Beth Andrews – The Prodigal Son (страница 4)

Brady pulled out a chair and sat at the table. “What’s the rule about my sex life?”

“It’s boring and pathetic?”

“It’s not up for discussion.”

“Who’s discussing it? I was making a simple observation. It’s not like I need a play-by-play of whatever it was J.C. did that put that sappy grin on your face.”

Brady gave one of his patented I was a Marine and yes, I will rip your head off and shove that fork down your throat if you say another word looks.

“Fine.” Matt glanced down the hallway to Brady’s closed bedroom door. “Uh…you were with J.C., weren’t you?” Hey, it was a good question considering that at one time, Brady had been engaged to J.C.’s older sister, Liz.

Brady pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why are you here?”

“Aidan left a message on my cell phone yesterday about a top secret Sheppard brother meeting at eight.”

“That’s thirty minutes from now. And you’re never on time anyway. Especially in the morning.”

Matt transferred the cooked French toast to a paper plate and added more to the pan. “It’s ten at night in South Australia.”

“You’re not in Australia.”

No shit. In Australia—and everywhere outside of Jewell—he was a highly respected, highly sought-after vintner.

Here he was the family black sheep.

His fingers tightened around the fork. Too bad his old man hadn’t lived long enough to see his youngest son amount to something despite his predictions. Matt forced his fingers to relax. Good thing he’d long ago stopped caring what his family thought of him.

“I’m not in Australia,” he said, “but my body thinks I am. And since I was up, I figured I might as well come on over. Once I realized you were otherwise occupied, I decided to make myself at home.”

Brady stood and held his hand out. “Give it to me.” Matt handed him the plate but his brother shook his head. “No. Give me the spare key.”

The spare key their mother kept at her house in case she needed to get into the cottage that sat on the Sheppards’ property. The cottage Brady currently occupied.

“You’re moving out after the wedding,” Matt noted, tossing the plate onto the table. “What’s the problem?”

“You let yourself into my house when I was still in bed,” Brady said as if Matt was a few grapes shy of a cluster. “You’re in my kitchen, blaring music—”

“Only so I couldn’t hear all that moaning and groaning coming from your bedroom.”

“—making breakfast—”

“For which you should be grateful, seeing as how I made plenty for all of us. That includes J.C.”

“Where is it?” Brady asked, his tone low and dangerous.

Matt grinned and patted the front pocket of his jeans. “Right where it’s going to stay.”

Turning, he flipped the bread. A vise closed around his neck, choking off his amusement. No, not a vise, he realized as Brady yanked him away from the stove, but his brother’s forearm. Before Matt could escape, Brady pivoted, clasping his hands together to tighten the headlock.

“The key. Now.”

Matt pulled on his brother’s arm but it didn’t budge. “You want it?” he asked, unable to hide the challenge—or the glee—in his voice. “Go ahead and get it.”

Brady squeezed, cutting off the last of Matt’s words along with his breath. “I get the key,” he said, dragging Matt toward the table, “and you get to walk upright once again. And save what’s left of your dignity for getting your ass kicked by a guy with a bum knee.”

“Ass kicked?” Matt muttered, doing his damndest to shake his brother’s hold. “I’m taking it easy so I don’t hurt you.”

“You keep telling yourself that.” Then, in a move reminiscent of when they were kids, Brady gave him a quick, rough noogie.

Bum knee or not, the bastard was going down. Matt grabbed Brady’s hip with his right hand while shifting his body to the left. Pushing him off balance, he reached underneath Brady’s left leg—conscious of the fact it was his bad leg—and lifted it off the ground.

Brady’s arm constricted, cutting into Matt’s windpipe. “If I’m going to hit the floor,” he warned, “I’m taking you with me.”

“Is something burning?”

They froze. J. C. Montgomery padded into the kitchen wearing a pair of pink sweatpants and a long-sleeved brown top stretched to its limit over her pregnant stomach. She wrinkled her nose at what Matt now recognized as the scent of burned French toast, her big brown eyes widening.

“Sorry,” Brady said, hopping to maintain his balance. “Did we wake you?”

