The Last Single Garrett. Brenda Harlen

      “Um...Josh.”

      He immediately shifted his gaze from the nicely rounded curve of her butt to her face, hoping like hell she hadn’t seen him looking where he had no business looking. “What?”

      She lifted something out of the basket and held it up. “I found your phone.”

       Chapter Two

      While his response was a harshly muttered four-letter expletive, Tristyn had to press her lips together so that she didn’t laugh. Because it wasn’t funny.

      Well, it was kind of funny.

      Because Josh’s phone was as essential to him as the air he breathed into his lungs and the blood that flowed through his veins. A fact that was evidenced by the apoplectic expression on his face.

      He snatched the device out of her hand and marched purposefully down the hallway. Curious to see how he would handle this incident, Tristyn followed, her steps faltering when she realized she was in the doorway of the master bedroom.

      Josh’s bedroom.

      Part of her wanted to turn away, to let his private sanctuary remain private. Another part urged her to take a peek. That part won.

      Her gaze moved around the space, noting the enormous king-size platform bed centered on the far wall and flanked by a set of night tables that matched the wardrobe, long dresser and entertainment stand. She glanced up at the ceiling—nope, no mirrors. So maybe he wasn’t quite the degenerate she’d always believed him to be.

      And while there was no denying this room was a man’s domain, the decor was simple but inviting. Walls painted in a pale neutral tone that reminded her of the sand on a pristine Caribbean beach; pale floors that she guessed were bamboo and that contrasted nicely with the dark walnut finish of the classic mission-style furniture she recognized from the Garrett catalog.

      Usually a man’s domain, she clarified, as her attention shifted to the three girls snuggled together on the bed, propped up on a mountain of pillows against the headboard. Emily—the one who hadn’t wanted to watch the scary movie—was on the side closest to the door. In the middle was Hanna—a preschooler, Tristyn guessed, with big blue eyes focused on the screen and uneven blond pigtails sprouting out of the sides of her head. On the far side was Charlotte—obviously the oldest sibling, also blond and blue-eyed, wearing ripped jeans and a black T-shirt with some kind of picture on the front that Tristyn couldn’t see because the girl’s arms were folded across her chest in a posture that she recognized as pure unhappy female attitude.

      None of them paid any attention to their uncle. It was as if they weren’t even aware that he was facing them from the foot of the bed. But that might be because they were all mesmerized by the animated feature playing on a television screen that was probably ten inches bigger than the one Tristyn had in her living room.

      Josh scooped up the remote and thumbed a button to pause the movie, which finally succeeded in drawing the girls’ eyes to him.

      Charlotte opened her mouth as if to say something, then saw the phone in Josh’s hand, slid a quick glance toward the sister snuggled up beside her and closed it again without saying a word.

      “Anyone?” Josh prompted.

      “I talk,” Hanna offered, crawling to the end of the mattress and reaching her hand up for the phone.

      “That would be great, wouldn’t it?” he said, his gaze moving over each of them in turn. “But someone put it in the dishwasher.”

      His littlest niece nodded solemnly. “Make it c’ean.”

      Tristyn saw a muscle in his jaw flex. “It didn’t need to go in the dishwasher to be cleaned,” he said through gritted teeth. “It was already clean.”

      This time Hanna shook her head. “I dwop ice cweam on it.”

      Josh blew out a frustrated breath and scrubbed his free hand over his face.

      “You did say that you didn’t want to find sticky fingerprints on any of your things,” Charlotte pointed out in defense of her sibling.

      “Meaning that I didn’t want any of you to touch any of my things,” he clarified.

      His eldest niece shrugged. “Hanna tends to take things literally.”

      “She killed my phone.”

      The little girl looked up at him. “I so-wee, Unca Josh.” She reached up to take the phone, puckered her lips and kissed the screen before handing it back to him. “All better?”

      He sighed again as he dropped the now useless device into the side pocket of his cargo shorts, but one side of his mouth curved in a half smile. “It’s not that easy, kiddo.” He tapped a finger to his cheek. “You have to give a kiss here to make it all better.”

      She smiled and held her arms in the air. He slid one of his around her torso, and the natural ease with which he lifted the little girl onto his hip made something inside Tristyn’s chest flutter. She wasn’t usually the type to get quivery over a man, but apparently seeing this strong, sexy male cuddle with a sweet little girl was all it took for her to feel warm and fuzzy inside.

      Hanna wrapped both her arms around his neck and gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek. Then she drew her head back, her nose wrinkling with obvious displeasure. “You’re scwatchy,” she told him.

      “Yeah, I forgot to shave this morning,” he admitted, setting her on the bed again.

      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