With the way things were going, I totally should have known.
Even so, I was unprepared for when Rush and I stood at the door of a nice house with a great yard, plump balls of rust-colored mums planted in some pots on the front porch, Rush hitting the doorbell and then promptly pulling open the storm, pushing open the door, and hand in mine, guiding me in only for the first thing we saw to be two dark-headed boys racing up to us.
I lost Rush’s hand because he was a big guy, and he was built, but no man could be tackled by two boys without at least going back on a boot.
He went back on that boot as both boys shouted, “Rush!”
I stared down at them, trying to come to terms with the fact that his sister had a baby, not young boys who looked maybe seven and nine (or around there), before I realized these weren’t Tabby and Shy’s.
They were Rush’s brothers.
His freaking baby brothers.
Of course.
I wasn’t having dinner with Rush’s sister, brother-in-law and their baby.
I was having dinner with the Allen family.
I processed that about a nanosecond before I processed Rush getting them both in a headlock and demanding in his rough, deep voice that was now filled with brotherly affection that they, “Give.”
That voice would sound like that, except better, when he had Rhodes in a headlock and he was demanding he “give” with fatherly affection.
On that understanding, my heart squeezed, my belly fluttered, and I had to remind myself it would not be appropriate to pounce on him mere seconds after entering his sister’s house with his baby brothers right there.
“Never!” one boy, the taller of the two, who I could just about see had blue eyes, shouted.
“Give!” the other boy who had green eyes shouted.
He was let go.
The tall one twisted around in the headlock, wrapped his arms around his bother’s hips and made adorable grunting noises as he tried unsuccessfully to heave Rush off his feet.
Upon a moment’s reflection, I saw Allen stamped all over the both of them.
They were totally Tack’s.
I then gave up any hope of passing on my red hair.
Or, say, anything.
The one with the green eyes definitely got those from his mother.
But other than that, they were all Kane Allen.
Like Rush.
It was then I turned my head and saw walking our way a female version of Tack, including his sapphire-blue eyes.
And apparently like Tabby.
Man, she was a knockout.
“Ride, kid, stop. I want you to meet my girl,” Rush said.
“Whoa,” the green-eyed one muttered.
This made the one who had not ceased his assault on his big brother do just that, step back and look up at me.
Then he went still.
“Rebel, baby, these are my little brothers, Ride and Cut,” Rush introduced.
“Hey,” I said on a smile.
The green-eyed one, Cutter, stared at me.
The blue-eyed one, Rider, blinked.
“What do you say?” another rough, deep voice came.
Not Rush’s, Tack’s.
I looked to see the gang all there. Tack. Tyra. Tabby. And Shy.
Shy was holding a baby to his hip.
Serious.
Good-looking men and babies.
Melt.
I turned my attention back to the boys when there was a clamor caused by them cutting and running.
They disappeared at the back of the house, which was kind of impossible, considering it looked like the whole main floor of the house was one big great room.
One big fantastic great room.
The living area had black-painted walls with some kind of treatment that made them look like velvet. A caramel-colored leather chesterfield. Black leather club chairs, four of them, allowing for lots of seating. Brass, iron and distressed wood. Great spot lighting. And a sepia print over the sofa that was an enlarged copy of a patent that had a drawing of an old motorcycle on it and was dated December 23, 1919.
The Harley patent.
Awesome.
The large open kitchen at the back was a cave of black cabinets, marble countertops, clean gray subway tile and chrome fixtures, lighting and fittings, with a glass bowl of green apples on the island that gave a pop of color and granite-colored countertop appliances.
To the left was a dining table and the area was so awesome, with the rest of the awesome, I couldn’t take it in.
The whole place was kickass.
And it smelled of good food cooking, which made it even better.
“My sons have no manners. I blame it on their father,” Tyra declared, coming to me and giving me a hug.
I gave it back, replying, “Anything wrong with children is always the man’s fault.”
“Takin’ the blame. Our lot,” Tack muttered, moving in after his wife, looking in my eyes and saying, “Hey, darlin’,” before he gave me a one-armed hug around my shoulders that included an affectionate jostle.
