Page 269 of Branded
Fuck.
Because I did.
I wanted it so badly that I was jerking off a good three times a day, fantasizing about her for most of the rest of the day. And even when I managed to stop thinking of my dick, I was still thinking of Jules—planning all the questions I’d ask her if I got two uninterrupted minutes with her at my table. I wanted to know about her son, her past, her family, her dreams and hopes, if she’d ever been to a hockey game…and if not, if she’d like to go.
Which was back in date territory and crossing that barrier she’d set.
But maybe she wanted to take Ethan, wanted to take her son, and?—
“It’s clear you do want to be dating someone,” Kathy said gentle too, joining in with Margot for their familiar one-two attack to dig out every juicy detail. “Dish, big bro.”
Was it too much to think fuck again? It had been a constant litany in my mind of late.
Probably it was too much, but I thought it again, anyway.
“Kath—”
“Dish,” she repeated.
“Baby,” my mom said, and hell, I was a grownup and she could still make my feel like a little kid. “You might as well just tell us.”
I glanced at Sam, who just lifted his brows, telling me that he wanted to me to dish too. A look at my dad told me the same—well, my dad didn’t want me to dish, but he wasn’t going to wade in and save me either. He was too familiar with his wife, his daughters.
“Traitors,” I muttered.
Sam smirked.
“Cas,” Kathy pressed.
“What?” I asked loudly, taking the only out I had. “Sorry, I think my connection is bad?—”
“Don’t you dare,” Margot began.
“Luca!” my mom exclaimed, telling me I was in big trouble because she’d used my first name and not the nickname bestowed on me almost at birth.
“You’re all frozen.” I tapped the screen, all in on the deception. “Sorry, I can’t hear?—”
I hit the button to end the call, closed my laptop.
There would be hell to pay for my avoidance.
Without a doubt.
Eight
Jules
His little legs were practically a blur as he barreled toward me, backpack bouncing as he ran, his metal water bottle swinging from side to side in his hands.
It was only a few weeks into school and the bottle looked like it had been shoved into a garbage disposal.
Repeatedly.
Dings and scratches marred the sides, and the bottom was so dented it would be a miracle if it survived to Christmas break.
How my child managed to destroy a supposedly indestructible bottle was one of those mysteries of the universe that would never be solved. I loved Ethan, but the kid was definitely a bull in a china shop.
Case in point?