“That’s all right,” she said absently, tilting her head to the side to study them. “I hate to ask a stupid question but…is this one of those male bonding things? Because if you two pull out the bongo drums and start chanting, I’ll get my phone so I can record it. I’m sure it’ll be a huge hit on YouTube.”

“We’re not bonding,” Matt said. “We’re fighting. I was just about to drop your fiancé on his head.”

“Oh. Well, that makes perfect sense. But since the wedding’s in five days, I’d really prefer if he didn’t suffer any head injuries. At least until after the ceremony. Besides,” she added, “the physical therapist swore Brady will be able to dance with me at our wedding. As long as he doesn’t do anything to strain his knee.”

She stared at the knee in question—the one in Matt’s hands.

Sighing, he let go of his brother. “Killjoy.”

“That’s me,” she said. “A giant fun-suck. How about we arrange a wrestling match for the reception? Maybe one of those cage matches? That is, if I can find a company that rents…” She frowned. “Brady. The fight’s over. You can let go of Matt.” When he hesitated, she raised her eyebrows. “Now.”

He mumbled under his breath, something about dead bolts, alarm systems and idiot brothers, before the pressure around Matt’s neck eased.

Slipping out of Brady’s hold, Matt smiled at J.C. then took the few steps necessary to cross to her. He gripped her arms. “Good morning, gorgeous.”

Then he gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek.

As he eased back, Brady growled. It made Matt want to kiss J.C. again.

“Uh…good morning to you, too.” She peeked around his shoulder at Brady. “You never told me your family was so…affectionate in the morning.”

“He just did that to piss me off,” Brady said.

“Not true,” Matt claimed. “Though that’s a nice side benefit. But the truth is,” he continued, lowering his voice and leaning closer to J.C., “I’m weak. I have a hard time resisting a beautiful woman.”

She blushed and attempted to smooth her wildly curling mane of dark hair. Damn, but she was a sweetheart. Brady had somehow hit the jackpot. That is, if you considered being tied to one woman for the rest of your life winning big.

Brady cleared his throat. “If you’re done flirting with my fiancée, you might want to check your breakfast. It’s on fire.”

With a wink at J.C., Matt went back to the stove. There weren’t any flames, just a lot of thick smoke. Matt flipped the burner to low while Brady opened the small window over the sink.

After he dumped the burned food into the garbage can, Matt unwound several paper towels from the roll, balled them up and wiped out the pan before setting it back on the burner. “How about some French toast?” he asked J.C., adding fresh butter to the pan.

She looked up from pouring herself a large glass of orange juice. “You don’t have to cook for me. I can fix some—”

“It’s the least I can do.”

“He’s got that right,” Brady muttered.

“Well,” J.C. said as she picked the fork Matt had dropped earlier off the floor, “if you really don’t mind…”

“Honey, I never mind cooking breakfast for a woman.”

She smiled. “In that case, I’d love some.”

In less than ten minutes, Matt made what he considered enough French toast to feed a family of five. Or at least two grown men and one pregnant lady. By the time the food was ready, Brady had donned a shirt and he and J.C. had paper plates, forks, an unopened container of syrup and a stick of butter still in its wrapper on the table.

They’d started eating when Aidan came into the kitchen, his blond hair neatly trimmed, his dark slacks crisply pleated. “Morning,” he said to the room at large as he went to the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. He took a sip, his eyes on Matt. “I didn’t think you’d bother showing up until at least eight-thirty.”

Giving himself time to hide a quick burst of irritation, Matt swallowed the food in his mouth. Just like their father, Aidan always thought the worst of him. “Hey, you know I’m happy to obey your orders.”

“Why, what time is it?” J.C. asked, sounding panicked. Before any of them could reply, she grabbed Matt’s hand and twisted it so she could read his watch. “Crap. I’m late.” Leaping to her feet, she drained her juice glass. “I’m supposed to meet Mrs. Wertz in ten minutes for my last dress fitting.”

“Don’t you have the day off?” Brady asked.

“Yes, but she doesn’t, and I asked her to squeeze me in before she goes to work. Thanks for breakfast,” she called before rushing out of the room. A moment later, the front door banged shut.

Matt scratched his cheek. “Does she realize it’s barely thirty degrees out and she’s not wearing any shoes or a coat?”