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“Remy, I love you, but it’s creeping me out that you’re so concerned about where I stick my dick.”
“Who’s concerned, asshole? I just don’t want to listen to you whine when it falls off from lack of use.”
“Creeeeeepy,” I sing in a fake, high voice. He cracks up laughing. I gesture to the pile of replacement wood for the porch railing in front of us. “Can we stop yapping and start nailing?”
“Yeah.” His mouth twitches into another wicked grin. “That’s what I was trying to talk to you about.”
The only girl I’m interested in nailing is your sister.
No, he’s definitely not prepared for that conversation. Neither am I. Not when he’s got a nail gun, framing hammer, and several other possible instruments of death within arm’s reach.
We work steadily for a few hours. When we’re finished, Remy stands back and stares at the railing with his arms crossed over his chest. “Molly said she wants to paint it.” He runs his hands through his hair. “The whole front porch looks like shit now.”
“No,” I say as patiently as possible. “It looks like you replaced a few pieces and are waiting for your painter to get to work.” I slap his shoulder. “It’ll be fine for a day or two.”
He grunts in agreement and nods to the house. “Let’s clean up.”
Molly’s in the kitchen. She must be fresh from a shower. Her long, dark hair’s almost black, curling at the ends and still dripping water. My mind immediately shoots to picturing her under the running water. Naked.
Bad idea.
“Here. Eat. You two must be starving.” Molly points to the counter where she’s laid out what looks like a huge bowl of chicken salad, an assortment of bread, and other sandwich fixings.
“Thanks.” Remy ruffles her hair, and she swats his hand away.
“Ugh. Don’t rub your sawdust hands in my clean hair.”
Remy chuckles. “Did you eat?”
“I picked at the chicken while I was making the salad.”
“You’re not going to eat with us, Muffin?” I ask.
Molly blushes and slowly meets my eyes.
Oh, shit. If she keeps that up, Remy’s going to figure out something’s going on between us.
“No, I need to dry my hair,” she says.
I shrug, faking disinterest, even though I’m ready to follow her upstairs and hold the damn blow-dryer just so I can be close to her. “Okay.”
It kills me to put my back to her, but I turn toward the counter and pretend to be fascinated by the chicken salad. By the time my plate’s full and I turn around, Molly’s gone.
Remy and I eat at the cleared end of the large dining room table. Molly’s backpack, books, and mail cover the other end.
Fast and furious footsteps pound down the stairs a few minutes later.
“Remy! Dammit, did you use my hair serum again?” Molly stands at the end of the table and shakes a small, iridescent bottle in the air.
I bite my lip to hold in my laughter.
“What?” Remy flashes a wide-eyed who, me? face at his sister and runs his hands through his dark hair. “It makes my hair all soft and shiny.”
“Ugh! You’re a dude. No one cares about your hair.” Molly storms past us and into the kitchen. Utensils clatter and drawers screech open as she searches for who knows what.
“Really, bro?” I cock my head and stare at Remy.
He shrugs. “What? I’ll buy her another bottle.”