I liked that they hugged.
I liked it a lot.
I smiled at him when he let me go only to have Shy come in and say, “Hey,” before he gave me a one-armed hug, his around my waist, this necessitated by him having his son on his other hip.
When that hug was done, Rush cut in front of us in order to take possession of his nephew.
Oh shit.
“This is Kane,” he told me something I knew before he shoved his face in Kane’s neck, blew a raspberry, making the boy giggle and clutch at his hair. Rush then pulled him away and grinned in his adorable baby face.
Totally a natural.
Like he handled babies every day.
Okay.
I pretty much knew I was gone for this guy.
But watching that, and him with his little brothers, I was now officially gone.
I jolted out of my fascinated study of Rush with a baby when a woman’s voice said, “And I’m Tab.”
I turned to her.
Tyra was in one of her tight skirts, with blouse and heels.
The men were in jeans and various forms of tees (Rush, a washed-out blue Henley, Shy, a gray thermal, Tack, a black thermal).
Tabby was wearing black skinny jeans with the knees frayed, a dark-red, slouchy V-neck sweater that fell over her hips and down her shoulder, a black tank under. Bare feet. Burgundy toes.
Outside Tyra, who had obviously come from work, I was overdressed.
And I was okay with that. It said I’d made an effort, this was important. And I had made that effort because this was important.
Tabby put me right there. “Rad dress.”
“Thanks,” I replied.
“Want a beer?” she asked.
“That’d be great.”
She gave me a cautious smile, turned and moved to the kitchen.
“Please tell me you didn’t cook,” Rush called to her back.
“We like Rebel so we want her to survive the night,” Shy declared.
“I would care about the stick you’re giving me if I gave a crap about cooking,” Tab called back as she opened the fridge.
“I cooked,” Shy shared.
This surprised me, even with the smell.
Not him cooking and Tabby not.
The kitchen was pristine.
“Thank God for that,” Rush muttered then called to his sister, “I’ll take a beer too, you’re getting them.”
“Whatever,” Tabby replied, but came out with two beers.
“For God’s sake, give that child to Rebel before he sprains something,” Tyra ordered.
I looked to Rush to see Kane, aka Playboy, arching my way.
There was Allen in that child for certain.
But Shy was stamped all over him.
So maybe I stood a chance.
“Hey, kid,” I whispered, putting my hands to him and gently taking him from Rush’s hold.
He instantly latched onto my hair, grunted as he used it to pull himself up, and I ignored the pain in my scalp when he landed a sloppy wet kiss on my lips.
He came away with my raspberry lipstick around his mouth, bobbled in my arms with excitement and screeched his victory.
I started laughing.
Totally a flirt.
“Take a load off,” Shy invited. “And if he gets too much, hand him to whoever or put him down. He’s motoring now and he hasn’t found his quota of trouble today so we’ll need to give him his shot.”
I grinned at Shy, moved to the chesterfield and sat in it with Playboy in my lap, using a thumb to swipe my lipstick from his mouth, something he turned his head this way and that to avoid, clearly liking that mark of triumph.
The minute I got my ass to the seat, though, Playboy immediately showed everyone a healthy dose of the lace of my pale pink bra by yanking down my neckline.
I burst out laughing.
He started giggling with me.
I straightened my top then put him up to my face.
“You’re a little bugger, aren’t you?”
He dove in for another kiss.
I kept laughing.
“That’s it,” Tack growled, pulling him out of my arms and tucking him, belly down, at his hip.
I was disappointed Tack grabbed him until I saw Playboy reach out his arms like he was flying.
Too cute.
Okay, this family rocked.
My purse rang.
I looked up at Rush, who’d planted his ass on the arm of the chesterfield by me, and I shrugged the thin strap of my purse off my shoulder.
“Here, Rebel,” Tabby said, offering me the beer.
I turned her way, took it on a, “Thanks,” then opened my little bag enough to see that my phone said Diesel was calling.
“Gotta take that?” Rush asked quietly.