Moving closer, he carefully picked up the soft bit of fabric. Pink, trimmed with paler pink lace around the edges. Lingerie. Expensive. Absurdly feminine. He fingered the fancy silk and the lightest scent of orange blossoms and spice wafted up and enveloped him. The fragrance was vaguely familiar and his groin tightened as an inexplicable need arose in the pit of his stomach.

“What the hell?” He tossed the camisole back on the couch. Not that he didn’t appreciate a nice bit of feminine adornment as much as the next guy, but right now he was more concerned with how in the world it got in here.

“Beer first,” he decided, and cut through the spacious dining room to get to the kitchen. That’s when he saw the high heels. Sexy ones. Red. Tucked under the dining room table.

He hated to repeat himself, but what the hell?

Red high heels? It had to be a joke. Something like this was right up his brother Brandon’s alley. And if Cameron hadn’t already been annoyed at having his quiet evening interrupted, he might’ve managed to laugh about it.

He moved cautiously past the bar into the kitchen. No, Brandon wasn’t hiding there, waiting to jump out and yell that Cameron had been Punk’d. But that didn’t mean his brother wasn’t around somewhere. Cameron grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, twisted the cap off, took a long, slow drink, then stared at the row of empty baby bottles lined up next to the sink.

Baby bottles?

“Okay, that’s enough,” he said, then shouted, “Brandon? Where are you?” There was no answer.

“I know you’re in here somewhere,” he said as he walked through the double doors and down the wide hall toward the master bedroom.

That’s when he heard the singing.

He froze. A woman’s voice, slightly off key, singing some old song about piña coladas and getting caught in the rain. Some woman was singing in the shower. His shower. In his bathroom.