Bringing Home the Bad Boy (Second Chance #1)(16)

Yes. Well. She should… do something else with herself.

“I… um… I’ll get Lyon some juice.”

When she attempted to push away from him, his grip tightened on her lower back.

“Don’t move.” He pressed her closer. “This time for my sake.”

That’s when she noticed the hardness between them was more than his torso and arms, but also his—oh. Oh boy.

As quickly as he’d pulled her to him, the corner of his lips turned up and he let her loose. She scuttled to the refrigerator.

“Get juice,” he instructed softly. “I’ll take my own advice and wait outside. Get dressed, grab your coffee, and after we drink it on your deck, we’re going to the farmer’s market.”

“We are?” She turned, a carton of orange juice in hand, fridge door open.

His eyes flickered down her body and back up. “Killing me, Ace.”

That’s when she looked down and saw her nipples pressed against the pale yellow fabric of her shirt and covered herself with her free arm. “Sorry,” she muttered quickly.

“I’m not.”

He threw a smirk in her direction, then took his coffee and went outside.





CHAPTER SIX




Brown hair mussed, short shorts and shirt wrinkled, the girl stumbling into the sunlight—and out of Asher’s rented cabin—was most certainly doing the walk of shame.

Evan rested his wrist on the steering wheel of his SUV and watched as she wobbled up the gravel driveway in short, high-heeled boots, then angled her way onto a path pointing to another group of rental cabins up the hill.

Damn. Ash didn’t waste any time.

Evan got out of the truck and knocked on the front door three times before a shout came from the side of the house.

Ash approached, robe open, wearing only a pair of boxers underneath, his face boasting a scraggly start of a beard, hair sticking up all over the place.

“You look like shit.”

“Rode hard, man.” Ash sipped from his coffee mug and glanced up the hill where the petite girl had disappeared into the trees.

“Geez, dude. You could have at least walked her home.”

“She didn’t want to be walked home. You want coffee?”

“Nah.”

Evan followed Ash to the backside of the house, where a sprawling, covered deck overlooked a steep hill. Treetops filled with skittering squirrels and chirping birds made up his view, the thick forest blocking the other houses.

A porch swing sat adjacent to a pair of wicker chairs. He moved to the chair and addressed Ash, who leaned a hip on the railing. “Gloria know you’re entertaining the locals?”

Ash shook his head. “The less she knows. She’s like my mother sometimes.”

“Or something else,” Evan put in. He tipped his head toward the hills. “Where’d you find her, anyway?”

“Jordan? Salty Dog.”

A bar. What a surprise. Evan rested his elbow on the arm of the chair. “And just how old is Jordan?”

“Twenty… something.” Asher’s brow crinkled. “I’m not sure.” His buddy looked older than his thirty-two years at the moment. “We drank a lot of Jack, came back here, played a lot of strip poker.”

“Explains a lot.”

Asher abandoned his mug and reached into his pocket for a cigarette.

“Thought you quit.”

“Now you’re my mother?” he mumbled, the cigarette waggling in between his lips. He lit it, sucked in a long drag. “I’m down to half a pack a day.” He blew out a long stream of smoke and glanced around at the scenery. “It’s nice here. I can see why you moved.”

Evan took in the leaves rustling in the breeze. “Yeah, it is.”

“I gotta rent a boat while I’m here. Fill it with babes.” He flashed a tired smile. “Know any?”

Just one.

Again, Charlie had struck him dumb. The sight of her in that tiny cotton getup this morning—her legs on display, the outline of her breasts visible through her shirt. The only thing more intriguing than the way he’d reached for her was the way she’d clung to him when he did.

That wayward attraction he’d noticed on the dock? Not a one-way street.

Changing topic, Evan said, “Glo told me to come find you. Said she couldn’t reach you on your cell.”

Ash paused, cigarette to his lips, and shot him a look. “What’d she want?”

“The library wants to do a big book signing at the Starving Artists Festival this year.”

“Ah, the poor man’s carnival. I remember it well. Crafts, auctions, and a fleet of roach coaches with exotic fried foods.”

“She thought it’d be good publicity to donate a copy of Mad Cow and an original painting for the auction. Wants us to sign and sell copies while we’re there, too.”

His eyebrows raised and he gestured to himself, cigarette scissored between two fingers. “Us?”

“Wants you to sing.”

A trail of smoke blew from his nose and he crushed the cigarette into an ashtray on a small table overflowing with butts. “I don’t know, man.”

“An acoustic ballad by the Asher Knight? That’ll fill your babe boat right up.”