Some Like It Hot by Susan Andersen

since meeting him, Angie was probably the happiest she’d ever been.
    Happier than he’d ever seen her, at any rate.
    Old habits were hard to break, however, and sometimes when they talked she fell back into her old churlish ways. He was content to have diverted her now.
    “So what are you doing with yourself in the nice weather?” she asked him. “Are you working today?”
    “No, I have a rare Saturday off. I spent some time scraping the shingles on my house to get it ready to stain and thought I might hit the beach in a bit.”
    “You and that canal,” she said, her voice half indulgent, half exasperated. “Never in my life have I met anyone else so drawn to the beach and the water as you. I’m surprised you didn’t buy yourself a house on the canal.”
    “The sheriff’s department pays a pretty decent salary. But not that decent.”
    “I bet that little shit Jake—”
    “Ma,” he said with flat-toned warning.
    “All right, all right.” She was silent for a heartbeat, then asked, “So, what color are you going to paint your place?”
    “I haven’t quite made up my mind yet. I thought I’d ask—” Shit. Jake, he’d almost said, because his brother had a much more artistic eye than he did. And wouldn’t that go over like a fart in church? “—a friend I know who’s good with that sorta thing.”
    “Well, I’m sure it will look very nice. We’ve enjoyed the pictures you’ve sent. You’ve made a lot of progress with the place.”
    “Yeah. I have.” He shoved down the memory of her demanding why the hell he was sinking good money after bad into such a dump. “It’s coming along pretty good.”
    “Jesus, bro,” Jake called from the kitchen. “You’ve got the diet of a twelve-year-old.” He walked into the living room with a beer in one hand and a bag of Doritos in the other. “Oh, sorry,” he said, stopping just this side of the doorway. “I didn’t realize you were still on the phone.”
    “Who’s that?” Angie demanded. “Bro? Who the hell calls you— Oh. My. Gawd. ” Her voice rose in both pitch and volume with each word. “Is that Jake Bradshaw? ”
    As much as he wanted to say no, if only to avoid the inevitable temper tantrum about to rain shit on his head, he not only didn’t lie to himself, he tried to make truth-telling an all-around general policy. Well, unless a woman asked him if something made her butt look big, that is. Because if it did, he’d lie like a rug with no compunction at all. He wasn’t a complete idiot.
    Okay, maybe that was debatable. Because, given the long history of bad blood between Charlie Bradshaw’s first and second families, a smart man would probably lie his ass off. But not him, boy. Oh, no. He said, “Yes.” Then braced himself.
    His mother was nothing if not predictable, and it didn’t take her any time at all to go off. “What the hell is he doing at your house?” she demanded. “And bro—he calls you bro? Aren’t you all cozy with the enemy.”
    “He’s not my enemy, Ma, he’s my half brother. We’re trying to get past our old relationship to build a new one. It’s what grown-ups do.”
    A slight, ironic smile tugged at Jake’s mouth, and he turned to go back into the kitchen. A second later Max heard the back door open and close and wasn’t sure if Jake had just gone outside to give him some privacy or, reminded of the toxic treatment Max had subjected him to in the old days, had lit out for home instead.
    “How can you say such a thing?” The fury in his mother’s voice redirected his attention back to her. “He stole every damn thing that rightfully should have been yours.”
    He’d had a lifetime of practice letting her anger roll off his back. But wondering if his exchange with her had driven Jake to leave dredged up an ice-edged anger of his own. “No, Ma,” he said with a cold finality. “He didn’t. Dear old Dad did that all by himself. And your constant anger over it sure as hell didn’t help. But