4. Tyler

"How's the stalking working out for you?" West asked, patting me on the shoulder.

"Shut up," I grunted.

I was not stalking Naomi. All I was doing was standing in the parking lot and watching her drive away. What else was I supposed to do? She'd made it pretty damn clear that she was pissed at me. And that she didn't want me touching her.

That stung. Especially since I hadn't been able to get her out of my mind for months.

West squeezed my shoulder the way any understanding brother would. "Want me to take your shift so you can go sit outside of her house like a creep?"

I shrugged out of his grip. "Didn't I just tell you to shut the fuck up?"

"Did you? I must not have heard it over all those poor, rusty gears grinding away in that giant melon of yours."

"You're an ass. You know that, right?" I asked, turning to face him.

His expression broke into a smirk I knew all too well. "Why don't you just talk to her like a normal person? I know you know how."

"I tried. She's..." I shoved a hand through my hair. "Difficult."

"Really?" He shot me a perplexed look. "Because she's always been as sweet as a peach to me."

I wanted to call bullshit, but when I really thought about it, he was right. With all three of my brothers—even Drew, who'd become the gruffest of the lot of us since his marriage had fallen apart—she was always warm and friendly. She talked and laughed the same way she did with her clients, her friends, and probably total strangers.

I guess that makes me special.Instead of friendly chats, we hurled barbs. Rather than sharing a few laughs, we slung thinly veiled insults at each other.

That was the way it had always been.

I got a kick out of pushing her buttons because she always pushed right back.

Then she'd gone and complicated everything with that damned kiss. My fingers drifted to my lips remembering that night.

West let out a low whistle. "Damn. You've got it bad."

No shit.

I lifted my middle finger in the international sign of brotherhood, then stepped past him and headed inside. The evening crowd was just starting to roll in, and I already wanted the night to be over.

Six tedious hours later, when the obnoxious leprechaun cuckoo clock behind the bar chimed twelve times, I was beyond ready for it. Weeknights were always slower than weekends, and shutting down at midnight made more sense than keeping the lights on and the jukebox going for two or three people.

It also meant I could go home, crank up my music, and try to forget about Naomi.

That woman had been living rent free in my head for longer than I could remember, and I'd spent my fair share of hot showers thinking about her.

That was normal, right? Having intense sexual fantasies about a woman who only ever wanted to argue with you?

Maybe. Maybe not. All I knew for sure was that since that cursed night, I hadn't been interested in a single woman who'd walked through the doors of The Fox Den. I played it off for a while, telling myself I was taking a break from the one-night stand scene.

When that didn't help, I feigned interest for a couple of weeks.

Fake it ‘til you make it.

I was willing to try just about anything to get my mind off Naomi.

But every time I had a conversation with one of those women, the ones who lingered at the bar, batting their fake lashes at me while their friends were getting wasted on Light Cosmos or White Claw Blue Rumbles, I couldn't bring myself to close the deal.

Which was not like me at all. I was a closer. Just never with a woman who'd had too much to drink. If I hooked up with someone, it was one-hundred percent sober and consensual.

No exceptions.

I'd only seriously considered breaking that rule once in my adult life, and that had been the night with Naomi. I'd had to drag myself away from her, with the base, possessive part of my being fighting me the whole way.

It was the same part that had me waiting outside for her to close the salon every night this week, and the part that had me driving halfway across town to buy groceries at the other grocery store in Stonemore on a Sunday.

I was pretty sure that idiotic part of me was still running the show when I locked up the bar and drove past her house.

Is this what being a creep feels like?

Yeah, I'd fucked up by not calling her or stopping by the salon to talk to her after our moment on her front porch, but at the time I'd rationalized that decision by convincing myself I was giving her space. Now, she didn't want anything to do with me.

She'd barely spoken to me since. She'd also stopped dropping by the bar for a drink after work on Thursdays.

Then Gavin let slip that he was thinking about selling the building one night, and Drew jumped at the opportunity. I wanted to talk to Naomi about us and about the sale. She had a right to know what was going on, but Gavin insisted we all sign a non-disclosure agreement and keep everything between us until the deal was done.

Maybe she was right to hate me. Even if she didn't remember that night on her porch, it was my family that bought the building. It was my brothers who wanted to expand the bar.

I'd fought them on it, tooth and nail, but The Fox Den was a majority rule arrangement. If the four of us were split on a deal, our dad would step in as the tiebreaker.

Unfortunately, we didn't need a tiebreaker about expanding. That was a three-to-one vote, and I was on the losing side of it.

So, here I was, sitting in my black 1969 Chevy Impala outside her house at twelve-thirty at night. From the way the lights flashed through her blinds, I would bet money she was watching a movie.

Probably Scream—the original version—or 50 First Dates. It all depended on what mood she was in when she got home.

How did I know that about her? Despite our vinegar-laced banter, I never missed a word she said, and she was always slipping up and sharing raw little bits and pieces of herself with me.

I was tempted to go knock on her door to find if I was right, but there was no way that conversation would go well. A guy like me only randomly showed up at a single woman's home in the middle of the night for one reason, but a hook up wasn't what I wanted from Naomi.

My phone buzzed in my cup holder, startling me out of my thoughts. West's name glowed on the display, and I tapped the screen to answer and put it on speakerphone. "What's up?"

"Just making sure my less attractive twin isn't turning into a stalker," he said, sounding a little too amused with himself. That usually meant he'd been drinking.

"And what would a stalker be doing at zero dark thirty on a Wednesday night?" I asked tiredly.

"Sitting in his car outside a certain vixen's house."

Well, shit.

I flipped on the lights and shifted into gear. "I am not a stalker."

"Then where the hell are you? The bar closed over an hour ago."

