Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
"I hate Riverbend Ridge's fucking grapevine," I mutter under my breath as we sink into his leather couch, the kind that makes embarrassing sounds when you shift your weight. The TV flickers to life just in time for the ref's whistle at kickoff. "Where’re the terrible two?"
"They're out playing in the backyard." Beckett points at the large doggie door we installed in the drywall along the back of his living room, its rubber flap swinging slightly in the draft.
Pork and Beans make their entrance mid–first quarter. I hear the click-click of the doggie door seconds before they come bounding over to the sofa.
Pork heads straight for me, his stubby legs scrambling up my jeans before he plants his twelve pounds of wiener dog directly on my crotch. His tail whips back and forth like a metronome. Beans takes one look with those beady pig eyes and charges, all thirty pounds of bristly determination. It's a full-on brawl. Pork's needle-sharp teeth are bared in a snarl that would be terrifying if he weren't the size of a loaf of bread, while Beans’ snout tunnels under my thigh as he tries to uproot his competition. My lap becomes ground zero, and my balls are in serious jeopardy as hooves and paws dig in for leverage. Through it all, Beckett just watches from his side of the couch, one eyebrow raised, beer tilted at that perfect "not my problem" angle.
“Your pig is violating my civil rights,” I complain, trying to remove Beans’ face from my lap.
“He missed you,” Beckett says without missing a beat.
“Well, everyone knows I’m his favorite uncle.”
“More like his idiot uncle,” Beckett mutters under his breath as I flip him off.
Eventually, I give up and let them both pile on. Pork sprawls on top of Beans, miniature king on a bristly throne. It isn’t comfortable, but I’m not about to start a mutiny and get Beckett or the pig mad at me.
So we watch the game, trade insults, and put away two bags of chips and a six-pack. The dog grumbles, the pig snores, and I let the chaos roll over me.
Half-time hits. Beckett’s arguing with the ref on TV, I’m scratching Pork’s belly and letting my thoughts wander. They don’t wander far.
Isla Merrill. The way she wrinkles her nose before she says something brutal, the way she owns every inch of space she walks through. It should be infuriating, her ice-cold shoulder, but it just makes me more determined to win her over. I want her. No, I need her more than I’ve ever needed anything in my life.
“Goddamnit. You’ve turned into a pussy-whipped asshole just like Atlas and Ian.” He shakes his head.
He isn’t wrong. The first time I laid eyes on Isla Merrill, I knew I was done for. My heart practically punched through my ribs. Evidently, this tendency to fall head over ass at first sight runs in our family. Not long ago, my younger brother, Atlas, spotted Eloise Martin when he gave a talk for career day at her school, and he practically tripped over his own tongue. It didn’t take him long to get under her skin. Then Ian ran into Eloise's roommate, Sage Higgins, and tumbled for her so hard I thought we'd need to scrape him off the pavement.
Evidently, the universe decided it was my time to fall head over heels, like a man stepping off a cliff who suddenly realizes gravity is not just a suggestion but an absolute law that's about to introduce his face to the ground below at terminal velocity.
Beckett takes a sip of his beer before continuing. “I can’t believe you’re acting like a fucking stalker over some woman you just met.”
“Just wait until it’s your turn,” I warn my asshole older brother.
“Not fucking happening.” We’ll just see about that.
Monday is when everything finally snaps like a rubber band that's been stretched too far. I'm running on two hours of sleep, my eyes gritty and burning, with a rock-hard cock that's been my constant companion for days, and a special kind of frustration churning in my gut that can only be caused by a woman who has no clue how much I need her.
The bell above the coffee shop door jingles, and there she is in her crisp tan uniform, gun belt gleaming under the fluorescent lights. She shows up a few minutes to seven. Earlier than ever. I don't bother with opening lines or my usual easy smile.
“Okay, what am I doing wrong?” Fuck. I’m desperate. After spending Sunday brunch watching Ian and Atlas all lovey-dovey with their women while my woman won’t give me the time of day, frustration has finally driven me over the edge.
She sighs, a deep and dramatic groan, then sits across from me for the first time ever. Her coffee thunks down on the table.