Page 3 of Time Out

“Mom loves me,” I huffed.

“Yeah, I know,” she grumbled. My sister. My biggest supporter and largest pain in my ass. “You’re all she talks about at church and the grocery store. ‘Our Davis. He’s so special. So important. Makes millions, and he’s barely old enough to shave.’”

“Too far.” I laughed, managing not to spit out my beer. “I shave.”

Occasionally. There was a reason my teammates called me kiddo and baby face.

“You’re touching your chin, aren’t you?”

I dropped my hand from my chin, didn’t even realize I’d done it. “No.”

“Liar.” She munched on something crunchy, probably an apple because as of last week, that was her current baby craving.

“How’s the kumquat treating you?”

She groaned. “Please stop calling my baby a kumquat. It’s gross.”

“So is how you got that thing inside of you.”

“You’re a pest. Always have been, and I need to go. David is currently running through the house naked, refusing to put clothes on. I just wanted to tell you good game.”

“Ah… so my namesake does take after me.”

“Your name is Davis, not David, dumbass.”

“Potato, potahto, and you can tell me good game whenever you’re ready.”

“I already did. Told you, you suck, same thing.”

“Love you, snotface.”

Lou slid me a fresh beer and shook his head at me.

“You too, boogerhead.”

“Sister,” I told Lou after I set my phone down.

“Annie or Avery?”

“Annie.”

The door opened, and we both turned our heads in the direction, and swear to God, my cock acted like a sex-seeking missile device and immediately shot a warning to my brain that something beautiful was nearby.

In walked a gorgeous woman, my age at first guess, in cutoff denim shorts so short her ass cheeks would probably show when she took a seat, tits popping out of the V-neck, ripped gray shirt cropped and tied at her left hip. Nashville was plastered and stretched to the max over her chest. The tiniest strip of skin appeared between that shirt and her rolled-over denim shorts, and I was pretty sure I swallowed my tongue as she ran a hand through her long, thick chocolate-brown hair that shone beneath the bar’s overhead lights.

She huffed toward the bar, glancing at me, before taking a seat several down and propping her elbows on the shining wood top.

“Hello there, young lady.” Lou approached with his standard greeting. Eighty or twenty, he called them all young. “How’s your night?”

That same huff, exasperated mixed with maybe amused, came from her full, red lips.

Cherries. They’d taste like cherries if I were to bite into them. Full, red, and undoubtedly soft and sweet.

“Well, I’m soon to be homeless and as of five minutes ago, unemployed, so I’d say it’s not so great. How’s yours?”

Lou’s bushy gray brows rose. Like the experienced bartender he was, and definitely male—there was no way he was touching that one. “Whiskey or beer?”

She reached for her back pocket. The move twisted her toward me, pushing those full breasts in my direction. It took effort, massive effort, to yank my eyes up right as ours met.

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