“That said, I have an issue, and I’ve been saying so, and you testosterone-fueled dummies aren’tlisteningto it.”
“You’re tiny,” Fox replies. “And you use it to your advantage enough that denying it is ridiculous.”
“Excuse you,” I protest. “I use it to my advantage no more than you use your height to yours!”
“And yet, only one of us is in denial about our size,” he mutters.
I harrumph.
“You’re good?” Wolfe asks me, eyes oscillating between my face and Fox’s.
I hesitate, staring at the almost copy-paste version of Fox in front of me—if Fox bleached his hair white, developed a sense of humor, had roughly a trillion more tattoos, and developed a healthy dose ofnot the absolute worst.
Not for the first time, I bemoan not being attracted to my boss’ single twin brother. How much easier things would be if I were. I could’ve married into the family, eliminating Fox’s…whateverabout me taking a place he believes belongs to him.
Alas. Wolfe just doesn’t do it for me. As nice as he is to look at, he’s a little too gentle for my tastes. A little too sweet. A little too doesn’t-give-me-butterflies-with-barely-a-touch. A little too I-would-feel-bad-being-mean-to-him.
Meanwhile, his brother falls too far in the opposite direction, all too easy to be mean to but too infuriating to make that meanness truly playful.
It’s too bad Almond’s not my type. We could’ve had a beautiful, perfectly-balanced love story full of all the sweetness Wolfe offers balanced by the roughness of Fox. Almond, my dearest friend, a balance between her brothers—the ultimate soulmate. And, unfortunately, very much a woman, thus very much not for me.
To live is to suffer.
“Poem?” Wolfe calls. He takes a step closer. “Are you okay?”
I blink away my missed opportunities. “No,” I answer. “I’ve just been accused of being very small. I am in distress.”
I tip my head in the barest of nods, answering his question in a real way. I am, in fact, okay. Because Fox is right. If I weren’t, I’d make it known loud and clear, as mentioned.
“Daddy!” Amia’s voice rings out from the tangle of children near the gift pile. “Daddy, can we do presents now?”
Wolfe’s head turns that way, then back to us. His brows furrow.
“Go,” Fox says. “We’ll work it out.”
I snort as Wolfe’s face slides into disbelief.
“We promise not to ruin Amia’s birthday party,” I offer a more believable scenario. “Right, Fox?”
“Of course,” he grumbles, offended.
Wolfe sighs as Amia yells for him again. “Behave,” he tells me. “And benice,” he orders his brother.
“I’m always nice,” Fox flat out lies as Wolfe walks away.
“Like four seconds ago you told me to find someone who wants to be around me to play with,” I remind him as the butterflies remindmeof their presence. “Which, by the way, would be a lot easier to do if you weren’t manhandling me.”
“I’m not manhandling you,” he says, but does not let me go.
I slide my hands up over his, patting them as I look down. Yep, still there—just as the butterflies told me—and still attached to his body, too.
“Well, why don’t you stopnot manhandlingme?” I suggest. “I want to watch Amia open gifts.” Without the tingling stomach, if he pleases.
He does not please.
He moves, twisting us until his back is to the bar table and we’re facing the booths where Amia sits amidst a pile of presents, her long, dark hair flying as she whips her head aroundto take them all in. Her smile could light up entire nations, missing front teeth and all.
I smile at the little cutie, then gasp when Fox leans back against the table, pulling me off-kilter into him. “There,” he says. “We can argue while we watch.”
