The Other Brother (5 page)

It’s not even as if he and his brother looked alike, and she might pretend Patrick
was
Sean. They were both tall, but if not for their startling blue eyes and similar mannerisms, it would have been easy to forget they were related at all.

Perhaps that was it—their eyes. They were supposed to be the windows to the soul. Maybe she wanted to stare into Patrick’s eyes and see his brother peering back. Christ, that didn’t even make any sense. Rationalizing the situation couldn’t work.

Perhaps she should stop resisting, stop ignoring what went on in her head. In her heart. Maybe the sooner she admitted it, both to herself and to Patrick, she could come to terms with it.

The gnawing sensation in her stomach told her it wouldn’t be that easy. The guilt, the sense of wrongness wouldn’t go away that easily. Yes, Sean had been eager that she get on with her life if something happened to him. But she doubted he meant with his own brother. If she believed in the afterlife, his ghost would come back and haunt them both, torment them until they went insane.

She sighed. Torturing herself with such thoughts wouldn’t help. She could ignore the situation and hope it would go away, concluding she’d experienced a weird reaction to seeing Sean’s brother again. Or she would have to tell him what was going on in her head, her heart, and deal with what came next—whether he felt the same or not.

She thought he did feel the same—or at the very least, he liked her, and not in a platonic way. Which didn’t necessarily mean that he was falling for her. Fuck, she didn’t know whether she wanted him to be or not.

Standing, she willed the thoughts to go away. If she carried on much longer, it would give her the headache she’d faked.

Walking to the kitchen, she poured a bowl of cereal, grabbed a spoon, and ate it, standing at the counter. Cereal counted as a major comfort food—
and healthier than chocolate
.

Later, she distracting herself with several rounds of computer puzzle games then took a shower, hoping she might get some sleep.

Melodie dragged herself out of bed and headed into the bathroom to splash cold water on her face. Miraculously, she’d slept well, and, even better, she hadn’t dreamed. Or, perhaps more realistically, she couldn’t remember what she’d dreamed about.

After grabbing breakfast, she washed up and got dressed, dragging her hair up into a high ponytail. Carrying her computer bag over to her desk, she switched on the computer. While it booted up, she settled in front of the screen with a cup of tea and prepared to upload the images from the previous day’s shoot.

By the time she’d viewed the last image, Melodie’s jaw almost hit the floor. Despite Patrick’s obvious discomfort, even the early photos in his shoot were good. His great bone structure, shock of black hair, gorgeous eyes and kissable lips combined to make a startling bunch of photos. When the shirtless ones appeared, however, things got even more interesting.

Closing the slideshow, she created a reject folder. The way to select the image she wanted to use would be to slowly eliminate them until she ended up with the best one. Or the best few, anyway. She and Patrick had already decided to make the final decision together.

Dragging all of the fully-clothed photos into the folder, she delighted at how many she’d reduced the total by. She paused, went in search of her cell phone, then tapped out a text.

Looking at photos now. Going to narrow to a few as discussed. Are you free after work to finalize? No worries if not, can do it another time. We still have a month or so until entries close. XX

M

Continuing to work through the images, she discounted several more and dragged them into the reject folder, aiming to get the final count to around ten to choose from. Many were easy to eliminate for technical reasons—poor angle, too much light, too little light, problems that couldn’t be fixed using image-editing

God, there are an awful lot of photos here
. No wonder the poor guy had been so relieved to finish the shoot. He’d stood around for ages while she’d whizzed about like a demented bee. At least it hadn’t been for nothing, though. There were still plenty of images left to choose from and one would definitely be right for the calendar. Hopefully the charity would see it that way, too.

Melodie didn’t want to get too attached to the idea of one of her photos ending up in a charity calendar, but it had become very important to her in a very short space of time. Especially considering she’d gone from not having a model and giving up on the idea, to having an extremely attractive prospective model in a matter of minutes. Seconds, even.

She’d just narrowed the choices to around fifty when her phone beeped.

Yep, can do. Want me to come straight from work? I can be at your place by around six. Should I bring takeout?

