Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
“Ready?” she asks.
“Yeah.” A bubble of excitement fills me. Let the birthday festivities commence. “Let’s go find trouble.”
Ella shares my smile as we slide our bags on our sun-kissed shoulders. I spot my book under her chair and grab it. How did it get there?
As I stand, my gaze falls on Ella. Her wide eyes are twinkling. I’ve seen this look enough times to know things are about to get real.
“What?” I ask, frozen in place.
Her grin pulls wider. “I think trouble just found us.”
Oh no.
CHAPTER 2
Blakely
This could go so many ways.
“What’s happening?” I ask, afraid to look.
Ella grins, returning her gaze to the object of her attention. And desire from the looks of it.
I mentally prepare myself for all possibilities—stripper, policeman, mobster. It’s Ella and Vegas. Anything is possible. But despite my attempt at preparation, I’m unequipped for what’s coming our way.
Conversations fall into hushed whispers as I turn around. Eyes widen. Mouths gape. There’s probably drool trickling down chins too, but I can’t look close enough to tell. I’m too busy bracing for impact.
I clutch my bag and watch two men walk toward us.
My brother is oblivious to the energy swirling around him. The man beside him is not.
In Renn Brewer’s defense, it would be impossible not to know the effect he has when he walks into a room. Or a hotel pool area. Even if he didn’t observe the heads turning, proverbial pants dropping—people scrambling for a writing utensil and scrap paper on the off chance he stops for an autograph—he must look in the mirror at some point.
God favors him.
Perfect symmetry. Deep brown eyes beneath heavy brows. Full lips and a jawline that evokes primal, throw-you-over-my-shoulder vibes.
The way Renn fills out a plain white T-shirt should be illegal. Couple that with the Tennessee Royals hat sitting backward on his head, hiding his trademark almost too long, tobacco-colored locks—it’s downright felonious.
“Hey, cutie,” he says, the words reaching me moments before the smooth, warm notes of his cologne toy with my senses. He slides his Aviators off, his lips twisting into a smirk.
A flurry of goose bumps rushes over my skin, intensified by the slight Australian accent he picked up while playing rugby there for the last few years. Somehow, it makes him more attractive, more desirable—an absolute dream.
Before I can reply, I’m bumped by Ella’s hand going to her hip.
“What are you doing here?” she asks Brock.
My brother doesn’t break his stride. Without missing a beat, he wraps one arm around her waist and hauls her into his chest. She starts to protest, but the words are quieted with a long, deep kiss.
I shake my head. “That didn’t take long.”
“I’m still mad,” Ella says through the corner of her mouth. The words are garbled, making us all laugh.
Renn removes his hat, stopping beside me. It’s as if he woke up, grabbed a shower, and tucked the strands under the cap without a second thought. The unruliness makes my fingers itch to comb through the tangled mess, digging my nails into his scalp until he moans.
He watches me intently as he tugs the brim over his head again.
Despite knowing him for nearly ten years, adjusting to his presence always takes a moment. I’ve wondered if being around him regularly, not just by chance when he’s with Brock, would make it easier. Could you ever get used to a man like this?
Everything about Renn is overwhelming. His stature, coming in at over six feet and two hundred thirty pounds. His body, which is nothing short of muscled, primed perfection. His confidence—a magnetic, main-character energy that makes you feel like a part of a larger story when he notices you.
I’m not sure this could ever get old, but I’d give it a try.
As if he reads my mind, he winks at me.
“I’m feeling left out,” I say, pretending to pout.
“Why?”
“Well, it’s my birthday, but Ella gets all the attention.” I grin. “How is that fair?”
His eyes brighten, and he closes the distance between us. “Say less.”
“Don’t even think about it,” Brock says, pulling away from a giggling Ella.
Renn holds my gaze but stops in his tracks. “You’re such a buzzkill, Brock.”
“Better than killing you, isn’t it?” Brock asks.
The playfulness of his words is cut with a sharp warning—to tread carefully. It’s a message heard loud and clear.
Brock is a bit overprotective. He was only nineteen when our mother died, and the court system made him my guardian. He left his rugby scholarship, moved into our childhood home, and ensured I graduated from high school the following year. Made sure I had dinner. Helped me grieve. Kept me out of trouble. And then somehow managed to settle Mom’s estate, get me into college, and himself back on the rugby pitch.
We’re close—more like friends than siblings. But there’s one murky, muddy line that we haven’t cleared. That line is Renn Brewer.