“Huh?” I ask dumbly.
He reaches out, whips the shirt up over my head, and puts it on correctly. “There.”
I nod, feeling off-balance. “You have flour on your nose,” I inform him quietly.
He scrubs at it, then looks at me in question.
“Gone,” I confirm, lips twisting at the sight of him so thrown from his normal, tightly controlled equilibrium.
“That’s it!” The voice calls from the hallway. “I’m coming in!”
The smile falls off my face. Nate hurries toward the door, flips the deadbolt, and yanks it open.
“Dude!” The man in the hallway is grinning ear to ear. His dark blond hair is disheveled from travel, his hazel eyes are warm but tired, and he’s got a messenger bag slung over one shoulder. “What took you so long? Don’t tell me you’re banging some chick in there…”
Holy frack.
Parker is here.
Chapter Eighteen
I used to think it would be cool to read other people’s minds.
Then I joined Facebook.
Phoebe West, defending her techno-phobic life choices.
“Sweet P!” Parker’s voice is a mixture of concern and glee as he sweeps me up in a hug. “Little sis, you look like shit.”
“Thanks, bro. Nice to see you too.” I hug him back until my ribs start to ache.
“God, it must be six months since I’ve been back here.”
“Eight,” I correct, trying not to infuse my voice with accusation.
He pulls back to look at me, a guilty expression twisting his features. “Missed you, kiddo.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m not a kiddo.”
“You’ll always be my kid sister. Even when you’re old and fat and wrinkly.”
“I’m not going to get fat!” I whack him on the arm playfully. “You, on the other hand…” I grimace. “I see a beer belly in your future.”
He makes an outraged sound and pulls up his shirt. “Washboard, baby. You could crack an egg on these.”
“Ew.”
He grins, a boyish smile lighting up his whole face. “The ladies don’t complain.”
I feign gagging noises. “Sorry, I just threw up in my mouth.”
“Sweet P, don’t make me give you a noogie.”
I roll my eyes at his childish threat. “Oh no! What’s next? An Indian sunburn? I’m so scared.”
He laughs, then turns to Nate for some kind of weird man-hug ritual, which involves unintelligible grunting and backslapping.
Ah, bromance.
I watch their reunion, a happy smile stretching my cheeks wide. It’s great to have Parker home, even if he spends the whole visit calling me names and giving me a hard time.
Sweet P.
The old nickname hits me with a wave of nostalgia.
When I was two, I couldn’t for the life of me pronounce Phoebe — the closest I could get was Pee-Bee. So Parker, loving big brother that he is, took to calling me Pee-Pee — insert six-year-old boy giggles here — which was eventually shortened to P and finally, transformed into Sweet P when we were old enough to stop fighting over LEGOs and blaming each other for pilfering the last Hostess cupcake from our nanny’s secret stash above the fridge.
“Knox, you got a kitten and didn’t tell me?” His voice is teasing as he bends to scratch Boo behind one tiny white ear. The poor thing has been running circles around his legs, seeking his attention since the moment he arrived.
“Shut up,” I say sweetly. “You remember Boo, your nephew-in-paw. You met last time you were home.”
“Must’ve blocked him from my memory.” Parker grins wide as he greets the small Pom. He’s so full of shit. He may act like a macho man who only likes dogs over a hundred pounds, but last time he came to visit I caught him napping on my couch with Boo snoring on his chest. They’re best buds.