Page 31 of My Brother's Best Men
Though I know the wine isn’tentirelyto blame, if I’m being honest—but I don’t want to be honest right now. What I want is to take a damn nap and open my eyes to the pristine beach of Paradise.
Just as I open my mouth to speak, the attendant comes over the loudspeaker and announces that our plane is boarding, and all the appraising gazes and chastising words about my tardiness go out the window as we all make our way with the crowd towardthe line. I file in behind my brother, with Matthew behind me. I offer to grab my carry-on, but being thegentlemanhe is, he refuses to let me carry it even five feet from the ramp to the airplane.
Part of me kind of likes that, honestly. Keaton prided himself on being a gentleman too, due to his privileged upbringing, and while he did hold doors for me and walk on the outside of the street, I can’t recall him ever picking up my things or carrying my luggage on any of the trips we took together.
And then it dawns on me that Matthew may be the first man to ever actually carry my luggage. How sad is that? That no man has ever made the effort to do that in the last ten years?
My body heats as I realize he’sstaringat me. Or more, staring at my ass. I’m not obtuse; I know he was looking earlier. Plus, Matthew has never exactly been subtle about checking me out or flirting with me.
When we were younger, it felt kind of taboo. It wasn’tthatmuch of an age gap, but it was still a gap. I was seventeen on the cusp of my eighteenth birthday, and he was just a freshman. But despite my resistance when it came to his flirtations, I can’t deny that I liked the attention. Or rather, Matthew’s form of attention.
His little smirks and jokes. The way he’d always burrow closer to me on the couch to look at my book with examples, pretending he was doing it to get a better look when I knew it was just a ploy to get close to me.
And like the dangerous woman I was, I leaned closer every time too, just so I could get a whiff of him. He always smelled so good. Not like the guys who practically bathed in Axe, but good like acampfire smells good. Smoky, spicy, and sweet all at the same time.
I move up in the line, getting another whiff of that familiar spicy scent and sucking in a breath, letting it fill my lungs. It settles my nerves, even if it’s only for a moment.
When I board the plane, I move down slightly so Matthew can toss my bag up in the overhead compartment, nearly freezing when I realize where my seat is.
Benny’s gaze catches mine for a moment before my eyes drift to the middle seat that’s open. I look at Elijah.
“Uh…” I say stupidly, blinking like it’s morse code and somehow he’ll understand what my lips fail to speak.
“Get up, asshole. Don’t make her crawl over you,” Benny bites out, his tone sharper than I’ve ever heard it before.
Elijah blinks, almost as if he’s finally remembered where he’s at.
Same, Elijah, same.
“Oh…right.” He gets up, slipping out as Matthew steps to the side, casting me a soft look with a half smile.
“I’m in the back, so…I’ll see you when we land?”
I nod. “Thanks for carrying my stuff,” I say, tucking some stray hair behind my ear.
“No problem, baby,” he says, and I note the way Elijah tenses, which makes me feel startlingly aware of his body as I brush past him. He lets out a grunt as I fall into the seat, hurrying to buckle up and take a deep breath.
“Sit down,” Benny directs, his voice tinged in annoyance.
Elijah’s cheeks are flushed as he runs a hand through his hair as he plops down next to me. “Sorry, just…out of it this morning, I guess. Didn’t sleep well.”
I try to pull the belt to tighten it, but it’s stuck. Fuck.
“Oh, you’re fine,” I say, trying not to stare at his mouth. Trying not to remember how it tastes…
I try to pull the belt again, but it’s no use. “Come on,” I mutter as Eli asks if I’m okay.
“Fine,” I say as I try again, and this time my hand slips and I end up hitting Eli right in the stomach.
“Fuck!” He lets out a hiss as he sucks in a breath.
Benny chuckles. “Karma is a bitch, ain’t it, Eli?”
“Fuck you, Benny,” Elijah says breathlessly.
Benny reaches over slightly, grasping my seatbelt, his dark blue gaze catching mine.
“Allow me, princess,” he says, and my gaze drops to his large, tattooed hand, those long fingers decorated with skulls and moths and butterflies among poison bottles and Roman numerals. Immediately I’m taken back to the other night, remembering the tattoos covering his chest and arms. His back.
