Free Dirty Thoughts by Megan Erickson Page B

bit. He didn’t fit in with their family, according to her, never mind that Cal loved Jenna and treated her with respect. Dylan muttered something as the family passed, but it hadn’t been quiet enough, because Brent jerked his head up, eyes widening a fraction, before settling into his smirk. “Hey, look who it is! The MacMillans. Man, just who I’ve been waiting to see.”
    Jenna watched Cal as he lifted his gaze and swept it over the table—and over her. He wore his boots and a pair of dark blue pants with a light-colored button-down shirt. His hair was actually combed back, so his eyes glowed in the dim light of the restaurant. He looked handsome, although if Jenna was hard-pressed, she might say she liked his garage-look better. Because that was Cal.
    He lowered his head, clearly avoiding all contact. He nudged Brent with his elbow, but his brother didn’t move.
    “Hey, Jenna,” Max said, stepping out from behind Brent, ignoring the tension surrounded the table.
    She smiled at him. “Wow, look at you. I haven’t seen you since you were twelve or thirteen.”
    He gestured to the girl on his arm. “This is my fiancée, Lea.”
    The girl beamed. “Hello.”
    “Nice to meet you,” Jenna said.
    “Hey, Dylan,” Brent said, and Jenna braced herself when she saw the quirk of Brent’s mouth. “Gotta little sauce, uh . . . ” He gestured toward his own cheek and coughed. “You know.”
    Dylan lifted his napkin, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with stiff movements. And then his eyes narrowed, and Jenna stifled a groan, because she knew what that look meant. It was the same look he’d get when he tattled on her when she didn’t clean her room. “Ah, that must be the pasta pescatore. It was delicious. Did you have it?”
    “Nope,” Brent drew out the word, popping the p .
    Dylan’s smile was hard. “Of course not. The menu said ‘market price.’ You would have wanted to be sure you could cover the bill.”
    Brent didn’t even hesitate. “God, I know. It was awful. I could only afford butter with spaghetti, and I’m starving.” And then he reached across the table, as nonchalant as could be, and picked a piece of asparagus off Dylan’s plate. He stuck the tip in his mouth and crunched down, chewing happily. “Wow, thanks, man.” He looked over their table with wide eyes. “So this is how the real people live.” He turned to his father. “They look great in their natural habitat.”
    Jenna clapped her hand over her mouth. She wasn’t sure which was funnier—Dylan’s red face or Brent’s crunching noises as he finished off the asparagus.
    Max turned to Lea and said quietly, “This is like Family Feud but without the answer board.” He gestured around the restaurant to the people gawking at them. “I mean, we even have a live studio audience.”
    “Max, stop,” Lea whispered.
    “I happen to think Ray Combs was the best host, don’t you?” Max whispered back.
    Lea’s posture immediately softened. “I was so sad when I heard about he died.”
    “I know. Horrible, right?”
    Jack Payton cuffed Brent on the back of his head. “Will you mind your fuckin’ manners?”
    Brent stared at him. “My manners? Are you kidding me? You spent the whole dinner with your napkin tucked into your shirt.”
    “Oh, for God’s sake, Christopher, please do something,” Jenna’s mom whispered. “They’re making a scene.”
    Jenna wanted to roll her eyes. A scene. Heaven forbid a scene! All her life had been one giant “let’s not make a scene” tut from her mother.
    Jenna’s father cleared his throat, but Dylan had to get the last word in. “Now that you’ve sufficiently disturbed every diner in this restaurant, I think it’s time to leave.”
    Brent turned back to Dylan, his ever-present smirk on his face. “Honestly, I’m just getting started.”
    Then Jenna’s father was talking. And her mother was making obnoxious sighing sounds. And Jack was tugging on Brent’s arm while Brent