“You understand how I’d be confused, though, right?” She teased while Bentley flashed her another one of those grins, the ones she was one hundred percent sure he practiced in front of the mirror.
“Need any help in here?” Something about the way Brant walked into the room was calculating, like every step he made was for a purpose he already had in mind, a plan. His smile was equally as charming and dangerous as his twin’s. “I thought I heard the words ‘ass’ and ‘shit’, so I figured either we were talking about Brock or we were talking about Brock.” His grin widened. “It’s one of my favorite things in the world—brother shaming.”
Bentley flipped him off.
“Not you.” Brant rolled his eyes.
Jane again tried to focus on the dinner. It was nearly impossible to have a solid thought in her brain when she had the twins talking and flirting with her.
She’d have to be either dead or insane not to notice how devastatingly handsome the men were. Charisma rolled off them in waves, but they weren’t intimidating.
Not like Brock.
His mere presence nearly stilled her breath and had her wishing for more time to look at him and just study his features—which sounded so lame in her head that she wanted to slam her palm against her own cheek.
He was a jackass.
A privileged jackass.
“What’s going on in here?” Brock’s low voice rumbled through the kitchen.
His dark wavy hair looked like he’d just spent the last five minutes running his hands through it: mussed and sexy. She had to avert her eyes before her thoughts went into dangerous territory.
“Look.” Bentley snatched the sheet from the fridge and handed it to Brock. “She found your swear sheet!”
“That’s a load of hairy ants and you know it!” Bentley yelled. “How dare you goat my cock!”
Jane giggled behind her hand.
“That isn’t even on this sheet,” Brock said in a strangled voice as he ran his fingers through his hair again. The simple action was so sexy she had to look away.
“Made it up just now. Sounds dirty, right? Goat my cock.” Bentley shrugged and maneuvered his way over to Jane, sliding his arm around her body. “What do you think, Jane? What would a lady’s response be to that question? Hmm?” He leaned in too close, his eyes focused on her lips. “Would you goat my cock?”
Uncomfortable, she ducked away from him and returned to preparing dinner while Brock leveled his brother with a glare that would have left her trembling, though she wasn’t sure if it would be from fear or excitement. Maybe both. “All right, no more talk of cocks or asses. I’m trying to make dinner. Why don’t you guys go set the table or something?”
Everyone froze.
She glanced at each of their panicked expressions, finally landing on a thunderous Brock. His fists clenched and unclenched as a muscle twitched in his jaw.
“Sure thing.” Bentley and Brant quickly exited the room while Brock stayed.
He wasn’t saying anything, just staring her down like she was able to read minds.
Finally, she set down her knife and sighed. “What? What did I do this time?”
Brock’s eyes narrowed. “There won’t be any setting of the table. We’ll eat in the living room.”
“Fine.” Jane was too tired to argue and needed him to leave. Just being in the same room as him made her want to launch across the floor and beat him with her fists, and kiss him senseless. Something was seriously wrong with her. “We’ll eat in the living room.”
Bentley poked his head around the corner. “Are we using the china or—”
With a growl Brock turned on his heel and barked out. “Don’t set the table.”
“But—”
“I said”—Brock pounded his hand against the nearest wall—“we aren’t setting the fucking table.”
The next twenty minutes went by painfully slowly.
The twins helped her serve the food, but the meal was deathly silent except for the sounds of forks scraping against plates.
Brock was the first to finish.
He stood with his plate and stomped into the kitchen. The sound of running water filled the air, then the garbage disposal, then nothing.
“I’m going to bed,” he announced once he was back in the living room. He headed down the hall and then a door slammed.
Twice.
“He’s always been dramatic,” Bentley yawned, visibly relaxing as he set down his plate and leaned back in his chair. “Sorry, Jane.”
“Don’t be.” She hid her own yawn behind her hand. “He’s not my problem, nor my responsibility.”
“Hah.” Brant’s eyebrows shot up. “Brock has never been anyone’s responsibility.”
Jane frowned. “What do you mean?”