One Spring Night

Prologue

He thought it would change things, change the way day-to-day life ticked along, knowing his sister would never be poor again, but not much was different. And, because Ben was attune to changes and shifts in mood and meaning, there was a certain blanket of relief that soothed, knowing that his sister was taken care of.

In the monetary, sense, he added to his thought, chuckling as he poured three generous fingers of whiskey. His sister was extremely capable of taking care of herself. He'd once walked through the pub's kitchen door in time to see her physically tossing out a man three times her size. The drunkard had enthusiastically reached for—and made contact with—her ass after too many tequila shots. And out the man went, on the sidewalk—nose first—with little sweat from Abigail.

"You as drunk as I am?"

Ben glanced over to his brother who sidled up behind the bar. "No one's as drunk as you are," he told him, then slid the whiskey to their meat supplier who'd joined the celebration.

"Then why were you laughing by yourself?"

Ben eyed Beckett. "Because I'm just that hilarious."

"Yeah, you're a regular riot." In response, Beckett jabbed Ben with his elbow, on purpose of course, as he hefted a collection of to-go containers onto the bar.

The noise rose and roared—someone's story had caused fits of giggles and table thumps in the corner. Ben and Beckett looked toward the commotion, the two pairs of golden eyes sharpening for just a flash.

"Old Barley Bill, telling tales," Beckett announced.

"Same stories, same crowd, same laughs." Ben loved the reliability of it, the hold of knowing that the crowd of humans crammed into the pub would return, laughing and telling tales, day in, day out. It was like a baseball mitt that had been worn in through the years and fit your hand—the curves and movement of it—just perfectly.

Plus, it was springtime, Ben thought with a slightly whiskey-sodden, meandering mind. Which meant baseball season. And that, too, was just perfect.

"So what's all this?" Ben motioned toward Beckett's delivery of goods as he pulled another pour of pale ale.

"A to-go order."

Ben looked at his brother. "I can see that much. You went back and cooked in a closed kitchen during a private party?"

The two men were nearly identical in stature—both were built with the strength and solidity of naturally lean muscle, both featured chestnut brown waves of hair that tended to go unruly, and both had brilliant honey-gold eyes. But while Beckett's eyes broadcast the sparkles of his boyish charm, Ben's were warm and vivid with hints of darker waters that ran deep.

"Someone called with an order." Beckett lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "Couldn't say no."

Ben passed a beer along to the town's kindergarten teacher who'd just arrived, then flicked a look at Beckett. "You mean a woman called with an order and you couldn't say no."

Beckett's face widened with a smile. "I'm a sucker."

"Clearly. What'd you make her?"

"Three boxes of whatever the hell we had left of all the food back there."

"Is that what she ordered?"

"It's what she's getting," Beckett offered, companionably.

Ever the responsible one, Ben retrieved the containers from the top of the bar and set them out of the way. "And I'm guessing you're leaving me to explain that to her?"