CHAPTER FIVE
LAUREN
The smell of garlic permeates the kitchen once Griffen removes the cheesy garlic bread from the oven. Somehow, I ended up in the Caldwell family home helping Ezra’s brother cook dinner while their grandpa doctored Ezra’s bruised hand.
Because he defended me.
Knocked that jerk on his ass.
It was insanely hot. Unexpected. Confusing as hell.
No one’s ever protected me like that, and though I don’t normally condone violence, I can’t deny the immediate rush of heat that warmed my heart then settled between my thighs.
“Thanks for your help.” Griffen sets the metal tray on a dish towel to cool as I chop vegetables for the dinner salad at the kitchen island.
“It’s the least I can do.”
“Since my uptight brother defended your honor?”
“Since who did what?” A tall, tattooed man swaggers into the kitchen looking remarkably like Ezra—in a disheveled, devil-may-care sort of way. Kennedy gave me the rundown of her brothers after that awkward meeting with Ezra and Jean Marcelle, which means this must be Ezra’s firefighter twin.
“Some douche was harassing Lauren, so Ezra punched him out.” Griffen mimes a fist to the jaw.
“You’re kidding.” The newcomer approaches me with a smile and offers his hand. “I’m Beckett, the levelheaded twin.” He winks while holding onto my hand a second longer than necessary.
Kennedy had been right to warn me. Beckett is a flirt. An extremely attractive one. And if I were searching for a fling to help me forget about Hunter, he’d be the perfect choice—the bad boy fireman.
Too bad it’s his grumpy brother my traitorous body reacts to.
Speak of the devil…
Ezra enters the kitchen a second later, gauze wrapped around his injured hand—a scowl directed toward his brother’s hold on my hand before I shake free—and settles on the bar seat beside me. His arm braces across the back of my chair while the other rests on the marble island, bracketing me with heat and causing a sliced cucumber to roll off the cutting board from a jolt of nerves.
“Careful, I don’t want you accidentally cutting yourself.” Ezra’s large palm covers my knife-wielding hand before plucking the rogue cucumber off the counter and tossing it in his mouth. He tips his chin toward Beckett. “The only time you’re levelheaded is in the middle of a fire, so don’t even joke about coming for my title.”
Beckett raises his hands in mock surrender, curiosity framing his features as he studies the two of us. “I’m not the one channeling Muhammad Ali in aisle six. When’s your next match? I’ll gather the crew for ringside support.”
“Fuck off,” Ezra says as he throws another cucumber slice at his brother’s head. In a show of reflexes, Beckett catches and eats it in one smooth motion, and I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
It’s nice being around the Caldwells.
I’m an only child borne of only children, so family time always consisted of a small trio. Visits to my grandparents were sporadic, since they lived in different parts of the country, and while my parents and I get along, we’ve never embodied the Full House chaos that currently streams through the air.
Beckett and Ezra teasing each other.
Griffen focusing on the final touches for dinner while staying out of the line of fire between his brothers.
When we move to the dining room, the comfortable jibing between siblings continues—Kennedy and their eldest brother Soren added to the mix—their grandpa, Soren’s daughter, and Kennedy’s partner jumping in whenever. I like how open they are with each other and how welcoming they are to me.
I almost forget why I’m here in the first place.
Because of that jerk at the store. Because of my escape from the spotlight back home.
“Everything okay? I know they’re a lot, but they mean well.” Ezra insisted on escorting me to my car after dinner, though it’s not really necessary. I’m parked in the driveway on a well-lit cul de sac. I doubt there’s much danger within the twenty feet between the front door and my vehicle.
“I’m fine. Your family is great.”
“Even with all the questions?” he pushes.
Everyone was eager to ask about songwriting and what it’s like working in the music industry. Who I’ve met. If they’d recognize any of my songs. It was sweet and reminded me of my love for music.
For a moment, Hunter had crushed my creativity—it’s hard to write love songs when your heart’s been stomped on—but some of my best work happened before I even met Hunter and we began writing together. Somehow, I’d forgotten that.
Songwriting, Hunter, and freaking Harmony House had become so intertwined that it seemed impossible to think about one thing without the others. The Caldwells’ innocent questions made me realize that’s not true. Music, the art of creating, transcends just one person or dramatic event.
“Even with all the questions,” I assure him. The headlights flash when I unlock my car, and Ezra swoops in to open the driver’s side door for me, the bright white of the gauze around his knuckles shining in the evening shadows.
“Thanks again for earlier. You didn’t have to step in, but I appreciate it, and dinner was lovely.” I’m rambling, suddenly nervous, as I gesture to his hand and the house behind him.
We’re alone for the first time. No Caldwells as a buffer. No Hearthstone Lodge employees to run interference.
Completely alone except for the flutter of curtains at my periphery indicating we might have an audience, after all. Something my brain happily ignores when it decides to make everything ten times more awkward by directing my fingers to grasp his shoulder, lift up on my toes, and press a kiss to Ezra’s stubbled cheek like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Oh my god, what the hell am I doing?
My heels slap against the pavement. Shaky hand falls to my side.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what—”
A frustrated growl rents the air before Ezra devours the apology with a firm kiss to my lips, his palm cupping the back of my head as I stumble backward into the cool metal of my car.
“Don’t fucking apologize,” he grumbles, ending the kiss with a harsh groan. A wild gleam shimmers in his dark eyes. “Maybe Beckett has a point. Maybe I’m not so levelheaded anymore. You fuck with my control, Lauren.”
“Sorry…?” I’m not sure if it’s a good or bad thing, especially when my hormones are shouting that it’s an excellent thing, desperate to experience more of his passionate fervor.
“Stop. Apologizing.” He nips at my bottom lip before licking the sting away. “It just means I need to readjust my thinking on some things. On you. ” His fingers playfully tug on the end of my ponytail, then he steps back to let me bonelessly sink into my car.
With a tap on the window, his low gravel-toned voice swaddles me with a warm “Goodnight, Lauren. I’ll see you soon” as I back out of the drive and leave him in my rearview mirror—the ache he ignited in my blood sure to keep me up for the rest of the night.