Never Marry Your Brother's Best Friend (Never Say Never, #1)

“We’re newlyweds,” Luna repeats. “It’s hard to . . . I mean, difficult to not . . .” She’s stumbling over her words, but her gaze is strong as she gives Claire her full focus. Finally, she gives up, sort of flailing her hands together. “You know?”


Elena pats Claire’s hand. “Dear, I think what she’s saying is . . . have you seen this fine specimen of a young man? And this beautiful, sweet woman? They’re in love, and that means a little lovin’.” Her eyes go soft, and she stares up toward the light over the table. “I remember when Thomas and I were newlyweds. Why, there wasn’t a flat surface in our house we didn’t christen. Tables, beds, floors . . . walls.” She confides to Luna, “Thomas was strong and I was a wee thing like you back in those days.”

Luna shifts uncomfortably, and I squeeze her thigh beneath my palm, stilling her with the punishing pressure.

“Aunt Elena, I don’t think anyone wants to hear about you and Uncle Thomas’ sex life!” Claire mouths the last bit more than speaks it, glancing at the kids.

“Hmph, well I’m not the one gossiping with Stanley about guests' activities after they’ve retired to their private spaces for the night, now am I?” Elena pops a cube of cheese in her mouth, having gotten the last word. “Besides, it’s how we all got here on this planet, ain’t it?”

Claire’s eyes narrow, but she does stop talking about sex, at least. Mine and Elena’s.

“Nutbuster, get your butt down! You’re smashing my balls!” Jacob shouts, pushing at Peanut Butter, who’s stood up and placed his feet on Jacob’s thigh, at an apparently sensitive location, to beg for food.

“Eh-eh.” I make the disapproving noise Kyle has used for Peanut Butter since he was a puppy, and the dog looks my way instantly. “Down.”

I point to the floor, and the dog settles back under the kids’ chairs.

“Jacob! What did you say?” Claire demands in a high-pitched voice, clearly more upset about the words than the dog.

Jacob looks over his shoulder to his mom, sensing that he’s in trouble. “Uh, she said it first.”

He points at Grace, throwing her in harm’s way without remorse to deflect trouble from himself. I damn near hear the sound of the bus rolling by as he does.

“She did?” Claire turns a mom-glare on Grace, but no one gives Grace shit on my watch except me.

Leaning to the side to interrupt Claire’s visual warpath, I ask calmly, “What’s the issue?”

“That language!” Claire exclaims. “Obviously.”

She’s reacting as though Jacob dropped some F-bombs over his crackers and pepperoni slices. Her hand is literally on her chest, grasping for invisible pearls, and her mouth is gaping like someone’s going to throw in a three-pointer with a cheese cube.

“What’s she talking about?” Grace asks Jacob. “You just said Nutbuster was smashing your balls and told him to get his butt down.” She looks confused as she repeats what Jacob said and finds no issue.

I sigh. “If I may . . . Nutbuster is what we call Peanut Butter. It’s an affectionate nickname. And he did say butt, not ass. That’s better.”

Grace holds her hand up and quotes, “Tush . . . Bootie . . . Badonkadonk . . . Butt . . . Ass . . . Culo. In order of badness. I can use up to butt now, ass at thirteen with friends and at sixteen with family, and culo after I’m eighteen and only if I’m being dirty. Never in front of Daddy, Maw-Maw H, or Paw-Paw H.”

“Grace!” The scold is met with her throwing her arms out like ‘what, you know I’m right’. What the hell is Cameron teaching her? Or more likely, Kyle? Hell, probably Cameron’s multi-lingual nanny too.

And why is culo worse than ass? Actually, that’s one I probably don’t want to know the answer to.

“He also called his testicles balls,” Claire corrects, her nose curling as she whispers the words as though they’re both offensive.

“That’s what they are, Mom. Nobody says tess-a-culls. Even Dad calls ’em balls,” Jacob adds. “Or his nuts.”

Shrugging, I offer, “He’s not wrong. I’ve got four brothers and I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve said ‘testicles’, but balls, nuts, moose knuckle, and cojones are all common.” I’m taking a risk—a huge one—at offending Claire, but I’m depending on Elena losing the battle she’s fighting with the laugh that’s trying to escape.

“Ooh, moose knuckle! I like that one!” Jacob tells us, and Peanut Butter barks in agreement.

That’s all Elena can take. She bangs the table with a palm as a loud belly laugh escapes, her eyes squinch shut, and her mouth drops wide open. “Oh, my word! That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in a month of Sundays. You asked for it, Claire, and Carter delivered with bells on. Or balls, in this case.”

I chance a smile and then laugh along. Luna places her hand over mine in a move of solidarity, and it suddenly feels less punishing to have my hand squeezing her thigh and more sexy, especially as my pinkie moves an inch higher of its own volition.

Though there’s laughter around the table, I still hear the tiny hitch in Luna’s breath and it makes my heart stutter.

But as the laughter fades, Claire straightens her back, visibly resetting herself. “If we could stick to the topic at hand . . . Carter, we won’t be needing your services.”





CHAPTER

TWELVE





LUNA





Beep-beep-beep, beep-beep-beep.

“And break for fifteen.” I stand from where I’ve sprawled on the floor for the last forty-five-minute work sprint and stretch my arms overhead.

“Let me finish this chapter. I’m on a roll,” Samantha argues with her nose buried in her notes.

That’s not what we agreed upon, and we’re sticking the plan. Past history has proven we do best with forty-five/fifteen-minute cycles. It’s how we can work successfully for the whole evening, which is what we both need to do tonight. Me, on Alphena. Sam, on coursework for the test she has next week.

This interruption is key to her studying, even if she doesn’t think so. She’s spread out on the couch—laptop, papers, highlighters everywhere—so I plop right down in the middle of the tornado.

“Hey!”

“Break. Time.” My declaration is met with an exasperated sigh. “You know you need it. Don’t ignore your body’s signals.” It’s a direct quote from her, one she’s told me numerous times, but that doesn’t mean she likes me throwing it back at her.

She glares at me for a long moment where I think I’ve won, then she leans back against the arm of the couch and a slow smile steals her lips.

Uh-oh. When she looks at me like that, I’m in trouble.

Deflect! Save yourself!

“Hungry? Thirsty? I’ve got Raisinets, popcorn, wine, La Croix . . .”