Page 2 of Hart Breaker

The Brooks sisters, for example. They’re tall, all legs and tits, more thick than stick—which is my preference—with long black hair and blue eyes. But Riley has this insane magnetic personality. She’s funny, sweet with the older folks, and sassy with everyone else. Just the flavor I like. So, yeah, the only girl who may have ticked those boxes shares DNA with Lauren and has just gotten engaged.

Riley Mae Brooks.

Even if I hadn’t nailed her sister, there’s no way their brother, Jackson, would be cool with it. He hates her boyfriend. He straight-up said he doesn’t deserve her, and I agree. But when he followed it up with, “No man will ever be good enough for either of them,” I realized that even if I could un-fuck Lauren, I couldn’t fuck Riley to see if she ticked that last box.

Jackson draws my attention back to where it belongs. “You gonna throw a card or?—”

“Yeah, fuck it.” I toss in the ten.

Jackson chuckles and throws in the eight of spades, which tells us he’s still got the right suit. “Only need one to set you.”

Logan grabs the cards and tosses out the king of spades.

“Well, shit.” Grimes chuckles and tosses out the two.

“That’s a possible three.” I smile as I throw the seven of hearts.

“You out of spades?” Jackson asks.

“Was out last hand,” I remind him.

“Shit,” he grumbles as he tosses out the jack of spades.

The dozen or so OG players hoot and howl.

“You took down the champ,” one of the OG says of Jackson.

“Damn right, we did.” Logan smiles as he stands, looking at his wife and no one else. “See you guys at the gym at ten.”

I hem and haw about doing the right thing as Logan walks to the door, arm slung over his wife’s shoulder, and then that fucking voice in my head, the one that tells me I’m being a dick, does its thing.

“Hey,” I call after him.

He holds his hand up. “It’s all you, Hart.”

“Fuck yes!” I jump up and head toward the bar, smiling when I see Riley walking out from the back, golden pitchfork in hand.

Smiling, she walks out from behind the bar and holds it out for me, laughing. “Congratulations, Hart.”

“You have no idea how?—”

“It’s a pitchfork, spray-painted gold, not a Super Bowl ring,” her fiancé cuts me off.

Harts don’t hate unless it’s well deserved, and this motherfucker is edging his way to the top of my really short list.

Brett Thompson is the epitome of arrogance. His wardrobe is a collection of high-end clothes that don’t blend in with the locals. His hair is always perfectly styled, not a strand out of place, giving off the impression that he spends a good portion of his day grooming himself. His jaw is always set in a way that makes it clear he’s not easily impressed. His eyes are a steely gray and rat-like. The dick is constantly measuring you up, and no doubt finds you lacking.

Brett loves the finer things in life and isn’t shy about showing them off. He drives a brand-new BMW and wears a Rolex. His thin-lipped smile is always tight, and when he speaks, there’s a subtle sneer in his tone, as if he’s humoring you by engaging in conversation.

He’s a master at the art of subtle put-downs, delivering them all with a fake-ass smile. He loves to make “jokes” that are thinly veiled insults, and if someone gets offended, he brushes it off with not so much as an apologetic look.

I have no idea how this fuckwad got a girl like Riley to agree to marry his sorry ass, and I really don’t get how the hell her family doesn’t see right through his shit.

“A win’s a win.” I shrug as I turn to look at the men and hold the pitchfork in the air. “Hell yeah!”

Even over the cheers, I hear him say to Riley, “The closest thing he’s gonna get to?—”

I turn back and see her glaring at him.

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