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Especially Jumper.
“You know,” Gear says, glancing over at me as he grabs a beer from the counter. “I think she might be on par with you, Roost.”
Lennon gasps, jumping up onto the counter and folding her legs underneath her as she steals a piece of sausage off my pizza, popping it into her mouth. “Excuse me? I don’t give him shit. It’s just called boundaries.”
“Same thing,” Gear shoots back with a laugh.
“Absolutely fucking not.” She points at Jumper. “That man walked into someone’s house without knocking. Clearly someone needs to teach him basic manners.”
“Your house,” Jumper mutters, shaking his head. “I thought we were friends, Len.”
Lennon’s eyes find mine and she shakes her head.
“Dalton’s house.”
No.
That doesn’t feel right.
Ours.
This is our house.
She belongs here.
With me, giving my brothers shit as we eat pizza and drink beer.
They continue to go back and forth, laughing and yelling at each other about who was more out of line. The house is alive in a way I never imagined it would be when I start planning and building it.
It’s home.
The first one I’ve ever truly had in my life.
And it’s family.
The only one I’ve ever known. And somewhere along the way, she became part of that picture without me even realizing it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lennon
“Dude, are you actually fucking carrying your side,” Dalton grumbles, his muscles straining against his black t-shirt as he backs into the house through the front door. In his hands is one end of the large chocolate brown sofa he bought today.
“Yeah, fucker. I am,” Jumper shoots back, carrying the other side as they maneuver it through the doorframe. “It’s not my damn fault that you bought a couch that weighs a thousand damn pounds.”
Dalton scoffs. “Maybe you just need to hit the gym.”
“That’s it,” he snaps. “We’ll go to the ring after this and see what you have to say then.”
I can see Gear just behind Jumper with one of the couch cushions in his hands. He rolls his eyes, a grin on his face. “Jump, he’d wipe the fucking floor with your face and we all know it.”
Jumper gasps. “Not my fucking face. You can’t fuck up my best asset.”
“How unfortunate if that’s your best asset,” I say, arching a brow and fighting back a grin. Jumper’s head whips in my direction and he pins me with a glare.
“Fucking rude, dude.”
With a giggle, I shrug and turn back to the kitchen counter. There are plastic shopping bags on every inch of it, stuffed full of plates, cups, mugs, silverware, pots, pans, utensils and everything else Dalton needed for his new house. Which was absolutely everything since the man only had an air mattress when we stayed here for the first time on Tuesday.
