Two Weeks and a Day (Finn's Pub Romance Book 2)

by R. G. Alexander

  “In an interesting plot twist, I’ve decided to use some of my vacation days to torture my brother and check out a few real estate possibilities. Based on tonight’s events, about two weeks, I’d say.”

  “Two weeks,” Brendan grumbles against my shoulder.

  But Royal’s words have grabbed my interest. “Are you getting a place in town?”

  His boulder-sized shoulders shrug. “My parents and a few of my brothers are still in Washington, but I realized recently that I have more friends here than I do back home, or in New York after years of living there. Brendan, JD, Carter. You. And those Finns are entertaining as hell. I was thinking it’s time I slowed things down. Stopped traveling the world so much and did a little nesting.”

  Nesting? Royal Hale? The only man Brendan has ever claimed is more of a ladies’ man than he is?

  It dawns on me that Royal didn’t mention Austen. Her absence on the list is so transparent and suspicious, I bet her witchy Sherlock senses are tingling way over on the other side of town.

  Is he really that interested? Nesting level interested?

  “That’s great,” I say sincerely as Brendan nuzzles behind my ear and hums against my pulse. “If you need any help with that, let me know. I could use another guy in the neighborhood.”

  Brendan shouldn’t be the only man I hang out with. That’s weird, right? And I miss him too much when he’s gone.

  “I’ll introduce you to my brother and his husband. They’ve finally decided to make those Dry Spell Diaries of his into a book, so he’s a little hard to live with these days, but he’s always a riot. You’ll like JD.”

  “Dry Spell?” My grip on Brendan’s hand tightens until he makes a sound of vague, drunken protest. “Your brother is the advice columnist? I thought his name was Green.”

  “It is. We all have the last names we came to Rick and Matilda with. It was confusing for the postal service and family stationary was out, but it worked for us.” Royal’s eyes narrow on me in the mirror. “Why do you look so shocked? Did you two date? You should tell me now, because Carter can be a little possessive of my brother.”

  “No,” Brendan growls, trying to tug me closer.

  What the hell?

  “My neighbors are fans, that’s all,” I say weakly. “Big fans. I’ve never met JD.”

  I’ve never met him or dated him, but Royal’s brother is the reason my neighbors keep trying to fix me up. The reason I hate matchmaking so much I almost didn’t agree to come out tonight.

  Small world.

  We finally pull up to my two-story house and I instantly set to work disentangling our limbs so I can get Brendan inside where he can sleep it off.

  He doesn’t want to let go.

  “I’ll get his luggage,” Royal calls when I’ve finally got him on his feet and walking toward the front door. I nod, pulling the key chain out of my pocket one-handed.

  Once inside, I flip on the lights and a part of me automatically relaxes, tension I wasn’t even aware of disappearing in an instant.

  Home.

  Away from the noise and crowds, this place is clean and peaceful and exactly what I need. Every brick and square of travertine tile has been repaired or installed by yours truly. Every picture on the wall, including a few my mother painted before she died, is framed and hung with care.

  After a lifetime of one-bedroom apartments with leaky faucets and warped linoleum, this might as well be a mansion.

  It’s too big for one person.

  Brendan picks that moment to stop clinging and strides into my living room, dropping on my couch with a thump.

  Déjà vu.

  Royal curses in the foyer, and when I turn to help him with his load, I get another surprise.

  The luggage is alive.

  That must be what was in the front seat.

  “Um, Royal? Is that an actual dog?”

  “In theory.” He sets the crate down and chuckles. “It looks more like a baby Ewok to me, but what do I know? I don’t even have real plants at my apartment.”

  It’s a Yorkshire terrier. Bigger than a teacup, but not by much. “How—”

  “Beats me. Unless he swiped it from some Paris Hilton type or it’s the heir to a canine fortune, we shouldn’t do jail time for keeping him for the night. He even came with his own pads to pee on.”

  “Pads?”

  Royal chuckled. “You see the size of that thing? A hawk could carry him away for supper if you let him roam the backyard unattended.”

