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But damn, have things changed. Because she’s got an ass that’s definitely not boy-like, with a rack that could make grown men weep. In fact, my dick’s practically dripping now, taking in the delectable sight.
And my brothers are on the same wavelength. As I step into the kitchen, their heads barely turn, eyes glued to the girl.
“Yo,” says one of them. The other two don’t even bother to speak, staring at our beautiful kitchen goddess.
“Yo,” I grunt in return.
The three look lot alike, same as when they were younger. Hell, we all look alike, with the same dark hair, blue eyes, and massive builds. It’s the black Irish blood.
But that doesn’t interest me right now. What interests me is the girl at the stove.
“Hey, I’m Trent,” I say. “You must be Macy.”
She turns, startled.
“Oh I didn’t even see you,” she murmurs. “Did you knock?”
I growl.
“No.”
She blushes.
“Well, we’re all neighbors here,” she says quickly. “And you have to be one of the Morgans.”
I nod. Like I said, our family resemblance is astonishing.
“Yeah, I’m related to these fuckers. Their big brother. Trent.”
She looks at me and blushes again.
“The doctor?”
“Yep, that’s right,” I drawl. “Here to take care of Daddy-O, he’s sick,” I say, brows lowering. But this isn’t the time or place to get into a long, drawn-out conversation about the specialized care my dad needs. So I change the subject.
“And what are you up to Macy? What’s goin’ on, hanging with these losers?” I nod at
my brothers. “Last I remember, you were a pigtailed, soccer-playing tomboy.”
One of my bros busts in then.
“Macy here’s a cook,” drawls Tim. “And we’re her taste-testers.”
I guffaw. Seriously? These guys would eat anything, they don’t qualify as taste-testers. Literally, you could feed them slop and they’d gobble it up like pigs.
But clearly, an opportunity’s at hand, and I don’t want to fuck it up.
“It’s all good,” I drawl casually, sliding into a seat at the counter. “So what’s this taste-testing about?”
The brunette blushes again before looking up.
“Well, I just finished my freshman year at State,” she says. “I don’t have a major or anything, I’m still undecided. But I wanted to write a cookbook in the meantime, just self-published,” she says quickly. “Any real publisher wouldn’t be interested, not at first.”
I shoot her a glance.
“Have you talked to Matt?” I ask, nodding at my bro. “Mofo here has the writing itch too. He’s writing a book too.”
She turns to look at my brother.
