Anika on eBay and had it framed for Bethany. I think she’ll like it.”
“That’s great. I’m glad she’s doing well. Are we still on for planning the fundraiser after your kitchen is done?”
Dylan had hosted an annual fundraiser to benefit the Ronald McDonald House for the past ten years. Although Dylan’s brothers found it too painful to talk about Lorelei, they all helped plan the event. The first few years he’d held it at NightCaps, the bar Dylan owned, but the event had grown too big for the space. This year they were holding it at the Ultimate, a hotel owned by their friend Phoebe Nice.
“Yeah, I’m looking forward to it. I should have the new cabinet fronts in place next weekend. Then we can begin planning.”
Brett glanced around the kitchen. They’d done less renovating this year, only removing the cabinet faces, the dishwasher, and sink. The space still resembled a construction site with tarps, old cabinet faces, and tools strewn across their work area. “Want me to run a few loads down to the trash area before I take off?”
“Nah. I’ve got it. Thanks. Poker Thursday night?” He and his brothers, along with a couple of their buddies they’d grown up with, the Wilds, got together every so often to play poker. This week Dylan was hosting.
“You know it.” Brett eyed the mess again. “You sure you don’t want me to get that?”
“Nope. I’ll get it. Bring lots of cash for the game. I’m feeling lucky.”
