Page 55 of Betting on the Boy Next Door
Then again . . .
I get hold of myself and give him a snake-ishhisssssss.No tongue flicking.
He grabs me around the waist and pulls me into his lap, settling his face into the curve of my neck and hugging me. “You are a goddess among women. I owe you forever.”
I laugh—tricky, since he’s stolen my breath with the feel of his thighs beneath mine and the warmth of his chest against my back. Then I loosen his arms, stand and wash my hands, and turn toward the bathroom door. “I’m going to go graze on the appetizers.”
As I open it, his dad calls, “Josh! Second quarter!”
I walk out, not looking to see whether he follows. I’m not mad at him. I just . . . I need a break. I need air that smells less like wealth and expensive leather sectionals, and more like . . .
Fritos.
I follow my nose to the kitchen. Trace and Mr. Brower have small empty plates that hint of snacks, and sure enough, there’s a seven-layer dip, a few jalapeno poppers, and some of the fat Fritos for scooping.
This is my kind of finger food.
I scoop up enough bean dip to equal an entire serving size, and I’m biting into a popper to chase it down when Gramps walks into the room. I hold a hand up to my mouth to spare him the sight of the mastication massacre.
“Gal, you best not be ruining your appetite,” he says. “I make the best brisket for a hundred miles.”
Gramps carries himself like he’s tall, but age has curled his shoulders slightly, and I would bet he’s not as tall as he was in his youth. He’s got a full head of hair but it’s snowy white, and I guess him to be around eighty-five. I’d put money on it. I’m an expert these days.
Maybe more than carrying himself like he’s tall, he carries himself like he’s never worried about how much space he takes up in a room. It’s a Texas cowboy thing, and I like it. I’m used to it, even. I feel comfortable for the first time since I stepped into the house. Maybe it’s the glint in his eye that hints at a sense of humor, or maybe it’s the lines around his mouth and eyes that say they’ve done more laughing than scowling. Maybe it’s just being around old people all day long.
Whatever it is, I relax and lean against the counter, studying him. “That is a bold claim to make in Travis County.” The heart of Texas barbecue is Austin, no matter what Dallas tries to say.
“You don’t get to my age by making unsubstantiated claims.” He sounds smug, and I grin.
“Ninety-two?” He looks offended and I laugh. “Kidding, sir. You’re eighty-five.”
“Is that a fact, smarty-pants?”
“That is a fact.”
He sniffs. “Josh told you.”
“No, sir. Am I wrong?”
He eyes me. “Made eighty-five in October.”
“Please say you’re a Libra and not a Scorpio.”
“You believe all that nonsense?”
“Not even a little bit.”
He gives a cackle. “You’re all right, girl.”
Somehow, it doesn’t bother me when the old people call me girl. I half expect him to offer me a Werther’s.
Mr. Brower walks in and pulls a beer from the fridge. “Hey, Pops. How’s the brisket?”
“Do you even have to ask?” The older man opens the French doors leading out to a gorgeous patio and yard. A smoker sits near the doors, and a delicious whiff wafts in as he examines the temperature.
Mr. Brower chuckles. “No, I don’t. Can’t wait. You’re in for a real treat, Samantha.”
“Thanks for letting me crash your family dinner, Mr. Brower.”
