Page 8 of No More Secrets
He closed a hand over hers clutching the knife. “I’ve got this. Why don’t you sit and interrogate my mother?”
Those long lashes fluttered as her eyes widened in surprise. He knew she felt it too. That zing of current that passed through them every time their hands met.
She had changed and put her hair up, revealing the curve of her neck. Those full lips, painted with a tempting cherry gloss, were parted. The rounded neckline of her sweater would have seemed modest to anyone shorter. But at six-foot-three-inches, Carter was afforded an accidental and spectacular view.
He frowned. He was thirty. Not seventeen. Leering at a houseguest, no matter how punch-in-the-gut gorgeous, was not acceptable or respectful.
He couldn’t exactly remember the last time he’d had sex. And that meant it had been way too long. He’d been busy, had other things on his mind. But since Summer had walked in, it had been theonlything on his mind.
She handed over the knife and then bobbled her wine glass in her haste to get out of his way.
Carter caught his mother’s smug smile out of the corner of his eye and frowned harder. He knew nothing would make her happier than to see him stupid in love. But a fling with a writer that he’d never see again? That didn’t qualify.
He concentrated on salvaging what was left of the carrot while Summer peppered his mother with questions about the farm’s humble beginnings. He moved on, expertly dicing pepper, onion, and radish.
“You’re good with a knife,” Summer observed. He hadn’t rattled her too badly, he decided.
Carter snuck a piece of pepper off the mound and popped it into his mouth.
“Is that kitchen or Army expertise?” she pressed.
His brother’s greeting from the front door saved Carter the trouble of answering.
Beckett strolled into the kitchen carrying a six-pack, his wingtips echoing on the hardwood.
“Didn’t we say dinner was casual?” Carter eyed Beckett’s pinstriped trousers and unwrinkled button down. Only his brother would wear a starched, white shirt to a spaghetti dinner. The only nod to casual was that Beckett had removed his tie and opened his top button.
Carter and his youngest brother, Jackson, shared a suspicion that Beckett slept in a suit.
“Give me a break,” Beckett grumbled. “Mediation ran long. Didn’t I order my spaghetti with no beard hair?”
“Boys!” Phoebe said in mock exasperation. “Not in front of our company.”
Carter saw the exact second that Beckett registered Summer’s appeal. There was a widening of his eyes, and he smoothly shifted into baby-kissing mode.
“You must be Summer,” he said, taking her hand in both of his.
“And you must be Phoebe’s favorite son,” Summer quipped.
“You’re obviously very observant,” he grinned down at her.
“Writers generally are,” Carter muttered, glowering at Beckett behind Summer’s back. His brother was still staring and still holding her hand. He put the knife down on the cutting board a little louder than necessary.
“What’s in the six-pack?”
Beckett finally let go of Summer’s hand and brought the pack around the island. “A variety of BP’s finest.”
Carter met him at the fridge and opened the doors.
“Why didn’t you tell me she looked like that?” Beckett hissed, throwing an elbow in Carter’s gut.
“Don’t even think about it,” he muttered, checking Beckett with his shoulder.
“Are you calling dibs?”
“She’s a woman, not the last piece of fucking pie. And yes, I’m calling dibs if it keeps your hands off of her.”
“Did someone say pie?” Summer asked hopefully from across the island.