She smiled.
Straight from work is fine. Takeout would be fantastic, as long as you let me pay my share. I like pretty much anything
.

His reply was immediate.
Will do. Got to go, back to work now
.

He’d obviously been on a break. Melodie sighed. As much as she wanted in with the calendar, as much as she wanted to make a contribution to such a worthy cause, part of her felt like texting him again and telling him to leave her the hell alone.

It wasn’t really an option, of course. For starters, he’d know something bugged her and turn up anyway to find out what. Plus, she didn’t really blame him for what was happening. Unless he had a Cupid up his sleeve who’d shot an arrow at her, Patrick couldn’t be held responsible for her increasing feelings for him. For years, she’d always been fond of him, but now he was sexier, more mature. She’d found trouble.

Sighing again, she turned back to the photos. It wasn’t a good idea to start going over all this crap in her head again, because the only thing it would achieve would be to make her brain explode. And that would make an awful mess. Perhaps she should go with the flow, see what happened. Hey, maybe he’d come on to her! She could leave a little of the guilt behind, if he started it. Plus, she’d know for sure that he liked her without having to ask.

She let out a growl of frustration. So much for not thinking about it.
Come on, Melodie. Concentrate on the task at hand. Then, if you have to play online games for several hours to distract yourself until he arrives, so be it. You can explode your brain by thinking of mahjong, rather than him
.

That settled, she forced herself to focus. Thankfully, it worked, and she managed to see Patrick as another subject, another perfect photo she wanted to show to a client. And, as people are always more critical of themselves than anyone else, he’d probably reduce the numbers further. Perhaps, if she was lucky, he’d even choose the perfect one right off.

She’d lost track of time, and when the door buzzer sounded, it took her by surprise. Scampering across the room, she pressed the button.

“Who is it?”

“Patrick. And I’ve got food.” He laughed.

“Please come up. Quick,” she added, her stomach grumbling.

While she waited for him to arrive, Melodie checked her reflection in the mirror, hoping she didn’t look as awful as she had the other day when he’d seen her. Thankfully, she’d washed her hair the previous evening, and her skin didn’t have any spots or blemishes—a miracle. Her clothes were a tad scruffy, but it could have been worse, and she didn’t have time to change. It didn’t matter. In fact, it could be a good thing—if she didn’t appear even remotely attractive, then maybe he wouldn’t find her hot, things would stay platonic between them, and she’d avoid him like crazy until she got over her silly crush.

At the knock on her door, she forced a walk, rather than a jog, over to it.
Platonic, my ass
. Fixing a smile in place, she said, “Hey, you.”

“Hey, yourself. I hope you’re hungry, I went a little overboard.” With a sheepish grin, he held up two bags. The scent wafted up her nostrils. Her stomach growled again and she laid a palm over it, embarrassed.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He walked past her to the kitchen area. “So, where are your plates?”

She pointed him toward the cupboard then retrieved a couple of knives and forks. “I skipped lunch, so I’m hungry. Do you want something to drink?”

Setting their eating utensils on the table, she shoved a couple of magazines and letters out of the way then set out two placemats. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d used the table for dining. Usually, she sat on the sofa.
God, what a slob
.

“Why did you skip lunch? I thought you were taking care of yourself.” He frowned. “And, sure, you got soda?”

“I am taking care of myself. I didn’t not eat on purpose—I got absorbed in sorting through the photos from the shoot and didn’t realize the time until you got here.”

“Wow, you have been busy.”

With a nod, she pulled a bottle of soda from the fridge. “This okay? I have more, but this one’s already open.”

Patrick passed her, carrying their plates, plastic containers, and little boxes over to the table, then began opening them. The delicious scent of Chinese filled the air, even stronger than before.

“That’s perfect. Now grab the rest of that stuff and come sit.”

Rolling her eyes at his bossiness, she pressed her lips together. She set the glasses and bottle on the table then went back for the rest of the food.

After they’d served themselves, she said, “This is great, thanks. And there’s so much. You must have spent a fortune. I’ll get my wallet when we’re done eating.”

