Racing Home (Bryant Brothers Book 1)

its front paws.
It was Tommy.
And he was only half dressed.
His hair was damp, as if he’d already taken a shower, and he wore a pair of black warm-up pants sitting low on his hips—and nothing else. Not a shirt, not socks, probably not even underwear, although that last was a straight up assumption. Since he was currently facing away from her, she basked in the beauty that was the muscles carved across his shoulders and back. Not to mention that firm, rounded ass. She touched her own, recalling how he’d stared as he followed her up the stairs yesterday. Hers was far less muscular and much, er, cushier than his, that was for damn sure.
Freddy noticed her and stood, tail wagging as he headed over to greet her. Tommy glanced over his shoulder, and when his gaze landed on her face, a smile spread across his that made her blink rapidly as if he’d flipped on a far too bright light.
“Morning, sunshine,” he said.
“Morning,” she responded, clearing her throat to chase the frog away.
“Coffee?” Before she could respond, he was already lifting a ceramic mug out of the cupboard and filling it with the nectar of the gods.
She accepted it and then reached into the fridge to add creamer. “Careful. Gifts like this might cause me to start liking you.”
He arched those starkly black brows. “So noted.”
Uh-oh. She wasn’t giving the guy ammunition, was she? She’d warned herself yesterday that this was a bad idea.
“Nice socks, by the way.”
She glanced down at the fuzzy, bright, striped socks covering her perpetually cold feet. She never went anywhere without them. “You have a problem with my choice in footwear?”
He shook his head and grinned. “Nope. I think they’re sexy.”
She doubted that but hadn’t had enough coffee yet to spar with the man and stand any chance of holding her own.
“Interested in helping?” he asked, motioning toward the cookbook.
She inched closer, trying to check out the recipe he was apparently following. There was a carton of eggs on the counter, as well as a pile of potatoes, a couple of onions and colorful bell peppers, an assortment of cheeses, and a package wrapped in white paper that she guessed was bacon.
“You cook?” she asked. Dinner last night had been simple, basic enough that a non-seasoned chef could pull it off. Breakfast that wasn’t simply scrambled eggs and bacon for a crowd was a different story.
He nodded. “Remember, my mother is determined to bring some estrogen, as well as grandkids, into this family. She forced us all to help her out in the kitchen, claiming a good woman would appreciate a man who knew how to cook.”
“So all four of you like to cook?”
He chuckled. “Believe it or not, yes. And some of us are actually reasonably good at it.”
“Are you including yourself in that category?”
“Yep. Do you enjoy a man who can cook?”
“Yes,” she said automatically and then rapidly shook her head. “No. I mean, I enjoy cooking. I thought that’s what you said.”
His eyes twinkled while his lips twitched. “Then come help me.”
It felt like both a challenge and a promise. She inched closer. When she was within striking, er, touching distance, she paused, half expecting him to sweep her into his arms. Instead, he reached toward her, wielding a hand-held grater like it was a microphone.
“You get potato duty,” he said, pointing at the pile.
Annoyingly disappointed, she accepted the grater and stepped up to an empty bowl while he settled next to her and began steadily chopping onions and peppers.
“What are we making?” she asked.
“Hash brown casserole. There’s also fruit for salad. Pretty basic, but it feeds a crowd and keeps them full.”
“Sounds delicious.”
They worked in companionable silence for a while. He refilled her coffee mug, adding creamer without being asked. She murmured an appreciative thank you and said, “Do you always get up before everyone else in the family?”
“I’m rarely here, remember? But yes, I usually get up early. I went for a bike ride.”
“Before coffee?” she blurted, and he laughed.
“I like to go alone, and first thing in the morning is the best time to do that.”
“Why alone?” she asked.
He lifted one shoulder and moved on to shredding cheese. “Even though I’m only one guy on a motorcycle, that’s for a few minutes at a time, and my entire focus is on getting through the course as fast and cleanly as possible. Otherwise, I’m rarely alone. There’s the pit crew, my managers, the fans, the press, my trainers, and then when I’m here, my family.”
“And the Tinas.”
“The what?”
She shook her head without making eye contact. “Sorry, didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
He nudged her shoulder. “What’s a Tina?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Oh, yes, I most definitely do.”
She sighed. “It’s the name I gave to your fan club.”
“My fan—”
She glanced up in time to see his eyes widening that indicated he’d figured out what she was talking about.
“Oh, you’re referring to the groupies you mentioned last night.”
She didn’t confirm nor deny.
He chuckled. “You’ve been thinking about my fan club, huh?”
Why did he sound so damn cheerful about it?
“No. I just assumed women throw themselves at you all the time, based on—on—” She stuttered into silence.
“On?”
What was she supposed to say? If she said his body, he’d know she found him attractive. If she said she’d looked him up online, he’d know she was interested enough to do so.
“Nothing,” she muttered.
He snickered. “You were curious.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You looked me up. Wanted to know if my brother’s references to me being a famous motocross racer were legit.”
She shook her head, but he clearly didn’t believe her silent denial, because he said, “Hey,