Page 111 of Beautiful Thing

With an exaggerated huff, I lower onto the couch. “Happy now?” I can’t even pretend to be annoyed. I love how she’s showering me with attention, and I especially like how she keeps touching me.

“Yes,” she declares. “We were walking around the farmer’s market for a long time. You need to take some of the weight off your ankle.”

“You worry too much.” I grab her hand, yanking her down into my lap. I groan at the weight of her soft ass pressed against my groin.

“Did I hurt you?” she asks in alarm, already trying to get up.

“Quite the opposite.” My arm bands around her waist to hold her in place. I grin when my cock twitches beneath her.

Layla sighs, covering my mouth with hers in a greedy, little kiss. I go right along with it, letting my arms come tighter around her. I don’t miss the way she wiggles her bottom for a better feel of my semi-chub. My hand falls to her thigh, fingertips sliding an inch beneath the hem of her—

“Get a room, maybe?”

Layla startles and abruptly steals her lips from mine. We both glance in the direction of the voice.

I see a vaguely familiar face wearing an annoyed frown. It takes me a few seconds to find the name. “Easton Raines?” I ask.

The man nods. Then a few seconds later, he seems to recognize me, too. “Wait—Ronan’s brother?”

“Archer Brighton,” I supply.

“Right, right.” The hockey player stretches a hand out to me and I shake it.

“This is my girlfriend, Layla,” I say, deriving way too much pride from spewing the lie.

“Nice to meet you,” he says to her with a tip of his chin as the two of them shake hands.

“Likewise.” She nods in reply. Then her eyes turn to me. “I’ll go deal with our jackets and the cupcakes. Can I get you a drink?” she asks sweetly.

I lean forward to try to get up off the couch. “I’ll get—”

“Sit,” she says in a stern voice I’ve never heard her use before. It’s kind of hot. “Now, what do you want to drink?”

“A beer,” I huff, staring her down.

She stares back. “Fine.” Her gaze softens with sympathy when she glances at the medical boot on Raines’s foot. “Can I get you anything?”

He shakes his head, lifting his water bottle. “Thanks, though.”

She throws me one more warning look. “Stay put.” Then she heads across the room. My eyes follow the sway of her sweet ass until it disappears into the throng of partygoers.

She’s really been taking care of me. I momentarily consider playing up my injuries just to prolong how much of her attention I can get. That might be an asshole move, though, so I decide against it.

Only when Layla disappears do I take a minute to check out my surroundings. As a military man, that should have been my first move when we stepped into this new environment, but all the Layla yumminess had me distracted.

Ronan’s open-concept guesthouse is decorated with red hearts taped to the walls and paper cupids dangling from the ceiling. Everyone is dressed in red or black or silver and R&B music plays in the air. There are far too many guests at this party. I’m sure we’re breaking the fire safety code.

In addition to all my siblings and their partners, I notice more than a few familiar faces in the crowd. All of the Westbrook brothers are here with their significant others. Cash and Meghan. Jasper and Emma. Harry and Nadia. Davis and Alana. Mason’s four younger sisters have made an appearance, too. They’re all playing one of those adults-only trivia game on the other side of the room. A few of Darius’s buddies are stepping through the door with their wives. I spot Liam and Eliza Kline as well as Cannon and Alexia Kingston, and I can’t believe they made the drive all the way out here for the party.

“Shit, man. Sorry I didn’t recognize you,” Raines says to me. “With the mood I’m in, I barely recognize myself these days.” I notice his crutches tucked against the wall behind the couch.

I cringe at the memory of that moment at the Sin Valley hockey game where my brother’s teammate hurt himself.

I glance out the window, cursing the darkened skating rink where I got my own injury. “You and me have something in common. Not that my ankle sprain is anything compared to your…”

“Broken fibula,” he supplies morosely.

“Fuck.” I cringe.

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