Before I’d even fully dressed, I could hear the movers he’d brought with him lifting side tables and odds and ends.

Porter knocked and I told him I was dressed.

He cracked the door and saw I was before pushing it open.

“Why’d you check?” I asked affronted. “You thought I’d be laying in here waiting for you?”

“A man can hope. It’s been a minute.” He said.

Making me flush that he’d beaten me at my own game. “I doubt a very long minute.”

“That’s a matter of perspective.” He shrugged. Inspecting my most intimate domain. “You want this side table.”

“It’s a bedstand.” I corrected.

“What’s the difference?”

I have no idea!

“Huge difference.” I said aloud, contrary to my inner thoughts. I crossed my arms over a loose t-shirt. Which I’d opted to throw over some frayed white jean shorts.

“If you say so. You want it?”

“Will I have somewhere to put it?”

“I was going to put you in my room, and I was going to take the couch. So, whatever you want.”

“No!” I cried. My arms dropping to my sides. “I’m not taking your room!”

That just sounded like a trap.

And even if it didn’t, I was going to be in a room that was guaranteed to smell like his male scent and that sexy cologne.

I don’t need that.

***

“Alright…” He said slowly. “Have it your way. But my couch isn’t very damn comfortable.”

“Then why have it?”

“Because I’m never on it.” He dismissed. “You want this bedstandy thingy?”

I laughed at his wording. “No. I don’t need it.”

My laughter died as I realized what I had in it. Gaging the distance, he was to the narrow drawer on top.

“What?” He frowned, reading my expression. “What’s wrong?”

I have intimate things in that drawer.

And he was entirely too close.

Watching my face carefully, he reached out and hooked his fingers under that handle.

My face flushed with heat, and my eyes widened.

If he opened that drawer, I was going to be unrecoverably mortified.

Unable to look him in the eye ever again.

I already had two hands out as if I intended to lunge across the room and slam it shut. My lips parted as I fought to find some logical reason why he couldn’t open it.

Grinning ear to ear, he dropped his hand and laughed, walking out of my room. “Let us know what you want to go.”

That was evil. I scowled at his back as he passed me.

He never intended to open it.

He was torturing me.

I thought for only a moment before a twinkling bulb flipped on over my head. “Guys, can you help me pack up the kitchen.”

Porter’s head popped up from the DVDs on a shelf as he caught my honeyed tone.

The three movers walked into the kitchen, and I stuffed boxes in their hands while they dutifully waited.

I noted that their arms too were littered in similar tattoos. After shoving some pots and a can opener and a few whisks in one box, I looked up at him and realized for the first time, how similar he was to Porter. Though his hair was redder, and he had slightly less muscle.

My gaze moved over the other two and realized they were all similar.

Brothers.

He has brothers.

Did he mention that? I felt like he had. But not that there were three of them!

“Kane…” One of them called worriedly.

“Yeah?” He answered from the Living Room.

“She’s packing some weird shit, in here.”

He’s onto me.

I gave him a withering glare to shut him up, but he was too busy inspecting the contents I was loading in the box.

“It’s a lot of stuff.” He warned again.

But, thankfully, Porter was busy snooping.

“Hey!” He called to me.

Making my head turn to see him kneeling before my couch holding a dark red braw that was such thin lace, I could peer at him through it.

“Do you want this to go?”

“I want you to put that the hell down!” I pointed a finger and motioned it downward.

Drop it on the floor!

Why is he touching my stuff! That stuff?

“I feel like you should pack it?” He twisted it to give it a once over. “Looks like something you may want.”

“I don’t! Leave it!”

The sight of those big, tanned fingers holding my lacy bra was giving me goosebumps.

“Well, if you say so…” He tossed it over his shoulder like a towel as he moved on.

Dear God.

Why is he torturing me?

Could this possibly be more embarrassing.

“Porter!” I squealed in objection. Stalking from the kitchen to sweep the bra off his shoulder and haul it to my room.

“Are you putting that, in that drawer?” He called.

“No!”

“Do you want me to open it for you?”

“No!” My voice was getting so loud and frantic that I wondered if my neighbors were calling the cops.

“Get out of my apartment!” I pointed to the door. Unable to take anymore.

“We’ll go.” Porter laughed at my discomfort. “Just tell me what else you want moved.”

I stretched my arms to lift a stack of canvas paintings from where they were propped face down against one wall. I handed them off to one of the other brothers while the one in the kitchen was closing up the box of my kitchen stuff.

I threw some odds and ends from my bathroom into the box in the other guys’ hand before summoning the last man to stuff a bunch of things from my living room into it.

They all left, arms laden with my stuff, to head downstairs.

I moved the curtain with a finger to watch them loading a line of trucks out there.

“Thank God they’re leaving.” I blew a long breath. But for some reason I wasn’t stepping away from the window as I watched Porter hopping into one pickup and pulling the door closed. Before getting out to tighten some straps and check my things before hopping back in.

Moving so agilely into the pickup that I could tell he was just as comfortable in one of those as he was in his fancy Spider.

What the hell kind of man am I dealing with?