Page 81 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series

He opened his eyes and gazed at Monet, doing his best to ignore just how bloody gorgeous she looked on the sofa opposite him, her long legs tucked under her backside, her dark hair in a loose ponytail, her smile warm and open. And yet, she looked…wistful.

“You don’t love yours?”

She shrugged. “I do. I guess. But we’re not close. I don’t have any brothers or sisters and no real sense of home. Mom and Dad didn’t exactly approve of me moving to New York to study art when I was a teenager, and I didn’t exactly approve of Mom and Dad dumping me with whomever they could when I was younger just so they could travel around the world. Hence me beingherefor Thanksgiving and not with them in Philadelphia. If they’re even there at the moment.”

Dylan didn’t miss the bitterness in her voice. He tried to imagine growing up without his family. When his dad had died of a massive heartache while rounding up strays in the far western paddock, Dylan’s whole life had turned upside down, but he and Hunter had drawn strength from each other and love from their mum. What must it be like to not have that sense of security?

He gave Monet a slow smile, wanting to take away the sorrow he saw in her eyes. Wanting to make her laugh again. He loved her laugh. Just as much as he loved her.

“Mum’s great,” he said. “And Hunter’s not that bad either, if you ignore his smelly feet. I swear I’ve had to throw him into the cattle dip more than once just so I could take a breath of fresh air.”

Her eyebrows pulled into a frown. “What the hell is a cattle dip?”

He laughed, pulling at the waistband of his jeans as he straightened in his chair. After their meal of roast lamb, baked potatoes, pumpkin, steamed green beans and carrots—all smothered in rich brown gravy—he was lucky he could even move. If he were truthful with himself, he’d say he’d eaten so much so he didn’t have to think about his situation. About the damn wordhome. And yet here he was, talking about it.

“A cattle dip is a long trough-like concrete tank filled with a chemical solution that the cattle walk through to keep them protected from ticks.”

Monet’s frown deepened. “And you threw your brother in this?”

Dylan grinned. “Yep. Often. Especially after he’d gotten all dolled up for a night on the town. He’d come out of his room stinking of aftershave and, before he knew it, I’d crash tackle him, drag him outta the house kicking and screaming and throw him in.” He scratched at his whiskers, enjoying the stunned disbelief on Monet’s face. “Of course, Hunter being roughly the same size as me meant I pretty much always ended up in the drink with him. He’s a strong bloody bastard after all, but it was worth it.”

She shook her head. “You do actuallylikeyour brother, don’t you?”

Dylan couldn’t stop his laughter. “Bloody oath.” A recent memory of Hunter declaring he wasn’t responsible for filling Dylan’s boots with cow manure—even as he washing his hands clean of the incriminating evidence—came to Dylan, bringing with it a sudden jolt of homesickness. He missed his twin. A lot. This was the first time they’d been more than a few thousand kilometers apart and Dylan hadn’t realized just how lost he felt without Hunter. Was it because he usually shared his happiest moments with his brother, and Hunter wasn’t here in New York to share his happiness now?

He let out a soft grunt. “Yeah, I love my brother. But I wouldn’t be caught dead telling him that.” He pointed a finger and gave her a stern look. “And if you tell him, I’ll flat out deny it.”

Monet laughed. “In that case, whatshouldI say you told me about him?”

“Tell him I said he was as ugly as a hatful of arseholes.”

Monet’s eyebrows shot up. “As ugly as what?”

He grinned.

“Wait, didn’t you say you were twins? Identical twins?”

Dylan reached for the bottle of beer he’d been slowly drinking throughout the night. “Yeah, but I’m the good-looking one.”

Monet shook her head again. “Okay, I cry uncle. I don’t think I’ll ever grasp the way you Aussies talk.”

Dylan raised the bottle to his lips and dropped her a wink. “No worries, love,” he said. “You’ll get the hang of it. Give us another month or so…”

He trailed away, the realization of what he’d just uttered robbing him of the ability to finish the sentence. A month or so. Not a day or even a week, but a month.

A thick lump settled in his throat and he lowered the bottle, knowing if he took a mouthful he’d have fuck-all chance of swallowing it.

A month or so.

Somewhere, deep in his subconscious, he’d obviously made up his mind he and Monet were still going to be in each other’s company. But where?

A tight vice clamped around his chest and he stared at the woman opposite him. The American artist who should have been just a friend he’d made through Annie.

He drew a breath. There wasn’t a fucking hope in hell Monet could ever bejusta friend. Not anymore. Not after she’d made him feel so…so… Bloody hell. So damn complete.

He placed his beer on the coffee table, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, studying her. “Monet—” he began.

“It’s tradition here in America,” she cut him off, her gaze falling to the empty dishes strewn across the table separating them, “to share what we’re thankful for.” She picked up her wineglass, stared at the contents and then raised her gaze to his. “I’m thankful for you, Dylan Sullivan. You’ve made me laugh more times in the last five days than I think I have in a month.”