Page 61 of Holding On To Good

Or that she flirted back.

With his fucking brother.

He crossed the patio, realized he was stomping around like a pissed-off moron. Like a pissed-off, jealous moron.

Inhaling deeply, he forced his footsteps to lighten. His shoulders to relax.

She smiled at something Miles said then touched his arm as she spoke, her fingers pale against Miles’s tanned skin.

Urban ground his back teeth together.

Miles leaned over to Willow, his big body angled in the way guys on the make have been doing since the dawn of time, one hand on the back of her chair, the other on the table, he spoke close to her ear, saying something only she could hear.

Something that made her toss her head back and laugh, exposing the long line of her neck.

Urban stopped. Just… bam! Like he’d walked into an invisible brick wall.

“Problem?” Toby asked at his back, his tone casual, but Urban knew if he glanced at him, there’d be a shit-eating grin on his brother’s face.

“No,” he snapped, then continued on, no longer able to remember why coming out here had seemed like such a good idea.

Ian hit a baseball off the tee in the corner of the yard. It rolled on the grass, stopping three feet away. Verity jogged over to get it before Bella could, then put it back on the tee and stepped out of Ian’s way.

“Good swing,” Toby told their nephew, always the first to boost the kid’s confidence.

“This time,” Urban said, because he was always the first to boost Ian’s actual skills, “keep your left elbow up.”

Ian raised his elbow so it pointed to the sky.

“Not that high,” Urban told him.

Ian corrected and on his next swing, he sent the ball over Verity’s head.

“Nice hit,” Miles called.

Beaming, Ian wound up for his next swing as Toby gathered dirty glasses from the table.

“You can get the plates,” Urban told Miles, feeling Willow watching him as he grabbed two empty beer bottles in one hand then picked up the ceramic bowl Toby had used to serve a chopped salad with the other.

Rising out of her seat, she reached across the table for some silverware. “I can help.”

Miles stopped her with a brush of his fingers on her forearm. Kept his hand there and lightly tugged her back until she sat again. “You’re a guest. Guests don’t help clean up.”

“You’re not a guest,” Urban told his brother.

“I don’t live here,” Miles said.

Urban narrowed his eyes. “Then why are you here all the time?”

“Just enjoying a little quality time with my family.” He grinned at Willow. “Family first is my motto.”

Her expression softened. A woman conned by a pretty face and a few carefully chosen words. “That’s sweet.”

Sweet. Jesus Christ.

Urban tested the weight of the bowl in his hand, wondered how sweetly Miles would react to having it shoved onto his head.

Miles raised his eyebrows, clearly reading Urban’s mind and his intention. Daring him to bring it on.

---