“We’re going,” Wyatt said and he walked away, his shoes squeaking on the floor of my hallway. My hangover pounded behind my eyes and I couldn’t shake the idea that this wasn’t the best idea, but that could be the scotch talking.
I sighed and thought about the real problem.
What did a guy wear to meet his long-lost brother?
“You look ridiculous,”Wyatt said, looking at me from the driver’s side of my truck.
That’s right. Even when it was my truck, Wyatt still drove.
Fucking older brothers.
We were flying down I-95 past trucks and family camper vans. There were lots of Bruisers bumper stickers and each time we passed one I reached over and honked the horn in celebration.
“You’re a child,” Wyatt growled. “And what the fuck are you wearing?”
“Please, you don’t understand fashion,” I said. I wore a Versace silk t-shirt that was very subdued. I was being respectful of our situation.
“T-shirts should be t-shirt material,” Wyatt grunted. “You’re wearing a blouse.”
“A blouse,” I snorted.
We passed a Peaks bumper sticker and Wyatt honked twice.
“Now who is the child?” I asked him.
My brother was not the best conversationalist, so I could let my head rest on the car seat and think. The problem when I did, was that I kept thinking the same thing.
Kit. In those shorts. In that shirt.
Her face had been a whole lot offuck youand a little bit ofplease don’t.
Damn it, I was hard again. What was it about Kit Barrington that got so under my skin? If she was any other woman in any other situation I’d say – let’ s just fuck this out of our systems so we can get on with our lives.
But she was Kit. And fucking her once had been a terrible mistake.
My cell phone buzzed and I fished it out of my pocket, expecting to see something from the front office about the parade plans, but it was from Kit.
I sat up from my slouch in my passenger seat. My whole body on full alert. Fuck, the way she reacted when I touched her face last night. If just that touch made her gasp and blush, what would she do if I kissed her? If I palmed that ass in my hands? What would she do if I licked my way down her collarbones, across her chest? What if I sucked those nipples into my mouth, grinding my cock into that soft sweet spot between her thighs?
How could one person be so prickly and so needy all at once? It made me crazy.
Kit: Can I Venmo you this week’s money?
Me: Why?
Kit: Because I don’t want to walk into some kind of raging party the day after the parade.
Me: A little anti-social of you.
Kit: Can I?
When she’d first approached me, wanting to pay off her father’s debt, she offered to send me weekly Venmos for an amount that would have taken her years to actually pay me back. When I pointed that out, she just lifted her chin and asked for my Venmo address.
I had stood there with my cock getting hard remembering every second of that night with her in Nashville. So bright and beautiful. Flirty and fun. Sexy as all fuck.
Except it had all been a lie. Every bit of it, as it turned out. The money wasn’t the point. The debt wasn’t the point.
Punishing her a little…that was the point.