Page 2 of Sunday's Best

Namely, it’s about the way he immediately went on the defensive when I brought up the message.

“So what—you want to tag along this summer to make sure I don’t breathe in the direction of any girls you think are prettier than you?”

No.

God no.

That’s desperate and pathetic.

“I mean,” I hear myself say, “I have the summer off from teaching anyway…”

He lets out a cruel laugh. “Of course you do.”

Two

Awhole bottle of melatonin couldn’t have put me to sleep last night, and I look it this morning—under eyes bruised with fatigue and reddened salt tracks down my sallow cheeks.

Logan hasn’t said much since our fight yesterday. I haven’t pushed.

I adjust the heavy backpack on my shoulder and tighten my grip on my duffel bag before shuffling out of the house. Logan keeps at least three strides ahead of me, not bothering to look back even when I loudly struggle to hold all my belongings as I lock the front door.

The hum of a diesel engine reverberates through the morning air, a little too reminiscent of Logan’s phone buzzing repeatedly on his nightstand while he slept peacefully. I didn’t look at it. Now I wish I had, because maybe finding clear evidence of him cheating would be enough for me to walk away. Maybe…

Walking away sounds a hell of a lot better than walking toward the devil leaning against the black pickup idling in our driveway, scrolling through his phone. He may be Logan’s twin, but that’s in birthday only. Where Logan’s svelte, with sinewy muscles and long limbs, Holden’s sturdy, with broad shoulders and thighs that strain against his jeans. And while Logan’s friendly—arguably too friendly, when women are involved—and outgoing, Holden carries himself with an aura that screams do not approach.

At the sound of Logan’s heavy bag landing on the ground next to the truck, Holden looks up, and his gaze lands directly on me. His eyebrows jump before falling back into his trademark scowl, and he assesses me, nostrils flaring. “You’re kidding.”

“Sunday’s coming with us,” Logan mutters, roughly snatching the duffel from my hands.

“Didn’t know we were turning this into some kind of couples getaway.”

My eyes cut to Logan, then to his brother. “I’m not here for a getaway.”

He snorts. “Good. Nothin’ romantic about the three of us sharing a hundred square feet. And I’m sure as hell not giving up the queen bed to you two the entire time. We alternate like normal.”

Thanks to my hasty decision-making last night, I didn’t take a minute to consider the sleeping arrangements. For the next two months, we’ll be sharing the small live-in quarters at the front of the guys’ horse trailer. One bathroom. One bed—plus one sofa bed. One damn good chance I’ll murder at least one man this summer.

“Yeah, whatever.” Logan tosses our bags onto the floor of the trailer with an annoyed grunt. “Sunday and I can always pitch a tent.”

Tent? I steal a quick glance back at the house. On second thought, maybe I don’t care all that much about catching him cheating. Maybe I should stay here and use the summer to find a new place to rent so I can break up with him.

Still huffy—maybe even more than before, since nobody is acknowledging his attitude—Logan plunks himself down in the passenger seat and slams the door, leaving me alone with his towering, pestilent, hot brother.

I mean… hot if you’re into assholes who have the width and weight to pin every inch of you to the mattress.

Not hot to me. Obviously.

Holden’s taunting gaze blazes through me. “Damn, a tent in a field filled with livestock and rowdy cowboys? The couples getaway’s getting more romantic by the second.”

“Sleeping under the stars sounds a lot better than sleeping next to you.”

He shrugs, clearly amused. “I’ve been told women see a lot of stars when they sleep with me.”

I grimace, choosing to ignore the heat building in my cheeks. “Didn’t know hell had a good view of the sky.”

“Guess that makes me the devil?” Holden’s cocky grin turns downright wolfish, and his slow lean in is interrupted by the sound of Logan yelling at us to hurry up from the passenger seat. “Better get going before your boyfriend throws a tantrum.”

I sigh, taking a final longing glance back at the house before I clamber into the back of the truck. The leather bench seat’s cracked and worn, and the air has a sharp citrus and woodsy scent from a cluster of air fresheners hung on the rearview mirror. Logan’s slumped down in his seat, ball cap pulled low on his forehead, drowning himself in angry country music.