I looked at the clock on the dash and blinked. One o'clock? Had I really been sitting there for over half an hour?

"Just went for a drive," I lied. "I'm on my way home now."

"Uh-huh."

"See you in ten," I said coolly.

"Out of curiosity, how long is the drive from Naomi's place to ours?"

Rather than answer, I grunted a curse and disconnected the call.

When I got home, West and Drew were in the living room with an open bottle of whiskey sitting on the coffee table next to my favorite rocks glass, which was already half-full.

I tossed my keys in the bowl by the door. "This can't be good."

West held up his mostly empty glass. "Come, brother. We must palaver."

Oh yeah, he was lit. That was the only time he talked like he'd just stepped out of one of Stephen King's gunslinger novels.

I shot a look at Drew and motioned to the glass that was clearly waiting for me. "Am I in trouble?"

Dressed in just a pair of paint-stained jeans, with a drink in one hand, his other arm draped across the back of the couch, and his bare feet propped on the coffee table like nothing was amiss in his world, my oldest brother was the epitome of casual confidence.

I knew better, of course. That guy was a mess inside. He fell apart when his wife left him, for reasons he still refused to talk about.

"No trouble yet," he said quietly. "But you should still sit down. Have a drink."

"Or three," West chimed in, wearing a devilish smirk.

"I'm not really in the mood for a lecture." The whiskey, on the other hand, sounded like just the ticket.

Drew's left eyebrow kicked up. "Then look at it as a brotherly chat."

My shoulders fell. When he used that tone, the one that reminded all of us that he was the oldest, there was no getting out of the conversation. It was the same tone our dad used when he was making a point.

I toed off my shoes at the bench by the door, grabbed my glass off the table, and sank down into the soft black leather chair. "Let's get this over with." I downed half the whiskey in one go, reveling in the warmth as it spread through my chest.

"I'm not going to apologize for wanting to grow the business," Drew said.

"Grow or die," West added, holding up his glass as if that made his point.

I shook my head and held up my index finger. "One, grow or die is an outdated mentality when it comes to business. Sustainability is more important. And two, I'm not against doing things to make the bar more profitable, but that doesn't mean we have to run our neighbor out of business to do it."

"We've been over this," Drew said. "We've already implemented a lot of your suggestions. I'll be the first to admit those changes have helped with revenue, but The Fox Den can be so much more than it is. We just need more square footage to get there."

My entrepreneurial mind understood it perfectly. Expanding really was the best way to level up the family business. "I know, but I still don't like the idea of pushing Harlowe's out. It feels like a betrayal."

"Is that your brain or your dick talking?" West asked.

"My brain," I shot back.

He put his fist to his lips and let out a fake cough. "Bullshit."

I leaned forward in my chair, resting my elbows on my knees. "Watch it, West. I'm in no mood."

"Ooo." He waved his hands in the air in mock fear. Thank god his glass was empty. Otherwise, he would have spilled expensive whiskey all over the leather loveseat.

"Cut it out, lightweight," Drew said. "We're trying to have a serious talk."

"Serious? Serious?" West's voice got louder the way it always did when he'd had too much to drink. "He seriously needs to either bang the girl or move the hell on. Or bang her and then move on." His head lolled from one side to the other. "That sounds more like him. Tyler Mother Fucking Fox, the king of hit it and quit it."

The telltale tingle of anger flashed up my spine. He was my brother. I didn't really want to hit him but damn he could get under my skin.

"Do us all a favor and shut the hell up," I said. Setting my glass on the table, I stood and reached out a hand for his.

He looked at the empty glass for a few seconds. "You're going to give it back, right?"

I nodded. At the stage he was at, another quarter glass would have him passed out and snoring in ten minutes. Plus, whether getting him more drunk was kinder than hitting him was debatable. His hangover would knock him on his ass in the morning.

And if I let the whiskey do the knocking instead of my fists, that would make me not the bad guy.

Once the glasses were refilled and I was back in my chair, I leveled Drew with a look. Maybe it was time to come clean. "I don't know what's wrong with me. All of a sudden, I can't seem to get Naomi out of my head."

He scoffed before taking a sip of his whiskey. "All of a sudden, my ass. You've had it bad for that woman since high school."

"I think maybe you've had one too many,." I said, looking pointedly at his glass. When I glanced at West to back me up, his attention was focused squarely on the ceiling. "If he pukes out here, I'm not cleaning it up."

Drew sat up, set his glass on the table, and stared me down. "This is my second drink tonight, sunshine. So, no, I haven't had too much. And are you seriously telling me you haven't been harboring a secret crush on Naomi Harlowe all these years?"

I thought about it, just like I had been for the last few months. "Honestly? I don't know," I confessed.

He blinked. "Well, shit. I was sure you were going to put up more of a fight." He huffed out a breath, grabbed his glass and took a swig. "So, what changed?"

"She kissed me."

He nodded like he already knew. Except I hadn't told anyone about that night. Not a soul. "And you two slept together, obviously. Was it bad?"

I chewed on the inside of my lip. "She'd been drinking."

His eyes narrowed. He brought his glass to his lips and took another drink. "And?"

"And nothing." I propped one foot up on the table and sank lower in my seat. "I stopped before it went too far."

Some of the judgment lifted from his expression. "How did she take the rejection?"

"She wasn't impressed." I remembered the way she grumbled her displeasure as she unlocked her door. "We always poked at each other before, but now I think she genuinely hates me."

"Women can be touchy about some things. You know this. What did you say when you talked to her the next day?"

When I just blinked at him, he shook his head. "You didn't call her?"

"No." I closed my eyes and let my head fall back. "I fucked up."

"Yeah, you did."