CHAPTER 28
MARSHALL
Smith ate all the pasta Silas had dished up for him, and Lincoln sat beside him at the counter, expression wary.
“Sorry about that,” I said, coming into the kitchen to pour my brother and me both a glass of wine. One thing that was nice about having a brother who idolized you was I never had to guess about his likes or dislikes. They very nearly copied my own. I poured a glass for each of us, and before I could return the bottle to its shelf, Lincoln cleared his throat and grinned at me. I poured a third, then a smaller pour for Silas who’d slid back onto his barstool doing everything he could to hide his erection.
“You’re fine,” Smith said with a sigh. “Now that I’m here, it’s all feeling very dramatic.”
“You’re allowed to have feelings,” Lincoln said.
I found myself curious what the two of them had discussed while Silas and I were in the bedroom, but I wasn’t going to pry.
“More dinner?” I offered.
Smith clanked his fork against the side of the bowl but shook his head. “Wine is good.”
“Wine is better with something in your stomach.”
“I ate.” As if to prove his point, he shoved the bowl toward me.
“Have some more,” Lincoln suggested gently, and I was suddenly even more curious about their conversation than I’d been before.
“Tell me about your day, Lincoln,” I said, picking the pot up from the stove and seeing Silas had made more than enough pasta to feed all four of us. Heat expanded in the middle of my chest at the forethought, and I dumped some noodles into Smith’s bowl before shoving it back at him.
“I enjoyed the amenities,” he said with a smile that definitely had the power to take lesser men down. I quickly understood why Silas loved him, and I found myself grateful he had such a kindhearted and reliable friend.
“Did you eat me out of house and home?”
“I’m a gracious guest, Mr. Covington. I would never.”
To his left, Smith groaned.
Lincoln laughed. “Did I hit a nerve?”
“A time and a place for all things,” I said, topping off all of our wine glasses in lieu of recorking the bottle. There wasn’t much left anyway; there’d be no harm in it.
“I’ll put a pin in that.”
“No one calls me Mr. Covington in my own home, Lincoln.”
“Okay.” He made doe eyes at me, and I hoped he couldn’t see through me, straight to the part that did enjoy being called Mr. Covington—in the bedroom. Lincoln turned toward Silas. “Did you put a pin in that?”
“Linc,” he warned.
Thankfully, Lincoln received the message. “Is that one of those ‘Mr. Covington is my father, please call me Marshall’ kind of things?”
Scratching the back of my neck, I leaned against the farcounter so I had a clean line of sight on all three of my houseguests. “Something like that,” I murmured.
Dejectedly, Smith finished his pasta, then made quick work of his wine and leaned back as much as the barstool would allow, which wasn’t much.
“Do you want to sit on the couch? Get comfortable?” I asked my brother, again looking at Lincoln. “Are you spending the night?”
He perked up. “Is that an option?”
Sighing, I carried my wine into the living room, grateful I’d had the foresight to get a conversation-sized couch, not something smaller. Not anything built for only one man.
“I have a guest room.” I sat down in my usual spot on the couch, and Silas tucked in beside me, getting close without climbing on top of me the way we both clearly wanted.
