“Only my brother.”
“Oh.” He set the tongs down, uncertainty clouding his eyes, his brow creasing. “Do you want me to leave?”
Irritated that Ethan had ruined my plans, I glared at Press. “No, are you crazy? I’m getting rid of him.”
Press shrugged. “You can ask him in. There’s more than enough if he wants to eat.” He nibbled on that lower lip I had plans on sucking…kissing… “And really. I can go if you two want to talk.”
“Baby, the only place you’re going is under or over me. Why so anxious?”
He shrugged. “I don’t want to be in your way, that’s all.”
The tapping at the window grew more insistent, and I glared at Ethan and jerked my thumb upward. When he trudged up the steps, I gave Press a deep but swift kiss.
“Your way is my way right now. So stop it, please. I’ll be right back.”
Hurtling up the steps, I got to the front door and yanked it open before Ethan could ring again.
“What are you doing here?”
His gaze traveled up and down, and despite my being close to forty, heat rushed over me when I realized I was barefoot, bare-chested, and hadn’t shaved.
“Obviously interrupting,” he said with a snicker and breezed past me like he owned my house. I guess technically he did, since the brownstone remained in my mother’s name.
“Yes, so buzz off, big brother.” I remained by the open door.
“Not on your life. Don’t you want to introduce me to your latest?” Alarm rose in his eyes. “Please tell me he’s older than the last one I caught you with. You swore he was twenty-five, but he looked nineteen and—”
“Shut up,” I said, irritated beyond reason, not only because Ethan had ruined my plans with Press for the rest of the morning, but because he’d dredged up the time he saw me at one of my lower points. We’d gone to a fund raiser, and yeah, I’d had too much to drink, so when the sexy waiter with the even sexier French accent whispered he wanted to ask me a question, I followed him to the men’s room, hoping it wasVoulez vous coucher avec moi. Ethan walked in on us frantically kissing, Marcel’s hand on my zipper, me a hairbreadth away from paradise. I’d swayed and stared at him through my vodka-induced fog, while Marcel and his sexy accent hightailed it out of there faster than you could saymerde.
“I’m worried about you. I texted a few times yesterday, but you didn’t answer, and I called you last night, but you didn’t pick up, and—”
“Did it ever occur to you I might be on a date?” I folded my arms and leaned against the wall. Each time I walked into the foyer, I thought of that first time with Press and his hot, clinging kisses. Damn, I couldn’t leave him sitting downstairs like some trick I was hiding. “Come on downstairs. I have bacon and coffee. You can meet him.”
“A date? You were on a date?” On my heels, Ethan repeated this refrain several times.
The dull throb of a headache rose behind my eyes, and I flung over my shoulder, “Yes. A goddamn date with a nice guy. So stop sounding like Polly Parrot, and I’ll introduce you.”
A heavy hand dropped on my shoulder at the foot of the staircase. “Nate. Stop a second.” He turned me around, and I was ten years old again and wishing I could be my big brother Ethan who had everything. “I’m kidding. Really. And if this guy is someone you’ve been dating and want to have a relationship with, then I’m thrilled.” His voice caught, and I couldn’t—wouldn’t—reveal how much I’d come to need Press in my life.
“It’s only a few dates, but we’ll see. You’ll see now too.”
Ethan searched my face, nodded. “Okay, I get it. When it’s special, you don’t want to talk too much about it. Let me meet him, and I’ll see if he’s good enough for my baby brother.”
Oh, Press was good enough; too good for me, in fact. That was my fear. He’d find out there was nothing real about Nate Sherman and leave, dimming that starlight and forcing me back into the darkness.
“Come on, then.”
We walked into the bright kitchen, where Press sat at the table. He rose, a hesitant smile on his lips. Sadly, he’d buttoned his jeans, but he still looked mouthwateringly sexy and delicious.
“Press, this is my brother and chief pain in the ass, Ethan Sherman. Ethan, this is Presley Dawson. We met at the grief support group. Press owns Dawson’s Antiques, over on 74th.”
“Nice to meet you, Ethan. It’s obvious you two are related. You could almost be twins.”
Although Ethan covered his surprise quickly, I saw the look. He hadn’t expected to find someone near my age, and relatable. Granted, I couldn’t blame him. Most of the guys I’d been with over the years looked better when I was half a bottle down and didn’t care what they said as long as yes was in there somewhere.
I chuckled. “Except for his gray hair.”
“I bet I could still whip your ass in the pool or on the court, baby brother. Name your time and place.” Ethan smirked. He always was better at sports than me, tennis and swimming being his top two games.
