Laughing at him! Another zap in the heart. Maintain, he told himself. He couldn’t let her see that she’d put a knot in his ego and a bruise on his heart.

“I am truly impressed,” she said, her eyes big. “You weren’t exaggerating a bit when you said you were the greatest.”

No way would he let her get by with this. “You know, of all my students, you’ve achieved what no other has.”

“What’s that?” Her eyes sparkled as if she enjoyed this more than the kiss.

Shame on her for that. He had to scramble if he were going to save his pride. What could he say? The truth— that’s what a guy used when he came up with nothing.

“Your kissing was so good,” he said, making it sound as if he were congratulating a little girl for coloring within the lines, “that you deserve a medal, or maybe one of those certificates of accomplishment.”

Horror filled her eyes.

Man, he just couldn’t catch a break. “Or we can forget the certificate,” he said. Anything to change that look…that went right past him. Ry turned and found his brother standing behind him.

“You think she wants a medal?” Trey let there be no mistake that he’d been eavesdropping.

Hot resentment coursed through Ry’s body. Trey was still the sniveling snot he’d been as a kid. That hadn’t changed. Was this what Ry had come home for?

“Don’t you have anything better to do than listen in on a private conversation?” Ry asked, forcing himself to relax and smile when he’d rather gut-punch his brother than breathe.

“Sorry, little brother,” Trey said, his sickening, self-righteous grin showing he wasn’t sorry at all. “I was just waiting my turn to introduce my beautiful bride.”

The petite brunette standing by Trey’s side was pretty in a classy, uptight way. With her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun, she had prissy girl written all over her. Ry wouldn’t have given her a second look, but she was probably perfect for Trey.

She wore a tiny black hat with a tiny mesh veil that made her look like a mobster’s sexy mourner. Her dress, pulled snug over her belly, proclaimed her to be in her last trimester. Ry hoped she wouldn’t mind raising the kids alone. Trey couldn’t stand little kids.

“Izzie,” his brother said, “this is the prodigal son— my brother, Rylander Hamilton Brennan.”

Ry didn’t mind the prodigal bit, but he hated being called Rylander Hamilton. That name belonged to Mom’s coldhearted father.

“Just ‘Ry’ will do. It’s good to meet you, Izzie,” he said, stepping forward to greet his new sister-in-law with a brotherly hug. Any woman named Izzie had to be cool.

But she checked his move, extending her hand for a handshake. “I prefer ‘Isabel,’” she said, glancing uneasily at Trey. “Only Trey calls me ‘Izzie.’”

“‘Isabel’ it is.” The name thing again. He supposed he could understand that, even though he did wonder what she seemed so nervous about. The way Trey held her close to his side suggested Trey’s old nasty jealousy, but surely Trey wouldn’t think Ry would hit on his wife—or any man’s wife.

“We missed you at our wedding,” she said, glancing at her husband, as if she sought approval. “You should have been there, Ry.”

Was there anything more endearing than a good scolding? “You write a great thank-you note, Isabel,” he said to remind her that he wasn’t totally bad.

The sterling silver coffee service had cost him a month’s salary, not something he could afford on his paramedic pay. It had been worth dipping into his trust fund to do something right, which he could, thanks to Beth’s suggestion that they wanted something as useless as a silver coffee service.

“Ry, I hope you won’t mind that we exchanged your gift for the service Izzie really wanted,” Trey said, as only he could. “I didn’t mind making up the difference in cost.”

By reflex, Ry slid into the laid-back mode he’d perfected as a child when he wanted to take his brother out. “Mind? Me? I’d have returned it myself. But then, I’d have used the money on something useful, like a down payment on a matching motorcycle for my bride.”

Trey made that particular sound of disgust that used to make Ry’s day. It still did.

“Tell me that you don’t still ride a motorcycle,” his long-suffering brother implored.

Excellent. It felt just as good as ever to make his brother crazy.

“As a paramedic,” Trey continued, “you’ve surely had to scrape motorcyclists off the pavement enough times to know better.”

Of course he had. They didn’t call them “donor-cycles” in the ER for nothing. Ry hadn’t ridden one in years. “But there’s nothing like the freedom you feel, weaving in and out of traffic, on two wheels.”