Admittedly, she had been a great gift. She kept Brody company in his big empty house. His housekeeper, Peggy, walked and cared for her during the day, and the dog occasionally stayed with Agnes if Brody had to travel. It wasn’t much of a burden. Everyone loved Chris.
“Did Peggy feed you dinner yet?”
Chris darted over to her empty bowl and stared up expectantly. Brody looked down into the dog’s big brown eyes and knew she’d never admit it, even if she’d already eaten. She was a canine garbage disposal. “Here you go,” he said, filling her bowl with her favorite kibble. “I wonder what Peggy left for me to eat?”
He had a good guess. Tonight, the air was filled with the spicy scent of Mexican food.
Peggy arrived after he left for work and was gone before he came home. She kept his place tidy, took care of Chris, handled the laundry that didn’t go to the cleaners and did all his grocery shopping and cooking. Peggy was an excellent cook. She made a pot roast so good it could make you cry. It was even better than Molly’s, although he wouldn’t admit to that even if one of his brothers had him in a headlock.
Peggy had worked for him for five years, but Brody wasn’t entirely sure what she looked like. There was a copy of her driver’s license photo in her file from her background check, but few people actually looked like their pictures. Agnes had interviewed her, so he’d never met Peggy in person. All he knew was that she could deal with his idiosyncrasies, and that made her perfect.
Brody tossed his suit coat over the stool at the kitchen bar and looked for the note Peggy left him every night. He’d bought her nice stationery with an embossed “P” on the front and she’d opted to use it for her daily communications with him.
He found it sitting beside a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies on the kitchen island. He popped one in his mouth and groaned. That woman deserved a raise. He chewed as he flipped open the card.
There’s enchilada casserole in the oven. Picked up your favorite beer at the store today. It’s in the fridge. New sheets on the bed. Mail on your desk. Chris has eaten dinner, don’t let her fool you. You also got a package from your brother.—Peggy
A package from his brother? Frowning, Brody set down the card, went to the fridge for a bottle of microbrew and snatched up another cookie. He carried both of them down the hallway into his study with Chris quick on his heels. On his desk was a stack of various bills, junk mail and a large brown box. The label said it was from his foster brother Xander.
Brody had gone to live with Ken and Molly Eden when he was eleven, only a few months after his father had attacked him. He grew up on their Christmas tree farm in Connecticut with their daughter, Julianne, and a list of other foster children. He considered the Edens and the three other boys that remained on the farm—Wade, Xander and Heath—his true family. Xander and his younger brother, Heath, had come to the farm after their parents were both killed in a car accident. Xander was in the same grade as Brody, just a few months younger. He was currently a Connecticut congressman living in D.C.
He ignored the mail and went straight to the package. It wasn’t his birthday. It was October and far too early for a Christmas present. There was no reason he should be getting a box from Xander, so it was a mystery. Until he ripped the brown paper away to reveal a picture of an inflatable woman.
The torture of brothers never ended. Neither miles nor years would get them off his back about his love life. He knew it would be even worse if they ever learned the truth of it. Brody dropped the box onto his desk and went for his phone.
“This is Langston,” Xander answered.
“You know,” Brody began, skipping the small talk. “I expect this kind of crap from Heath, but not you. You’re supposed to be the sensible, non-controversial one.”
“At the office, absolutely. But the rest of the time, I’m your brother and it is fully within my rights to give you grief about your love life, or lack thereof.”
“You have no room to talk, Xander. When was the last time you actually went on a date?”
“I took Annabelle Hamilton to a reception last week.”
Brody chuckled and sat back on the edge of his desk. “A political fund-raiser?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Doesn’t count. When was the last time you went on a date where you didn’t talk about politics, attend a political event or leave your date stranded alone while you talked to some lobbyist that came up to your table?”