  Good point.

  “If you invite me back for breakfast, we can ask Kinkaid about it in the morning. I’d love to get a front row seat to the hangover he’s in for.”

  I bet he would. “Sounds like a party,” I say automatically. “You’re invited.”

  What am I going to do with a dog for the night? Will he eat my shoes? Furniture cushions? Empanadas? It’s not like I can kick him out, though—he’s too ridiculously cute and the way he’s snoring is so loud for such a little thing it makes me smile. “I’ll take care of them.” The man and his Ewok.

  Royal hesitates. “You okay with Brendan staying with you for a few days? At least until he sorts out his condo situation or gets another place? If not, JD and Carter have the room—”

  “I have room too,” I say gruffly. “It’s not like he hasn’t crashed here before.”

  “He’ll definitely be more comfortable here,” Royal agrees easily. “TMI, but my brother and his husband can be a little loud.”

  I glance up at him and bite my lip. “So was it really an orgy? At the condo?”

  Royal’s eyes widen dramatically as he nods. “I’ve seen some shit tonight. I might be emotionally scarred.”

  “I doubt that. What I don’t get is why the landlord kicked him out when it was obvious he’d just got back in town.”

  Royal smirks. “That was personal. I hear he got turned away from the party twice. That’s enough to make any man vindictive. I suppose Brendan could fight it if he wanted to, but he didn’t seem all that interested when we left.”

  “Twice?”

  “Kimmy—that’s the travel agent—asked for a place to crash and ended up having multiple parties of the extremely loud and incredibly naked variety, which is probably why she didn’t want to stay in a hotel. She thought he was a pervert.”

  When we laugh, Brendan shouts from the living room, “Stop mocking my pain.”

  Royal shakes his head and lays a monster paw on my shoulder. “Thanks for bringing Austen tonight. It might not have gone as planned, but you really came through. I owe you one.”

  I smile, because he really does. “You can help with the deck tomorrow. And when you get your new place, we’ll go plant shopping. Maybe we can bring her along.”

  His expression brightens and then he waves, heading back out into the night.

  After I lock the door, I walk back to the living room to see Brendan’s six-foot frame sprawled across my couch. He’s kicked off his shoes and is in the process of unbuttoning his shirt. “I’ve never been so ready for a day to be over.”

  Give me strength.

  Without a word, I fast-walk my way to the kitchen to grab a large glass of water and some aspirin, then let the dog out of his crate and lay one of the blue pads down in case he needs to relieve himself. The little dude wakes up immediately and does his business without a peep before returning to the crate and curling up on his pale pink pillow.

  “Ridiculous,” I whisper, shaking my head. “That should be your name.”

  In the living room, I hand Brendan the water and aspirin. Then I pick up his shoes, placing them side by side at the end of the couch, and fold his dirty shirt to keep my hands busy while he guzzles down the water like he’s been in the desert for a year.

  “Do you like your present?” he finally asks.

  Present?

  He sets the glass on my coffee table and, before I can put down a coaster or ask him what he’s talking about, he wraps his fingers around my wrist and tugs.
>
  I tumble on top of him. “Brendan what the—”

  His kiss cuts off my shout of surprise.

  I’d like to say its shock that keeps me from immediately rejecting the press of his lips, but when mine part for his stroking tongue on a whimper, I know it’s a lie. I don’t want to reject it. Right or wrong, I can’t deny myself the pleasure of knowing what it’s like to kiss this man I’ve wanted for so long.

  Brendan’s hungry moans and the deep, demanding thrust of his tongue set me on fire. His stubble scrapes against my skin as he tilts his head and I shudder against him, so aroused I can hardly breathe.

  Air is overrated. Don’t stop.

  “Millie…” His hands burrow beneath my sweatpants and boxer briefs, gripping the cheeks of my ass and rocking me against him. “Missed you.”

  Millie.

  The old nickname sends a jolt through my body, and so does the hard, heavy feel of his cock rocking against mine. He wants this? Me?

