“I’m just wondering if we should keep doing what we’re doing—for a little while anyway. Don’t you think it would look a little suspicious if we broke up the day after they caught the idiots who keyed your car?”
Claire licks her lips and I hold back a groan. “You make a very good point,” she says, tilting her hips so the most sensitive part of her presses against my…point.
I let my hands roam over her ass and just as I’m about to squeeze the firm round globes, Henry sticks his head in the kitchen.
“Are you guys done cleaning up? Ma wants to—oh, crap. Sorry.” My brother blushes. With his height, build, and even his inferior facial hair, he could pass for a college student even though he’s a sophomore in high school. Right now, he looks like the little boy I remember from when we were growing up. He used to close his eyes during kissing scenes in movies and I think he might revert to old habits.
“What does Ma need?” I ask. Messing with Henry is fun, but if my mom needs me, I’ll be there.
“She wants ice cream from Hollinger’s. She said a sundae sounded really good, so we’re heading over.”
It’s a hell of a drive for ice cream, but Hollinger’s is the best, even though there’s always a long-ass line. Since Ma barely has an appetite these days, I’m not surprised Gramma and the boys are more than happy to make the trip.
“Are they ready?” Leo’s voice calls from the garage.
I’m willing my dick to calm the fuck down when Henry hollers back an answer. “They’re not done yet. You should see the kitchen. It’s a freaking disaster.”
“Seriously? I’m starving,” Leo whines, even though hedevoured a meal of pasta and bread less than an hour ago.”
“Then let’s go without them,” Henry answers back. “Because I’m not doing the dishes when we get back. Pete’s a messy cook.”
I look around at the spotless kitchen, bare countertops, and gleaming sink, then back at my youngest brother.
“You’re welcome,” he whispers. “And Claire, you’re way too good for him. We all know it, but we all like you, so you should stick around.”
After that pronouncement, he jumps up and touches the ceiling because he’s a teenage boy and they’re just programmed to do that, and then he heads out to the garage.
21
Pete
Claire and I listen as the engine in Ma’s minivan roars to life and the gears of the garage door grind open and closed.
“Is this okay? If you really want ice cream?—”
“I hate ice cream,” she says plainly, without any explanation at all.
“You hate me, and you hate ice cream? Two things that are universally adored?”
Claire giggles. This badass woman has the cutest little laugh. “I only hate ice cream now. Don’t let it inflate your ego, but you’re growing on me, Santos.”
“That’s good to know,” I say, kissing her one more time. “Because my family loves ice cream so much that they’re willing to drive an hour round trip and then wait in line for another hour because it’s that freaking delicious.”
“They’ll be gone two hours? Whatever will we do?” Her tone is playful but when she swivels her hips, there’s no doubt about what she wants.
As if on cue, the speakers in the living room turn onand a swoony, sexy, kinda dirty song from the ‘70s starts playing.
Claire’s wintry blue eyes are round with surprise. “How did?—”
“Henry’s got the sound system hooked up to his phone,” I say, pretty confident in my guess that this is my youngest brother’s handiwork.
“I said it earlier, but it’s still true,” she says, tracing my bottom lip with her finger. “Henry is my favorite Santos brother.”
Laughing, I step back and lace our fingers together. I hate breaking contact with her, especially when it feels like we’re finally getting somewhere, but Henry’s playlist has given me a good idea, and we’ve got a little time, so I decide to trust my instincts.
I sway my body in time with the music for a few beats and then Claire starts to follow along. I know this playlist is my brother’s idea of a joke, and even though it’s not the soundtrack I’d choose, it’s easy to dance to.
The beat ramps up and so do my moves. Shaking my hips a little, I raise my arm to spin Claire in a quick twirl. I can’t picture her in a tutu or tap shoes, but she’s naturally athletic. That much is clear by the way her moves mirror mine. She’s not copying me; she’s following my lead.
