The Last Single Garrett

She immediately returned to the pile of pillows, then smiled at him again. “Movie?” she asked hopefully.

“After your movie is done and the kitchen is clean, we’re going to have to go out so that I can buy a new phone,” Josh told them, as he picked up the remote again.

Tristyn turned to follow him back down the hall. “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I never would have believed it.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Believed what?”

“That you’re a marshmallow.”

He stopped then and turned to face her, his brows drawing together over smoke-colored eyes. “I am not.”

“Yes, you are,” she insisted. “You’re all soft and squishy—like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.”

Those eyes narrowed dangerously, the only warning she had before he took two slow and deliberate steps forward. She automatically took two steps back. He laid his palms flat on the wall on either side of her, then leaned in, so that his body brushed against hers. His undeniably lean and very hard body.

“Do I feel soft and squishy to you?” he asked, his mouth close to her ear.

She lifted her palms to his chest, where his heart was beating in a rhythm much steadier than her own, to hold him at a distance. She had to moisten her suddenly dry lips with her tongue before she could reply, but she managed to keep her tone light and casual when she said, “In here.” And tapped her fingers against his rock hard chest. “Your heart is soft and squishy.”

“Because I didn’t yell at a three-year-old?” he challenged.

“You not only didn’t yell,” she pointed out. “You melted. That little girl looked at you with those big blue eyes and said, ‘I so-wee, Unca Josh,’ and it was as if you completely forgot she destroyed an eight hundred dollar phone.”

“It’s just a phone,” he said, conveniently ignoring the monetary value.

“Well, at least now I know why you didn’t answer any of my calls, text messages or emails today,” she noted.

He was still crowding her, standing so close that she could feel the heat emanating from his body. So close she had only to lean forward to touch her mouth to his strong square jaw. Her lips tingled with anticipation; her body whispered “yes, please.” She clamped her lips firmly together and pressed herself back against the wall.

“Were you worried about me, Tris?” he asked, the silky tone of his voice sliding over her like a caress.

“No,” she denied. Lied. “I was annoyed that I had to give Dave Barkov the tour of GSR.”

“I never doubted that you could handle it,” he told her.

“That’s not the point,” she said, ducking under his arm and walking away.

He, naturally, followed. “Do you want an apology? Okay—I’m sorry I was out of touch for a few hours.”

She shook her head as she returned to the kitchen to resume the task she’d abandoned earlier. “You don’t get it, do you? It’s not just that you didn’t tell anyone you wouldn’t be at work today—you didn’t even tell your friends what was going on here.”

He held her gaze for a long moment. “Is that what we are, Tris...friends?” he asked, in that same silky voice that could make any woman go weak in the knees.

Any woman but her, of course, because she was immune to the considerable charms of Josh Slater.

“Maybe not,” she finally said, determined not to give any hint of the feelings churning inside her. “A friend probably would have known you have three nieces.”

“It’s not something that often comes up in conversation,” he pointed out. “And since my sister moved to Seattle when Charlotte was a baby, I don’t get to see them very often.”

“That’s why you go to Washington every Christmas,” she realized.

“Not every Christmas.” He picked up the soapy cloth to wipe down the stovetop. “But I go when I can.”

She finished unloading the clean dishes and began to load the dirty ones. “So why are they here now?”

“Lucinda’s manager decided, at the last minute, to send her to Spain. The company she works for is setting up a new distribution center there and her pregnant boss, who was supposed to supervise the setup and train the staff, was recently put on bed rest by her doctor, so the company tapped Lucy to go.”

“Why did I always think your sister worked at Slater Industries?”

“My older sister, Miranda, does,” he told her. “She lives in London with her husband and their kids and manages the office there.”

Which meant that he probably didn’t get to see them very often, either, and perhaps explained why he was always hanging out at Garrett family events. Something to think about.

“How did you end up with so many dishes from two meals?” she asked, as she continued to fill the dishwasher.

“Each of the girls wanted something different for breakfast,” he admitted.

“And you indulged them,” she guessed.

“Well, Emily was up first and she asked for dippy eggs with toast sticks, so I figured I would make eggs for everyone. Then Charlotte woke up and informed me she doesn’t eat eggs—except if they’re in pancake batter. So while Emily was eating her eggs, I found a recipe for pancakes and started making those for Charlotte. By this time, Hanna was awake, too. But she just wanted cereal and seemed perfectly happy with the Cheerios I put on the table in front of her—until I made the mistake of pouring milk into the bowl.”

Tristyn’s lips curved as she pictured the scene he’d described. “Did she scream like a banshee?”

“I thought the neighbors would be knocking on my door—or Family Services,” he admitted.

“Kylie went through a dry cereal stage,” she told him. “Except for Rice Krispies, because they ‘talk’ when you put milk on them.”

“And this—” he said, scraping the remnants of a pot into the garbage can “—is what’s left of the mac and cheese they all had for lunch.”

“Well, that’s a score,” she noted. “Pleasing all three of them with the same food.”

“Except that Charlotte likes hers with ketchup mixed into it, Emily doesn’t like it with ketchup at all and Hanna’s ketchup has to be squirted on top of the pasta in the shape of a smiley face.”

Tristyn smiled at that image, too. “And how long are they staying?”

“Eight to ten weeks.”

Her brows winged up. “What are you going to do with them for two months?”

He wiped his hands on a towel, then folded it over the handle of the oven door. “I’m thinking I should talk to my grandparents, to see if they’re willing to take them for the summer.”

“Didn’t your grandmother just celebrate her eightieth birthday a few weeks back?”

He nodded.

“And your grandfather’s a couple of years older than she is,” Tristyn pointed out.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “But they both play golf several times a week.”