  Think, Miller. That doesn’t make sense.

  I push away from him and try to climb off the couch. “You’re drunk, Brendan. Really fucking drunk and you don’t know what you’re doing. Let me go.”

  He holds on tighter, one hand at the back of my neck and the other slipping between us to wrap around my thickening erection. “Please. It’s okay. I know. I know and I need you…”

  I need you.

  He lifts his head off the couch to kiss me again, and then starts to stroke my shaft. When his thumb slides over the head to gather the moisture already beading at the tip, I cry out in surprised pleasure. He bites my upper lip before sucking on my tongue and my entire body responds, hips thrusting greedily into his fist.

  I don’t do this. One or two men have gotten to this point in my lifetime. Tried to touch me like this. Usually my brain is too busy—

  “Oh God,” I moan, my eyes nearly rolling back as his grip tightens around me. “I’m close.”

  Close because it’s Brendan’s hand. His mouth on mine. I’ve always wanted it. I’ve been waiting for it.

  He knows.

  I break away from the kiss to look down, needing to see what he’s doing that’s turning my body inside out. My blood pounds in my ears as I watch myself fucking his strong, perfect fist. “Christ. What are we doing?”

  “Just give it to me,” he mutters, watching with me, eyes dark and unfocused. “I need to see it. Need to know what you look like when you come.”

  My spine arches in an unexpected wave of pleasure at his words. No session with my own hand has ever been this good. Nothing has ever been this good. I can’t hold back.

  Brendan.

  The shout that escapes my throat is raw and ragged as jets of come land on his knuckles, his flat stomach and chest. I can’t stop fucking his hand, desperate to hold onto this feeling, the friction causing sparks to shoot up my spine and out from my fingertips.

  Can’t stop. Don’t ever stop.

  He pulls me down on top of him and now I’m the one burying my face in his neck, unable to believe I’m not dreaming. I have to be dreaming, right? I would never make this kind of mistake in real life.

  He would never want me in real life.

  He still doesn’t. He’s so drunk he’s barely coherent.

  I stiffen and his arms tighten around me. “Wait a second. Don’t freak out.”

  But I am.

  “You’re not gay,” I whisper. “You don’t want this.”

  I took advantage of the situation. I’m that guy.

  “That’s not true anymore,” he says, his words slurring together now. “Don’t send me away again, Millie. Please.”

  The plea makes my heart hurt. I know today must have destroyed him. Being suspended from the only thing he loves, and then kicked out of his place when he was down.

  This is my friend and he’s hurting.

  This is your friend who sleeps with women when he isn’t blind drunk and jerking you off.

  I take a deep breath, fortifying myself and trying to ignore the aftershocks of arousal pulsing through me as I raise my head to look him in the eye.

  His are already closed, his features too slack and relaxed for him to be pulling my leg. His soft snores instantly sync with the sounds his ridiculous dog is making and I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry.

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  I whack him lightly on the chest, then reach up to give his jaw a shake. Nothing.

  The bastard fell asleep on me. Well, under me. And if I want to get technical he didn’t fall so much as crash. He’s out cold.

  I slide off him until I’m on my knees beside the couch with my sweats around my thighs and my heart trying to hammer its way out of my chest.

  What did I just do?

  “That’s not true anymore.”

  And what the hell did that mean?

  Chapter Three

  A Brunch of Regrets

  Brendan

  That moment, right before consciousness hits, when you realize you’re going to regret waking up?

  Shit, I think I’m there.

  At least the conversation—the one I wouldn’t be overhearing if I were in my own bed where I belong—is taking care of the monster hard-on I woke up with.

  “Is it, you’ve got another think coming or another thing coming?”

  “People usually say thing, but think is the original colloquialism.”

  “Fred, stop showing off. You know how much Diane hates crosswords.”

  “I really do. And words like colloquialism. But I never welch on a bet.”

  “We know, sweet cheeks. Now let’s all keep it down so we don’t wake up Miller’s sexy flyboy, hmm? They obviously had a busy night, if you know what I mean.”

