Busted

The line went dead a moment later.

*   *   *

For the first time in . . . ages, really, a story had sucked him under.

It helped, he supposed, that Travis was there. He volunteered to pick up Clayton and Trey just grunted, only vaguely aware. He surfaced again when his alarm went off, signaling that it was time for him to leave, but since Travis was already gone, he only paused long enough to fuel himself with coffee and a hastily slapped together sandwich, and then he lost himself back in the story.

It had been nearly eight before he found himself winding down and then he was famished, eyes bleary, and guilt had him seeking out his son.

Clayton was snuggled up against Travis while they watched Captain America. Trey paused briefly to shake his head—the two of them had already watched every single movie in the Avengers franchise—and some of them twice—and Travis hadn’t been there that long.

But that didn’t keep him from attacking the fridge—he rolled his eyes at the leftover pizza. Then he ate a slice cold and reheated what was left before joining them in the living room.

While the captain was grieving over Bucky, Trey looked over at his twin. Trying to keep his voice casual, he asked, “Did anybody call or anything while I was off in another world?”

“Nope.” Travis lifted a bottle of beer to his lips, drank deep, then shot him a look. “Were you expecting a call?”

Yes. He shrugged. “Just wondering.”

He pulled his phone from his back pocket, eyed the lack of messages and then blew out a breath.

“You’re watching the movie with us, right, Dad?” Clayton asked, his voice soft, gaze still locked on the screen.

“Yeah, Clay. I’m watching.” He did send her a text, though.

Hey . . . how you doing?

There was no answer, though. Even when he was tucking Clayton into bed, even when he returned to his office and tried to catch up on some of the non-writing work he’d ignored all day.

He’d only been at it twenty minutes when Travis joined him, his feet silent. Travis had always been quiet, but Trey had always known when he was there, too.

“You and Ressa going out this weekend?”

Trey looked up at his brother, studying him. He’d been in town a little over a week now and he was looking less gaunt by the day.

Less gaunt, less tired . . . but his eyes were still grim. He looked older, too.

Older, and harder.

Trey couldn’t think of a better way to put it. Travis had been born three minutes before Trey, but there were times when it looked like a decade separated them.

“I don’t know.” He shrugged, and wished he did know. They’d had coffee twice this week. He’d had sex with her—about a hundred times—but it was all in his head, or in dreams, and if he didn’t remedy that soon, he thought his balls might bust.

Of course, sometimes, he had second thoughts, and third, and fourth. Occasionally those thoughts were followed by a panic attack because he worried about just what he’d do—what Ressa would think—if things got all hot and sweaty between them and then he had another freak-out session in the middle of a make-out session.

More than once, he’d had to mentally kick his own ass, because he’d decided he was moving past this. Moving on with his life—because he actually wanted to have a life.

They were still dancing around that talk . . . despite the fact that they talked on the phone every night. Sometimes it was just for a few minutes. But then there had been a couple of nights when they walked for a good two hours after they put their respective kids down.

He didn’t know if he’d see her that weekend and the thought that he might not made his mood take a turn for the lousy.

“Haven’t made any plans?” Travis settled in the beat-up chair next to him, elbows braced on his knees.

“What is this, twenty questions?” Eying his inbox with acute dislike, he said a silent prayer that his assistant Meg would be back to work next week—she’d been on vacation while he was at the convention plus the following week and right before she was supposed to come back, her mother had passed away.

He knew she needed the time away. Shit, if his mother had died, he had a feeling he’d crumple like a baby and want to hide for about a year. He got it, really.

But at the same time, he was lost without Meg being here.

Deciding the search-and-destroy method would be best, Trey did a search for the stuff he knew he wouldn’t mess with—all the promotional stuff that was sent his way—he tagged and filed all of that into a folder for Meg to deal with when she was back and up to it. Then he did another search for the people he knew he had to answer sooner rather than later, although those people tended to call. There was a mess of stuff from his agent and his editor, including a new cover.

“You never did answer me.”

“What?” Trey only barely registered Travis’s voice as he studied the cover. He didn’t know what to think about it. It was another L. Forrester book, about one of the secondary characters he’d had in the last one. The heroine had a friend on the quiet, shy, almost gawkish side . . . and somebody who’d worked with the hero in the book had fallen for her.

This one was called Seducing the Scholar and instead of a sexy girl with a tie, it had a guy. Trey didn’t care what it said about him. He much preferred the pretty girl over the bare-chested pretty boy they’d slapped on this one. He’d told them he wanted something in the same vein . . . and this was definitely that. But he much preferred the beautiful woman.

“Hell, Trey, are you even on . . . what is this . . .”

He went to slap his laptop shut but Travis stopped him, moving entirely too fast as he jerked the laptop out of his reach and all but sprinted around the desk until he had it between them.

“Give me that damn laptop,” Trey growled, rising and bracing his hands on the surface of the desk.

“‘Seducing the Scholar’ . . .” Travis drew it out, eyes narrowed. He looked up and the screen was reflected in miniature in his gaze. “So. Who is L. Forrester?”

“You jackass, give me the computer.”

“Answer the question.” Travis just backed up, an unholy light gleaming in his eyes. “You devious little bastard. It’s you, isn’t it?”

If he could have managed not to blush, he would have bluffed. He knew how to bluff, even his twin. At least he thought he could have bluffed.

But it was a waste of time to even try because that telltale hot flush he could feel spreading up his neck, then his cheeks, was a dead giveaway. “Give me my damn computer, you moron.”

“Has Mom read these?” Travis sidestepped another grab for the computer, moving easier than he had since he’d arrived. He backed up farther out of reached as he gri

“No, you fuckwit.”

“Fuckwit.” Travis chuckled as he cocked his head, studying the cover from one side, then the other. “So is this one of the billionaire books? You giving up the cry me a river books?”

“No.” He gauged the distance, the desk, and then hurtled over it. One hand slipped on a piece of paper but he made it. Travis was already dodging out of reach. “You piece of shit—”

“You kiss that pretty lady of yours with that mouth?” Travis snapped the laptop shut and turned it over. “So what is this? What’s the L. Forrester stuff?”

Steaming, tapping the laptop against his leg, Trey debated beating his brother senseless or just leaving the room. “You are just as a

“Probably.” Travis looked cheerful. “You going to answer the question? I can always call Mom. I bet she’s heard of this L. Forrester person. I’ll see what she . . .”

“It’s romance. Okay? Aliesha wanted me to try something different.”