He crosses his arms over his chest and sighs. “You’re the one who’s pissed at me.”
“You’re my brother, Tuck. My twin. We share everything, including the same DNA. I don’t want to shut you out over a girl.”
“Maybe I like her, too,” he quips with a silly smirk.
I ball my hand into a fist, wanting to punch him in the fucking mouth, but I restrain myself. “She kissed me first. I had her first. She’s mine.”
He shakes his head. “Since when do you ever give a fuck about women?”
“I love women.”
He snickers. “You love fucking them.”
“What man doesn’t?”
“I’m just fucking around.” He sighs. “She’s hot, and so was that kiss. But she’s yours, bro.”
“I want her back,” I confess. “I fucking like her. Weird, right?”
He rolls his shoulders. “It was bound to happen at some point.”
A beat passes between us. Tucker shifts his body weight, his elbow hitting me in the side accidentally.
“What’s up with you? You’re acting like you love her.”
“I like her a lot.”
Tucker extends his hand to me. “Peace offering?” I shake his hand, and he adds, “So, we’re good?”
I nod.
“Good luck.” He leans back, his arms crossed over his chest. “Are you still entering the bachelor auction?”
“I committed to it last year.”
“I figured you’d bail because of Jemma.”
Every year, the sororities team up to host Strickland University’s Player Auction to raise money for charity.
He removes a pair of headphones from his bag and kicks it under the seat before him. “You think Jemma will bid on you?”
“I guess we’ll see.”
Chapter Nineteen
Jemma
My parents invite their employees and families to Thanksgiving dinner every year. It’s a Walcott tradition. My father always treats his workers as if they’re a part of our family. My father’s mentality is the reason for his success. Because of how he treats people, Walcott Dairy runs like a well-oiled machine.
Corey is the one person I knew I’d see but was hoping wouldn’t show. My ex. The man I left behind to pursue what I thought was a better life, only to discover that the grass is not always greener on the other side.
My three older brothers—Mark, Connor, and Pat—take their usual places on the couch. They watch football with my dad, who lounges in his oversized chair. A crowd of their friends and coworkers surround them, some standing where others have found a place on the floor or leaning against the wall.
The scent of turkey wafts through the air, and I hear my mother humming a tune from the kitchen. She does that when she cooks. Unlike Jordan and me, who are tone-deaf, my mother has a beautiful singing voice.
I stand at the edge of the living room, watching the men drink beer from frosty steins and yell at the football game. My father and brothers love their football, especially on Thanksgiving.
Jordan hangs out in the kitchen with my mom and aunts. I’m not much of a cook and couldn’t care less about football. I only care about my mom’s famous deep-fried turkey and her buttery mashed potatoes that melt on your tongue.
