Page 20 of Twins for the Mountain Daddies

Wyatt leans in, his knee brushing against mine beneath the table. “So, City Girl,” he drawls, voice thick with amusement. “You gonna admit you had fun today?”

I lift my chin. “Fun is such a strong word.”

Holt smirks over the rim of his glass. “You smiled a few times.”

“Did not.”

Wyatt nudges my knee again. “Did too.”

Hank sighs, already halfway through his drink. “If you two are done acting like children?—”

Wyatt grins. “Jealous, old man?”

Hank grunts, taking another sip. “Just tired of listening to you flirt like a damn fool.”

I snort but don’t argue. Because as much as I want to pretend otherwise, the whiskey is making me warm in ways that have nothing to do with the fire, and both Wyatt and Holt are pushing boundaries with touches that linger and comments that make my stomach flip.

I’m not stupid. I know exactly what’s happening.

Hank, having had enough of us, shuffles off to bed without so much as a word. Clearly this is regular behavior, because Holt and Wyatt don’t even flinch.

"Cards?" Holt suggests, shuffling a deck with quick fingers. His smile is easy, inviting.

"Sure," I agree, figuring it's less strenuous than anything else I've done today.

We sit around the wooden table, cards dealt, the whiskey loosening us enough for laughter and smoothing the edges of the day's labor.

As the game goes on, the bottle grows lighter and the snow builds up against the windows. There's something about this—about them—that feels like what I've been missing without knowing it.

Cards slap against the table as Holt lays down a winning hand, his grin spreading like wildfire. "Looks like you're at my mercy again, CG," he teases, and there's a glint in his eye that says he's not just talking about the game.

"Keep dreaming, Walker," I shoot back, but my words are drowned out by Wyatt's chuckle from across the table. His hand brushes mine as he reaches for the deck, his touch deliberate and lingering. Heat creeps up my neck, and I pull away, folding my arms over my chest.

"Easy, tiger," Holt says to Wyatt, though his own hand finds its way to the small of my back as he leans in to whisper some strategy or other. It's meant to be conspiratorial, but the press of his fingers against my spine sends an entirely different message.

My heart does a traitorous little jump, but I'm quick to slide out from under his touch. "I think I can handle myself," I say, voice steady despite the fluttering inside me.

"Of course you can," Wyatt agrees, eyes twinkling with mischief. He winks, and I tell myself it's the whiskey making my stomach do flips, not his easy charm.

I’ve learned a few things about the boys since they got stuck with me. Holt and Hank are cousins. And they’ve been best friends with Wyatt since they were kids, despite the age difference. Holt is only twenty-six to Wyatt’s thirty and Hank’s thirty-two.

But, most importantly, Holt and Wyatt are shameless flirts. And, if I’m not mistaken, complete manwhores (and proud of it).

We play another round, laughter spilling over the cards, but my mind is elsewhere. This isn't a vacation. It's a pit stop on a road I can't see the end of. And while their flirtations are flattering, they're just a distraction from the real question: what am I doing with my life?

So, for now, I hold my ground. Let them tease, let them touch—just a little.

But I don’t let myself give in. I don’t let myself fall. I can’t.

Chapter 9

Holt

I’m losing my goddamn mind.

Ivy’s been here less than a week, and already, she’s gotten under my skin in a way no woman ever has. It’s not just the way she looks—though, fuck me, that alone is enough to make a man reckless. It’s the way she moves, the way she bites back when she should probably keep her mouth shut. She’s stubborn as hell, and it’s infuriating.

It’s also sexy as sin.

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