Page 30 of Curves and Cradles

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excerpt from curves and cars

CADE

What’sthat saying about rain on your wedding day? Fuck if I know. And it’s not even my wedding day, so ultimately I don’t even care. It is, however, my brother’s wedding day. Despite the fact that we’re not close, I’m expected to be inside. Which means I’ll have to leave the warmth of my car, walk through the pouring rain, and go inside. Soon.

As soon as I overcome my resentment.

I haven’t even seen my brother, Aaron, since our mother’s funeral. Which was three years ago. Frankly I’m still pissed at my little brother for neglecting to tell me she was sick. I didn’t get to say goodbye to her. Just had to fly home for the funeral.

I know I need to be the bigger man—bury my anger long enough to make it through his wedding—but it’s hard to do that when we’ve drifted this far apart. The distance was understandable when I was serving abroad, but I’ve been a civilian for nearly four years. I haven’t made the effort and neither has he. Hell, I haven’t even met his bride-to-be. I didn’t even go to the rehearsal dinner, because I’m not part of the wedding party. I’m just one of the invited guests. Not that I wanted to be his damn best man, but aren’t brothers at least included as groomsmen?

Fuck. Now I sound like a whiney little bitch about it.

It’s not that I even care, it’s just that it’s hard to get motivated to walk through the rain when I doubt anyone will even notice I’m there.

Before I can muster the motivation to leave my car, I see movement out in the blur of the rain. It’s distorted, but obviously a person, coming straight towards my car. Probably my jackass of a brother coming to find me. Or he sent one of his groomsmen.

No … wait. Not a groomsman. Not unless they found some tacky-ass green tuxes somewhere. Which I doubt would suit my ambitious brother’s taste.

Before I can give it anymore thought, the passenger door opens and a very wet woman practically throws herself in, sitting her drenched ass on my restored leather upholstery.

“Fuck, lady, wrong car,” I say.

She looks at me, blinking, all wide green eyes with long, long eyelashes and makeup that doesn’t even seem to be running despite the fact that water is pouring off her candy-red hair into her face. Something in her expression or her eyes or something—fuck if I know—hits me right in the gut.

“You’re not my Uber?”

“Does this look like a fucking Uber?”

She blinks those ridiculously large eyes at me again before looking around the interior of the car as if searching for evidence to disprove me. Finding none—obviously. Because my fully restored GTO is not a fucking Uber—when she doesn’t find it, she reaches into the bust of her dress and pulls out her phone. I’m not even making this shit up. She pulls her phone out of tits like she’s doing a damn magic trick.

It’s shouldn’t be hot. Not when she’s dripping all over my car. And if her breasts weren’t so hot, it wouldn’t be. But, damn, her breasts are like a work of fucking art.

She paws frantically at her phone for a few seconds and then looks at me with wide, terrified eyes. “My Uber is still nineteen minutes away.”

I don’t care.

It’s not my damn business.

Not even if she cries.

Which she looks to be about ten seconds away from doing.

Nope. Make that two seconds.

“Can you just drive me somewhere? Get me away from here?”

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