He gave her a frustrated glance. “I’m hungry. And don’t worry about it. You can get it next time.”

Heat rushed to her face and she slammed her fork with more force than she’d intended, sending her glass of soda flying off the table. Pausing only momentarily, she let her rage go.

“I’ve told you before, I’m not a fucking charity case! I’m not rich, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I am making money. I’m making enough to live, enough to pay my way, enough to have a little fun, too. I don’t need you to pay for everything. Just because your damn brother went and got himself killed and left me alone doesn’t mean I need you fussing over me, flashing your cash and wrapping me in a financial cocoon.”

Without giving him chance to reply, she all but leaped out of her chair and went in search of something to clean the sticky mess on the floor. Anger clouded her mind, but a couple of deep breaths allowed her to get a grip.

By the time she’d retrieved the dustpan and brush from the cupboard and stomped back to the table, Patrick had begun to gingerly pick up pieces of glass.

“I’ll do that,” she snapped, crouching to start sweeping. Unfortunately, her anger made her careless, and she lost her balance, dropping everything in her grip and putting her hands out to break her fall.

He reached out to steady her, but too late. One palm hit a clear patch of floor, but the other landed in the shattered glass. Yelping, Melodie twisted away and lost her balance again, falling on her bottom. She cradled her injured hand and glared at Patrick as he tried to help again.

“Christ, are you all right? Stupid question. Let me see, please.” Dumping the shards he’d collected into the dustpan, he returned to her side.

“Oh, fuck off! This is your fault!” Even as the words tumbled from her mouth, she knew she shouldn’t be taking her anger out on him. Yes, his insistence on paying for things irritated her, but he couldn’t help his kind nature. He really didn’t think she couldn’t afford it. And now she’d hurt herself by preventing him from looking at her injury, preventing him from helping.

“Hey,” he said, the flare of his nostrils showing his irritation. “Stop being such an idiot. I know I’ve pissed you off, and it’s your prerogative to be angry, but for God’s sake, let me check it out.”

Blood seeped from beneath the curled fingers and over the sides of her palm. He gently opened her hand, his face impassive as he checked out the damage. She had no idea whether he masked horror or whether it genuinely didn’t appear that bad.

“Come on.” He helped her up. “Let’s wash off the blood. It’s difficult to tell how bad it is.”

At the sink, he turned on the cold tap to a gentle flow and held her hand under it. Water hit her open wound and she gasped. Then the throbbing began. Christ, had she sliced some tendons or something?

Patrick’s voice broke her panic, his calm tone and immaculate bedside—or sinkside—manner doing their job. “Okay, it’s okay. There’s quite a bit of blood, which made it seem worse, but it’s not too bad. It won’t even need stitches. I’ll get it cleaned and bandaged, if you’ll let me.”

No longer pissed, she nodded. All her anger had trickled down the drain along with the blood. She felt tired, wrung out, the high drama of a one-sided argument and injury obviously too much for her.

“First aid kit is in the bathroom cabinet.”

“Okay.” He led her back to the table—giving the smashed glass a wide berth—and settled her in her chair. “I’ll get it. I’ll clean you up, get rid of this mess, then we’ll finish eating.”

“I can’t eat anything now. I feel sick.”

“It’s the shock.” He stroked her hair. “At least try and drink some of my soda.”

With her good hand she grabbed his glass. The sugary liquid immediately soothed her. She’d always had a sweet tooth. Reappearing with the first aid kit, Patrick crouched beside her and took care of the cut. His proximity, his touch, made the pain recede until she hardly noticed it. She stared at the top of his head as he paid attention to the wound and had a sudden urge to tangle her fingers the thick, shiny hair, tilt his head back, and kiss his luscious lips. Bandaged hand be damned.

Patting her knee when he’d finished, he winced as he stood, breaking her reverie.

“Not as young as I used to be.” He flashed a smile. “Is that better? Not too tight, is it?”

Melodie shook her hand a little then mirrored the action with her head. “It’s fine, thank you, Doctor Brogan. You have a wonderful bedside manner.”