Dirty Thoughts - Megan Erickson Page 0,7
the call and huffed out a breath.
A strangled sound came from in front of her, and she lifted her gaze to Delilah’s wide eyes. “Did you just tell off your brother?”
Jenna winced, immediately regretting letting her anger get the best of her. “Crap. I should call and apologize, shouldn’t I?” She hovered her finger over the phone button.
Delilah reached across the counter and snatched the phone from Jenna’s hand. “Don’t you dare, Jenna MacMillan. I’m proud of you for yelling at Dill Pickle. Damn, that was the best thing I’ve heard in a while.”
Jenna ran her hand through her hair. “I lived and dealt with his dickishness for eighteen years. I’m over it. He can’t talk to me like that.”
Delilah raised her eyebrows. “Talk to you like that or talk about Cal like that?”
Jenna opened her mouth, then shut it, then opened it again. “Tomato, tomahto.”
Delilah smiled knowingly. “Whatever. Let me get this register closed out, and I’ll take you home.”
“Can we stop for some wine on the way home?”
“Of course, sweetie.”
Jenna didn’t have wine glasses yet. But on second thought, maybe she’d just drink straight from the bottle.
CAL HAD JUST sat down in his recliner with a newly opened beer when there was a bang on his front door. He stared at the baseball game on TV and waited. The knock was louder this time. He waited longer and cocked his head. Three more knocks and a muffled, “Let me in, asshole!”
“There it is,” Call muttered to himself. He set his beer on the coffee table with a sigh and walked to his door. He turned the deadbolt, unlocked the knob, and opened the door. He turned around immediately, walking back to his recliner. The door shut behind him, and then two thuds sounded as Brent toed off his boots.
Cal picked up his beer and sat down. He heard Brent pad into the kitchen and grab a beer from his fridge. Cabinets opened and closed, and Cal rolled his eyes because he knew Brent was hunting for food.
His brother still lived in the apartment they had shared. It was a decent place, and now Brent had a spare bedroom. But Cal . . . well, he wanted his own place. He wanted a garage and a yard and a deck where he could set up a grill.
Cal had found this two-story home on an acre of land, and even though it was old, he could manage a lot of the repairs himself. He had no neighbors nearby. None. He could walk around in his backyard naked if he wanted to. Not that he did, but he could.
He had a small basement, and the first floor had a family room, a half-bath, and a nice kitchen with an island, with a door out to his small deck. On the second floor were two bedrooms, plus a full bathroom with a big shower. He loved that damn shower.
It was worth the mortgage, even if he thought sometimes he should have kept the address from his brother.
Brent sauntered into the living room while chugging his beer. He lowered the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hey.”
Cal narrowed his eyes. “I moved out for a reason, you know. I like quiet.”
“I’ll be quiet.”
“First, you can’t be quiet. And second, by quiet, I mean alone.”
Brent dropped onto the couch. “Come on, you don’t mean that.”
“I really do mean that.”
Brent ignored that. “I’m bored.”
“Get a puppy.”
Brent had selective hearing. That was not news. “So how about we talk about Jenna MacMillan.” Brent waggled his eyebrows.
Although Cal knew his brother was doing it to get a rise out of him, he couldn’t help wanting to wipe the leer off of his brother’s face. “That’s the last thing I want to talk about.”
“Okay, so she was hot in high school; I’ll give you that. The legs and the hair. But she got, like, way hot now.”
Cal growled into his beer.
“We’re just talking.”
“No, you’re just talking. I’m trying to watch the game.”
Brent’s gaze flicked to the TV. “Um, you don’t like either of these teams.”
“I dunno; thinking I like them a whole hell of a lot right now.”
“Anyway, you plan to do anything about it?”
“About what?”
“Quit playing dumb.”
Cal sighed. “It didn’t work back then; it wouldn’t work now. Just let it go.” He wondered who he was saying that to—Brent or himself.
He’d done everything he could to separate himself from that dumb, angry, impulsive eighteen-year-old kid who’d fucked up his future. The kid