Page 30 of My Brother’s Best Friend

“I guess so?” My brow furrowed. “I haven’t really read much about that, but I can do some research if you’d like.”

“Oh, you sweet thing.” She patted my cheek. “You and that big brain of yours. Someday, you’ll learn that not everything can be researched in books. Some things, you need to follow your heart to understand. Now, off with it!”

She waved her hands upward peremptorily, and I frowned.

“Off with—”

“Your shirt, dear!”

“Oh. You really don’t have to wash it.”

“If you don’t want those stains to set, yes, I do. It won’t take but a minute, I promise.”

I stifled a sigh and peeled my T-shirt off. It was easier to do what Nana said most of the time. She might seem like she was made of sugar and sunshine, but there was an iron will lurking just beneath the surface.

She eyed my chest when I handed her my shirt, and I had to fight the urge to hunch my shoulders. I was closer to my grandparents than I’d ever been to my actual parents. I knew she wasn’t judging me. But still, I wasn’t that comfortable being shirtless in any context.

“I’ll take a look in Arthur’s closet,” she said, “but I don’t think he has anything that’ll fit you. It’s nice and warm outside, though, so you should be comfortable. Just go on back and say hi. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“I really didn’t mean to interrupt,” I said, my eyes going wide. Whoever this painting instructor was, I definitely didn’t need him seeing me half-naked. “Why don’t I just come back later? We could reschedule for tomorrow, or I could—”

“Or you could march your behind out there right now and be friendly,” Nana said, wagging her finger. “No lurking in here looking for books to get lost in. I can’t imagine you being interested in my magazines, or those thrillers Arthur reads, but knowing you, you’d find a way.”

With a final smile, she headed down the hall to the laundry closet, and I suppressed another sigh. I knew not everything could be looked up in books. I did lots of first-hand research, thank you very much. Like growing my melons.

Or like sucking a guy off at a glory hole? whispered the little voice in the back of my mind. Because that went just great.

Growling, I turned and headed for the back door. That little voice was an asshole. It wasn’t my fault Miller was late. It wasn’t my fault I’d been somewhere else when he finally showed up. It wasn’t my fault that I’d had the most incredible night of my life, culminating in a kiss that left my head spinning.

Or, well, maybe some of that was my fault. The way I’d kissed Jordan back definitely was. The way I’d slipped my hands around his waist, kneading the muscles in his lower back. The way I’d bit his lip, slid my tongue against his, and fucking moaned in public when I got hard.

Dammit. I had to stop thinking about that. Had to put it out of my mind. Had to convince myself, somehow, that it had never happened.

I yanked the back door open and froze.

Jordan was on the patio.

Not just on the patio, but sitting next to my grandfather’s electric wheelchair, holding a palette of paint. He inclined his head as my grandfather said something, listening closely, then nodded and gestured to the easel in front of them.

Jordan was the artist Nana had hired.

I watched, first in shock, then in fascination, as he rotated the palette so my grandfather could reach a glob of purple pigment. He leaned in, listening as Grandpa spoke again. They were too far away to hear, but his face was gentle and attentive.

My grandfather’s hand was shaky as he brought it to the paper. His strokes were both tentative and wild. The doctors kept saying his motor skills would come back, but I knew he was frustrated. Every time he picked up a fork, or a pen, or a brush, he worried he’d drop it. And even if he didn’t, he couldn’t always get it to go where he wanted.

Grandpa had been quicker to anger since the stroke too. I could see the determined set to his chin, the temper building behind his eyes. His brush slashed across the paper, his hand jerking like it was on marionette strings. After a second attempt, he grunted wordlessly and threw it away from him. The brush clattered against the sparkling white patio, spraying purple droplets everywhere.

I pushed the screen door open, ready to rush out and apologize, but Jordan didn’t seem fazed. He just bent down to pick up the brush, turned, and asked my grandfather a quiet question. Grandpa snapped something in response, but Jordan just nodded and pointed to the paper again.

His hand made sweeping motions, like he was painting a scene with his fingertips, and when my grandfather spoke again, his response was a little more measured. After a moment, his eyes crinkled in the corners, the hint of a smile ghosting across his face. Jordan said something else, and suddenly, my grandfather laughed.

It was scratchy and rough, like hinges on a long-forgotten door, but it was a laugh. Something inside me melted. I hadn’t heard Grandpa laugh like that since he’d come back from the hospital.

Jordan handed the brush back to him. When Grandpa brought the tip back to the paper, his movements were just as wild, but this time, he was grinning.

I couldn’t tell what he was painting. It might have been a setting sun behind two hills, with a little pond in the foreground—if ponds could be purple, hills red, and suns blue. Jordan spoke again, the corners of his lips quirking up in a smile, and my grandfather cackled.

“What on earth are you two ruffians laughing about out here?”