Hot Set (Art of Love #2)

Start reading Letting Him In NOW.

Chapter One

Toby

Rain soaks through my suit and pools in my shoes. Of course, it’s raining as my best friend is lowered into the ground. I focus on something so trivial, so I have some hope of getting through this funeral.

Damon is dead. He’s in pieces in the box in front of me; the old car he refused to replace had obliterated him into something almost unrecognizable.

Refusing to think about the enormity of the situation, I look around the cemetery and ignore the rain dripping down my neck, the long strands of my hair plastered to the side of my face.

There are only a few familiar faces around me. Evan Lowry, the police officer first on the scene, is standing off to the side in full uniform, looking awkward. He probably doesn’t want to attend the funeral of someone who was in several gory pieces the last time he’d seen him.

My heart flutters as I see Landon Collins standing next to several old women I’ve never seen before in my life. Landon gives me a sad smile and I eat it up. Sure, Damon is dead, but the man I am almost certain is the love of my life has just smiled at me and I grab onto that with both hands.

However, my attention is taken by a pair of bright blue eyes and an outrageously loud pink shirt. I don’t know the man, but there’s something strangely familiar about him. He’s leaning against another grave, his arms crossed.

His eyes meet mine and he gives me a flirty smile. Something bristles down my spine at his presence, but I can’t think of what it is. Yes, he’s handsome with that lovely pale skin and the rain making that garish pink shirt stick to a well-built frame, but he’s at my best friend’s funeral and looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

One of Damon’s other friends, Malcolm, someone I had very little to do with prior to Damon’s death, squares his shoulders as he too notices the other man.

“I’m surprised he’s here,” Mal mumbles to me under his breath.

“Who is he?” God, that widow’s peak is going to kill me. I look back over at Landon to try to remind my brain and body that he is the man I want, not the disrespecting stranger.

“Mac,” Malcolm breathes.

“Who?”

“Mac McCarthy.”

That’s the familiarity. He’s Damon’s brother. Well, half-brother. The one he hasn’t spoken to in years. Damon had barely mentioned him in all the time we’d been friends, but I had known he was there.

I sneak a peek back at Mac, but he’s now studying something on his phone and biting the nail on his thumb. He has painted nails, although they’re all scratched down to messy blobs of paint. It adds to his scruffy look, which I both hate and love at the same time.

I watch as a sigh travels through him and he looks at his watch, much to my horrified amazement. His brother has just died at the age of twenty-eight and he’s bored? The very concept infuriates me. He catches my eye and gives me a large grin.

I shove down any ill-advised sexual feelings I might have considered and glare at him, turning back to the service.

The wake is held at the local church and I’m surprised to see Mac there too. Surely he was too bored to make it to the wake.

“Toby,” a voice behind me says and I spin to see Evan, his face taut and lined with pain. What does mine look like? Can people tell that I am too numb to feel anything?

He does something that could be a smile if the circumstances allowed it. “I was going to say good afternoon, but I suppose it’s not a good one, is it?”

“No.” I can’t even muster up the hint of a smile. “Hello, all the same. Thanks for coming. It would have meant something to Damon.” As I say it, I’m not entirely sure that’s the case.

I don’t remember a time we’d ever hung out with him in any sort of non-professional sense. Damon tried to make it a habit to stay away from the police. It didn’t work so well for him in the end, judging by the sea of black suits and somber faces.

Apart from that one bright spot of pink that seems to be constantly on the edge of my peripheral vision.

Mac is standing with one hand in his leather jacket pocket and the other swinging a beer bottle casually in his fingers. He’s talking to a few old people and I hate the smile instantly as it appears on his face. One of the women places her hand on his arm.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, dear. It’s devastating to lose a brother. So young.”

“Too young.” Mac gives her a sad smile. “I just wish Damon would had have the chance to surf one last time. We had a trip planned to California in the summer.” He looks off into the distance and closes his eyes as if he is bracing himself against the now canceled future plans.

