Page 64 of Don't Say You're Sorry

His smug expression doesn’t change, the cocky fucker, though he doesn’t reply.

Removing myself from his tight grip, I walk over to Adam and press my chest to his back, my mouth near his ear. “Wanna play a game?”

He almost chokes on the beer. Setting it down, he all but runs upstairs with me hot on his heels.

This time, he’s the one throwing my ass in the pool.

CHAPTER 23

ADAM

The next morning, I find Axel in the kitchen. He’s shirtless, shaking his ass in a pair of football shorts as he dishes out bacon onto the several plates lined up on the worktop. He’s singing—badly—to whatever song is playing through his headphones. He’s got his back to me, but I recognize the apron he’s wearing. It says “Eat my meat” on the front. It’s his favorite out of his extensive collection of aprons.

Exasperated, I look at Easton, who’s sitting at the island with a half-eaten sausage stabbed on a fork. He must have swiped it when Axel wasn’t looking.

“He’s still a morning person, huh?” Easton asks.

I sigh, waving a hand at my brother’s back. Clearly.

He’s still dancing, oblivious to my presence here.

“Does Nate know about this?” I ask Easton.

He shrugs. “Haven’t seen him.”

“Great,” I mutter, walking over to Axel and snatching the headphones off his head.

Still singing, he snatches them back, wrapping them around the back of his neck.

“Axel, what are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

“We’ve talked about this. You have to ask people before you use their kitchens.”

“I did ask.”

“You asked Nate?” I check, knowing he likes this house to look a certain way at all times.

“Yes, Adam.” He nods. “This morning. I ran into him after he got back from his run.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he wouldloveto eat my meat,” he says dryly, popping some sliced bread into the toaster.

“He did not say that.”

“No, I said that,” he admits. “He threatened me. I still have all my teeth though, so I’d say the encounter went pretty well.”

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose as I grab two mugs from the cupboard. As I pour myself and Easton a cup of coffee, I ask Axel, “What are you making?”

“Breakfast.”

“English?”

“Obviously.” Propping his hands on his hips, he frowns at the line of plates in front of him. “Easton, why am I missing a sausage?”

“No idea,” Easton mumbles around the last bite of the missing sausage.

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