Page 1 of When It's Us
Hutch
Prologue
January
I don’t kiss the women I fuck around with.
That’s my rule. It keeps things clean. Keeps things clear.
So why the hell did I kissher?
The porch is quiet except for the creak of old wood and the far-off sound of cattle lowing in the pre-dawn cold. Snow blankets the fields in every direction, the kind of hush that only comes after a fresh fall.
My breath fogs the air in soft bursts, and steam curls from the chipped rim of my mug. The coffee tastes burnt, but I drink it anyway—like it might burn away the memory of how she looked last night: flushed and wild, eyes smudged with liner, biting back a moan with my name tangled in it.
The sounds of last night's celebration in the barn have long since faded. Most of the family crashed here after my brother Hank’s wedding—full bar, dancing late into the night with nowhere else to be.
I’d hauled myself into the same narrow bed I’d slept in as a teenager around two a.m., the mattress thin and frame creaky, andtried to ignore that I was nearly hanging off the end at the knees. Still, it didn't take long for sleep to come. Not with a belly full of tequila and the taste ofherlingering on my tongue, sharp and sweet and just enough to leave me satisfied.
Ginger Westbrook is the last woman I should’ve touched. Anddefinitelythe last woman I should’ve kissed.
She’s good mannered and even tempered with everyone else, but the second I open my mouth—hell, the second I’m in her vicinity—she’s all daggers and disdain. She’s tense, snarky as fuck, always trying to stay in control of everything, and I’m the exact kind of laid-back, no-plan-having, sleep-around asshole that drives her nuts.
She thinks I’m careless. I think she’s exhausting. Which should make it easy to stay the hell away from each other.
It doesn’t.
Yesterday, before the wedding, Mom asked me to bring the girls some water. When I stepped into the upstairs bedroom, it was a whirlwind of hairspray and laughter—six women caught up in the excitement. She wore that white robe withMaid of Honorspelled out in silver rhinestones across the back—one of the matching sets Hales made for all the bridesmaids. I caught a quick glimpse of her legs as she shifted on the edge of the bed, laughing at something. Just a brief glance, but it’d burned itself into my brain.
The screen door creaks behind me, and somehow, I already know it’s her.
Her boots scuff softly against the wood, and she stops short when she sees me, like she thought she could slip out without facing me.
That’s typically my move.
I glance over, swallowing a mouthful of shitty coffee. She’s got on an oversized hoodie with a pair of black leggings and her hair’s a mess. She looks good like this. Disheveled. A little wrecked.
I hate how much I like it.
“Didn’t peg you for the ghost-out-before-sunrise type,” I murmur, voice low.
She folds her arms over her chest like a shield. “Didn’t peg you for the porch-sitting-introspective type,” she shoots back.
I bite back a smile, secretly loving the bratty tone in her voice. “Don’t get used to it.”
“I won’t.” Her tone sharpens. “Last night was… It’s not happening again.”
I raise a brow. “Kinda funny, considering it’s already the second time it’s happened.”
Her shoulders go stiff, like she’s remembering the first time I bent her over and made her come on my tongue three months ago, on the deck of Hank's half-finished house.
She opens her mouth, to snap something back, but she doesn’t. She turns away, moving down the porch steps without another word.
I watch her walk across the gravel drive, snow crunching under her feet like it didn’t just hit me—
I don’t do repeats.
Not with anyone.