“Oh, poor dear,” another lady squeezes Mac’s arm. “You should still take that trip. Make it a memorial trip.”

“I don’t know if I should.” He gives a steadying breath, shrugging. “It was his dream, not mine.”

I take a deep breath and decide to get some fresh air.

It’s stopped raining at least, and I sit on the back steps of the church, staring out at the muddy old cemetery. The stones are covered in moss and dirt, and I think about the one just placed in the ground in the new cemetery.

Is someone going to make sure it stays nice? Is someone going to remember that Damon McCarthy died at the age of twenty-eight in a car accident?

I gulp and make my way to the bathrooms. The church is being renovated–thankfully–and there’s not a whole lot of room in the small hallway that leads to the single male bathroom.

There are all sorts of construction equipment that feel out of place to the mood of the church. It’s a reminder that tomorrow, we’re all going back to our normal lives. I have to go back to the apartment Damon and I had shared without him. I’ll have to get up tomorrow and he still won’t be here.

I help an old man with a walker get through the small gap from the bathroom and, as I’m about to walk through it myself, I find myself nose to nose with the pink shirt-wearing asshole.

“Excuse me,” I say tightly.

“I was here first,” his voice drips with smooth teasing. “How about you move?”

I roll my eyes. “We’ll move together, shall we? Get this over with quickly so you can go back to making up lies about Damon?”

Mac reaches out and places both of his hands on my waist. I’m so startled by the movement that I don’t notice him pull me towards him and try to quickly switch our places.

Not only does it not work, it makes us more stuck with my arm trapped next to a whole lot of paraphernalia that includes an angry-looking table saw.

Mac is pushed back against the wall, his hips pushed out by a large array of paint cans, our waists pressed against each other. Whatever curiosity I might have about what Damon’s brother was packing, it is pressed right up against me.

“Can you move?” I snap.

“Er, actually, no. I can’t.” He goes to try and shift his leg, but one of the paint cans topples precariously and I quickly lean forward to stop it from falling. As I do, something stabs me in the leg and I slowly bring my face up to Mac’s, now significantly closer to me with our new position.

“Oops,” he grins.

“ Yes , you dickhead . We both need to shuffle that way and we’ll be able to get out.” I point towards the bathroom, but he isn’t looking at anywhere but my face, so I could have pointed up and he wouldn’t have noticed.

“What’s your name?”

I bite back a string of curse words. “You would know that if you knew Damon. Now, let’s go? I just had to bury my best friend and this is not how I want to spend his funeral.”

“Why not? We can make out if you want. Make it worth it.”

If it was anyone else, I might have taken them up on their offer.

But it is Damon’s brother, and the familiarity of the sparkle in his eyes and the smirk at the corner of his lips is enough to hurt. I pretend the thought isn’t intriguing, hoping my body listens, seeing as we’re connected at the pelvis, and scowl my hardest.

He chuckles and tries to stand up properly, making me lose my balance. I cling to his shirt in hopes that I’m not going to join Damon in an early grave.

“Oh, calm down,” Mac says with a roll of his eyes. “You’re not going to die. It’s a table saw that won’t start even if you wish it to. You’ll get a scratch but that’s about it.”

I let go of his shirt and narrow my eyes at him. “Stupid shirt to wear to a funeral.”

“It’s Damon’s favorite color.”

“It absolutely is not. He detests pink.”

Like what he did with me, I swing both my arms around him and shuffle the both of us out towards the bathrooms, making sure the paint cans are still standing. As soon as the coast is clear, I drop my arms and walk away.

“What was his favorite color then?” Mac calls out.

“Green.”

As I continue towards the bathroom, I feel the lump in my throat tighten at the use of past tense when talking about Damon. I also know, with severe and alarming clarity, that I don’t have a single clue what Damon’s favorite color is.

“See ya round, Toby,” Mac says as I turn at the last minute to see if he’s still there. He grins at me.

I don’t respond.