Caine laughs. “And I’m not good with numbers, but I still pay my taxes. Usually.”
I’ve hit the morose point of drunk, and his amusement irritates me. “Sure, you can laugh. You can express emotions like a real person.”
“Do you realize you’re expressing an emotion now?” He tosses the mouse faster as he speaks. Mosby’s settled into a crouch, his eyes locked on the toy. “Look, you, Delaney, and me, we all have issues, I’m not arguing that. They aren’t all our fault, but they are our responsibility. We didn’t pick them, but we’ve got them, so we deal. Otherwise Joel wins—fucks up our whole lives instead of just our childhoods.” Caine only refers to our father by his first name, spitting the word out as if it’s rancid. When he exhales, I see it as much as hear it. “I swear the first six months I went to therapy, I did it solely out of spite because I knew he would have hated it. Turned out being good, though.” He side-eyes me. “You and Delaney both need to try it; maybe it will cure your emotional constipation.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mosby’s tail whipping as he prepares to launch at the mouse Caine is still tossing and catching. “Maybe one day. Sorry for making you play therapist in the meantime.”
He chuckles. “I’m always ready to share my wisdom—what the fuck!”
Mosby strikes. He goes for the mouse, misses, and crashes headfirst on Caine’s face with a soft thunk. A flurry of orange fur and indignation, he races back across the room to glower at us from behind the recliner.
Sputtering, Caine sits up, wiping his face. “I can’t believe you let him ambush me. You’ve changed.” He grumbles, “Betraying your brother. Hunting women. What have you become?”
“You called me a nerd,” I retort. “And I only want to hunt one woman.”
TWENTY-ONE Claire
Two days after the thunderstorm fuckfest, I’m reviewing assignments in Shane’s living room while he’s at work. Across the room, Margot’s curled in a leather armchair, laptop balanced on her bent knees as she types. In the time I’ve been here, I’ve learned that in addition to being Shane’s personal assistant, she’s a virtual assistant for a handful of other business-y types and runs a few social media accounts. Her fiancé, Jeremy, also works remotely, but he likes to have the house to himself while he does, so Margot works here or at a coffee shop. The setup seems peculiar to me, but she acts as if it’s normal.
It’s late afternoon, but my eyes are dangerously close to glazing over. Caffeine would help, and sourcing it sounds like a welcome distraction from grading quizzes on the endocrine system. “I’m thinking about making coffee. Would you have some?”
Her eyes peek over the top of her computer. “That would be great.”
Perfect.
It isn’t procrastination if I’m doing something useful, and making coffee that isn’t only for me qualifies. When Margot follows me into the kitchen, settling herself and her computer at the table, I hide my smile. It’s funny to think how intimidating I found her the first day, worrying that she wouldn’t like me and things would be awkward. We’ve settled into an easy routine while Shane’s at the firm—both of us on our laptops, occasionally stopping to gripe about something work-related. For me, it’s always the classroom portal giving me or the students trouble. For her, it’s this one client she needs to fire. Turns out no-nonsense Margot is a people pleaser with a capital P, so I’ve been encouraging her to drop him. Ironic, considering I’m also a people pleaser. The coffee maker gurgles. She groans, resting her forehead against her hand.
“Is it the Crock-Pot knockoff guy?” Fishing the creamer out of the fridge, I bump the door closed with my hip.
“Yes. He’s fighting on the Facebook posts again. I hide the troll comments, and he unhides them to argue!” Pushing the laptop away from her, she rubs circles at her temples. “I want to ban him from his own company’s page.”
“You should block him, then act like you don’t know why he can’t see anything. Say it must be a Facebook glitch.”
That makes her snort. “It’s tempting.”
As I pull two mugs from the cupboard, there’s a knock at the door. A glance at Margot shows she’s as confused as me. “Is that for you?” we ask in near unison, both shaking our heads.
“Maybe a delivery?” She heads out of the kitchen.
I pour us both coffees, bringing the mugs and creamer over to the table. Margot’s voice carries, but I can’t make out her words. Someone else is talking too, a deep, masculine voice, but it isn’t Shane’s.
Before I can go be nosy, footsteps approach. Margot walks back into the kitchen, mouthing something I can’t make out. Hot on her heels is a man who looks like Shane. Almost. If Shane had longer hair and was covered in tattoos.
He’s about an inch taller than me, with the same dark hair, broad shoulders, and hard jaw as Shane. Has to be the brother. The resemblance ends there. Shane is the king of resting bitch face, possessing unrelenting stoicism. This man looks ready for mischief, the human equivalent of a cat the instant before it knocks a vase off the mantel. Tattoos swirl across the tops of his hands and up his arms, geometric shapes and patterns interspersed with realistic-looking flowers, but I barely notice them. I’m focused on his T-shirt; it’s black with a picture of a sexy zombie lady ripping the heart out of a dead man. Above the carnage, the words Here for a scary tale ending are written in loose script. Pun appreciation must run in the family. The shirt is paired with threadbare jeans smeared with dark paint on the hips and upper thighs, like he couldn’t be bothered to wipe his hands on a rag.
When I shake his hand, there’s no paint on it, and I get the impression he’s sizing me up, taking some sort of inventory. Discomfort prickles between my shoulder blades at his scrutiny. He’s openly curious, eyeballing me with an interest that isn’t flirtatious but is more than the usual nice to meet you energy.
“I’m Caine, Shane’s brother.” The introduction comes with a grin that seems like overkill.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Claire.” I smile back but don’t know how to introduce myself: Hi, I’m Claire, I let your brother hunt and fuck me, and also, I think I have a huge crush on him feels inappropriate.
Hooking his thumbs through his belt loops, he leans his upper body back slightly, as if trying to take in the full sight of me. “I know exactly who you are.” The way he pauses before each of the last three words distracts me from their implication, then mortification strikes.
“Caine,” Margot snaps, startling me. I’d nearly forgotten she was in the room, but she’s back at her laptop with a coffee mug. “Pretend you have manners.”
He glances at her and chuckles, then refocuses on me. With a conspiratorial wink, he mutters, “I am always in trouble with that one.” Walking to the coffeepot, he helps himself.
I’m lost, looking to Margot for a reaction. I get an eye roll in Caine’s direction and another mouthed word I don’t understand. Not helpful.
Mug in hand, Caine approaches. “Are we hanging out in here or somewhere more comfortable?”
“We”—Margot points between herself and me—“are working. Why are you here?”
Caine’s energy is unnerving me, and this snappy side of Margot has me confused. It’s like her customer service sweetness rolled out when Caine rolled in, and I’m unbalanced, struggling to find my footing.
“Hi, Caine, I missed you too,” he corrects, dropping into a chair and scooching it closer to hers with an earsplitting squeak.
