Page 17 of My Brother's Roommate (Frisky Business 2)
“I brought it here last summer. No one would drink it with me, so I hid it for a rainy day. Or a snowy one, I guess.”
His brow furrows, but the look in his eyes is pure amusement. When I strut with the bottle toward the kitchen, it earns me yet another one of his low, gritty laughs. I’ve never heard him laugh as much as he has the past two weekends with me. If I’m not careful, I could get used to it.
It takes some light digging, but I find two rocks glasses tucked in the far back of a kitchen cabinet, and Wolfie pours a generous shot of bourbon for each of us. Brown liquor is quickly becoming our thing.
“Should I get a fire going?” He tips his head toward the living room. “I know where they keep the firewood.”
“And I know where they keep the snacks. Sounds like teamwork to me.”
While Wolfie gets to work building a fire, I scrounge up two unopened boxes of club crackers from the pantry. Not exactly a dinner of champions, but if I don’t get something in my stomach before I start sipping this bourbon, bad decisions are pretty much guaranteed. I arrange the crackers on a plastic plate, and at the first crackle of a log, I carry it into the living room, where I find Wolfie crouched over the redbrick fireplace, stoking an impressive fire.
“You got that going fast.”
He nods, his gaze still fixed on the flames. “I’ve always been good with my hands.”
His tone is so plain, so matter-of-fact, that I’m certain he didn’t even notice his own innuendo. But that doesn’t stop my mind from racing toward a dozen sinful places. I give my thigh a pinch through my jeans to chase that dirty thought away.
“Should we sit on the couch?” I ask, trying to steer my mind toward logistics rather than fantasies.
“Or the floor. Closer to the fire.” He pauses, then looks over his shoulder to meet my gaze. “I mean, if that’s okay with you.”
“Of course,” I squeak. “Wherever it’s warmest.”
And wherever I’m closest to you.
We pull all the pillows and blankets onto the floor, forming a perfect cocoon next to the fireplace. Just enough room for the two of us, plus our plate of crackers, which I strategically place between us in the hope of keeping my distance.
Between sips of bourbon, we work our way through the plate, chatting about everything from snowstorms to Spencer, sharing a laugh as we recall what an awful shot he was on the retreat.
But the more we talk, the more I find my gaze lingering on Wolfie’s lips a little too long. Maybe bourbon wasn’t such a good idea after all, because it has me feeling gutsy enough to ask the question I’ve been turning over in my head for a full week now.
“You look like you’re lost in thought,” he says when I grow quiet.
I pull in a breath, gathering my courage. “I’m sorry. I’m just thinking . . . Will you tell me why you turned me down?”
The words spill from my lips quicker than I can catch them, and the shock in Wolfie’s eyes is proof that I should have kept that thought to myself. But I can’t just sit and wonder all night. Maybe if I understand his reasoning, the rejection won’t sting so much.
Wolfie is silent, apart from the long, slow breath that leaves his lips. His eyes remain fixed on the fire, as if the answer is hidden in its flames.
“Is it me?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No.”
It’s not much of an answer, but it’s a start.
I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t say another word. Instead, he stares at the fire, watching the flames lick away at the blackened edges of the logs.
“Listen, Wolfie, if you’re not attracted to me, you can just say so and I—”
“Stop.” He scrubs one hand through his dark hair, heaving an unsteady sigh. It takes a long, tense moment, but his dark gaze finally returns to meet mine. “You’re gorgeous, Penelope. Absolutely stunning. It has nothing to do with that.”
Warmth shoots from my chest to my fingertips. I don’t know if it’s from him or the bourbon. Maybe both. But I’ve never been called stunning before. It’s a rush.
“So, is it Connor then?” I ask. My brother must be the reason Wolfie won’t act on our mutual attraction.
He shifts, meeting my eyes briefly. “No, that’s not it. Although, fuck, it probably should be.”
“Then what?” By now, I feel like I’m practically begging. What could possibly be so bad that he can’t just tell me?
I shift closer until we’re knee to knee, our faces only a few dangerous inches apart. I’m playing with fire and I know it, but I don’t care. I want to know. I want to understand him.
