Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Yup. Friends. We’ll always be friends.
“I can remind him who you are … and who I am too, if you want.”
“Maddox Carmichael, I’m not sure anyone needs to be reminded of who you are.”
I smile and pull out of the parking lot too.
THREE
Maddox
The package of tacos slides across the countertop, rattling the bright pink bowl in the center of the island.
I drop my keys and sunglasses inside the dish. The system of depositing my things there as soon as I walk in the door has surprisingly worked to keep me organized. I laughed at my sister, Paige, when she plunked the bowl down in my kitchen and explained the process almost a year ago. But, given she let me borrow her car twice in one week—because I lost both sets of my Jeep keys—I had to give it a try.
If only I could get Banks to give it a whirl ...
The last rays of the setting sun filter through the kitchen. Remnants of my hurried breakfast, a peanut butter and jelly bagel, sit next to the toaster. I can hear my mother’s voice in the back of my head, warning me that I’ll get palmetto bugs if I don’t get it cleaned up.
My right shoulder aches from an old wrestling injury as I shrug off my shirt and toss it onto the counter. I turn toward the toaster to clean up the palmetto bait when movement in the doorway leading into the living room catches my attention.
Banks walks into the room. His eyes are glued to his phone.
Fucking great.
“Hey,” I say, a little more forceful than necessary.
He looks up and jumps, almost dropping the device in the process.
“Dammit, Mad,” he says, sighing. He has the audacity to look annoyed. “Can’t you yell or something when you come home?”
“Yeah. I’m about to yell right now, as a matter of fact.”
He rolls his eyes. “It would be a little late for that considering I already know you’re here.”
Is he serious right now?
Banks hums as he sits on one of the stools that overlook the sink. “Please don’t turn into Moss and Jess and get all … persnickety about me being here. You’re my favorite brother for a reason.”
“Persnickety?” I let go of my annoyance—it won’t do any good anyway because this is Banks, after all—and grab a disinfectant wipe from beneath the sink. “Who were you talking to today? Did you screw up and wander into a library or something?”
He ignores the question.
“Persnickety.” He enunciates every syllable. “A delivery guy used it when he was dropping off a 1954 Bel Air for us to restore.” He whistles between his teeth. “You should see this baby. I can’t wait to get my hands on her.”
I toss the chunk of bagel that I didn’t eat into the trash. “Don’t let Betsy hear you say that.”
He fires me a look, warning and pleading with me not to tease him about his pet name for his Corvette—a name none of us knew until Jess stole the car out of Banks’s garage. What a mess that was.
“Do you want to hit the gym?” I ask, needing to rid myself of the tension that I’ve carried since my client asked me if they could go through the house they are never going to buy just once more. “I—”
“You went to La Pachanga?” He grabs the bag of tacos and drags it toward him. Then he peeks inside. “And you got tacos? I fucking love you.”
I hold my hands to the side again, as if to say What the fuck? but either the gesture is lost on my little brother, or he doesn’t care.
Probably the latter.
Who am I kidding? Definitely the latter.
Banks is, by all definitions, my best friend. Only eighteen months separate us. And as the two youngest boys out of five—and the most talented and best looking—we had to team up to battle our three brothers and defend our little sister.
Banks and I have kept more secrets for one another, helped each other out of trouble, and had each other’s back through thick and thin more than any two brothers in the history of the world. That being said, Banks is also a giant pain in my ass.
“Help yourself,” I say as he crams half of a taco into his mouth. “Need a drink with that?”
“Please?” he asks, crumbs falling to the counter.
“I was joking.”
“But now I want one.”
His words are muffled through the food.
“You know where I bet you can get a beverage?” I ask, my energy levels falling. Forget the gym. I just want to eat my tacos—if Banks doesn’t eat all of them—take a hot shower, and pass out in front of the television. “Your house.”
“My house?”
“Yeah, your house.” I move to the window and knock on it with my knuckles. The sound echoes through the kitchen. “See that building over there? That’s your house. The whole thing. You can put whatever you want in your fridge, and you can have it whenever you want. Cool, right?”