Page 45 of The Bronze Garza
The two men exchange glances, and there seems to be some twin conversation thing going on.
“I’m making a smoothie,” I interrupt, because having a twin-brain conversation right now is impolite. “Do you want one?”
The happy twin’s grin widens and he begins striding into the kitchen. “Sure, we’d love—ow!”
The serious twin takes him by the ear and pulls him in the direction of the front door, all while telling me, “Thanks. But we’ve gotta get to work. Have a great day, Lyra.”
“That’s not fair,” I call after them. “You know my name and I don’t know yours.”
“I’m Trueman!” the happy twin replies right before he’s shoved out the door.
The other one just leaves without giving me a name, shutting the door behind them. Rude much?
Once I’m done making my smoothie, I climb onto the kitchen island, sit cross-legged, and sip it slowly while I read book blogs on my phone. Torin hates it when I sit on the island countertop, so naturally, I do it all the more to piss him off.
Some minutes later, he emerges from his office in a hunter-green t-shirt stained with sweat and clinging to his muscles. He stops and scowls when he sees me cross-legged on the island, and I fight my gaze from dropping to his sweatpants to check for a dick-print.
“What did I say, Lyra?”
I feign ignorance. “About?”
His hands jerk at his sides and his long fingers crook inward as though he’s struggling to restrain himself from wrapping them around my throat and strangling the life out of me.
Then, he takes a breath, shakes his head as if silently reasoning with himself that killing me wouldn’t be worth it, and strides past me to the fridge instead.
Operation “Piss Torin Garza Off”successful.
“You’re out of fruits and veggies,” I say before taking a gulp of my smoothie.
“No shit,” he mutters dryly.
“Who were the twins just now?”
He pours coconut milk into a shaker bottle. “My brothers.”
“Really?” I perk up, latching on to the only opportunity I might ever get to learn more about him. “I don’t see the resemblance.”
While the twins have more of a tawny tone, Torin’s is richer, deeper, warm.Breathtaking.
“Same father, different mothers,” he says, adding protein powder to the milk.
“They’re half-Italian, too?”
“Father’s the Italian, so yeah.”
“How many siblings do you have?”
After adding some cinnamon, he covers the shaker bottle and starts shaking it. “Four.” Throwing me a disgruntled glance, he grumbles, “A little early for your usual string of questions, don’t you think?”
One in a brood of five? Nice.
“Forgive my piqued interest,” I retort, “but finding out that you have actual contemporary humans for family and not a bunch of grunting Neanderthals is just a little shocking.”
He lances me a glare.
“Now I can’t wait to meet your parents,” I enthuse, teasing. “I’ve gotsomany questions for them.”
“You won’t,” he mumbles in a less churly tone and starts out of the kitchen.