  “Cut it out, Heather, or I’ll eat that biscuit you’ve got your eye on. You all know Brendan is just a friend.”

  Just a friend.

  It’s that voice, deep and smooth and currently laced with barely concealed discomfort that fully drags me from oblivion.

  Not that I haven’t missed him like hell, but what’s Miller doing here with the estrogen posse?

  Use your head, flyboy. Do you know where you are right now? If you think Miller would be cooking for his neighbors at the condo he calls Casa de Horndog, you’ve got another think coming.

  I wish permanent memory loss came with this whopper of a migraine I drank myself into. Unfortunately, things are already starting to come back to me.

  Fuck my life.

  Too late. Looks like I already took care of that myself.

  After a few forceful blinks to unglue my eyelids and face the music, I’m confronted by a pair of cartoonishly large brown eyes. “Huh. That’s new.”

  There’s a small, furry growth on my chest that wasn’t there yesterday. And it’s staring at me with an expression that strongly resembles disappointment.

  What the hell, dog? I don’t even know you.

  I swear silently, managing to get myself into an upright position while carefully settling the judgmental ankle biter down on the cushion beside me. He’s solid in my grip so it’s safe to assume he’s not a hallucination. “I’ll get to you later.”

  He wags his stub of a tail agreeably.

  I need a minute to take stock of my situation, because so far it’s not looking so good. Embarrassment aside, my stomach is roiling, my eyeballs are hot and dry, and my aching neck and knees are telling me that blacking out on a couch is a younger man’s game.

  Public Service Announcement: At thirty-five, hangovers come with a crick in the neck, a sour stomach and a bonus shot of self-recrimination. The more you fucking know.

  “You can all relax now. It lives,” Miller says wryly from the kitchen, his words echoing through the throbbing canyon of suck where my head used to be.

  “Royal. He drove us back here, right?”

  He’ll be pissed at me, I’m sure. I’m surprised I didn’t wake up with a dick drawn on my face again. I scrub my jaw self-consciously, hoping he couldn’t get his
hands on a permanent marker.

  I hear a woman scoff from the kitchen and look over to see the familiar faces of Miller’s next-door neighbors. Other than their personalities, it’s hard to tell the two apart. Both women have short, blonde hair and a penchant for tie-dye, and rarely do you see one without the other.

  When the sixty-something couple basically adopted Miller as soon as he moved in, I was relieved. He’d just lost his mother and the way they fussed over him as we got him settled gave me hope that he’d be okay when I wasn’t around.

  Then about a year ago they started nagging him to date, determined to find him his perfect partner. Okay, Diane wanted perfect—Heather just wanted Miller to get laid.

  I like Heather.

  “Memory loss. How convenient.”

  Diane, I tolerate.

  “Not really,” I say, as if she’s talking to me instead of about me. “Just getting my bearings.”

  I stand up and stretch, recalling more of the worst day of my life. Flying home with my tail between my legs and two weeks suspension to suffer through while the airline reviews the incident.

  I definitely remember the incident.

  I also have a vague recollection of walking through the door of my condo and finding my old pal Kimmy throwing the kind of party you’d only see in a private dungeon, complete with an actual cage where my coffee table used to be.

  I can’t begin to fathom how they got that thing up the elevator.

  The details are a little fuzzy after that. All I know was there was a lot of nudity, a lot of yelling from the little guy who held my lease, and before I knew it, I’d been evicted and told I would be notified when I could pick up my things.

  No spare key goes unpunished.

  Thanks, Kimmy.

  At any other time in my life I might have cajoled the landlord into giving me a warning by finding him a willing partner, and then joined the party myself. I’ve never had a problem with a little healthy debauchery, and I’ve rarely taken the moral high ground in lieu of getting laid.

  I used to joke that there wasn’t much difference between a pilot’s life and a pirate’s—taming the wind, thriving on danger and traveling the world in search of adventure and booty. Emphasis on the booty, of course.