Crazy for Loving You: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(105)
“Thinking they can be all oh, come to our second-rate town for a grand re-opening of a donut shop that made bad donuts, it’s so exciting!” Georgia mutters with a snort while she slams flour and sugar onto the smaller worktable. “Sarcasm assholes. Who gives a chocolate chip that some chick came home?”
“So Duh-Nuts over in Sarcasm is re-opening. So what?” I try to keep my voice level and unafflicted while I fish the donut out of the glaze bowl, but I don’t quite make it, because I read that second line too, and I know who’s home.
“Grady—” Tillie Jean starts, but Georgia plows her over.
Verbally, I mean.
“They’re trying to steal our customers. Right here. In our own town. Like they didn’t steal half our tourists last month with their freaking unicorn festival. We’ve had the pirate festival every second week of June since the dawn of time, and they think they can just suddenly put a competing festival the same week?”
I let her rant while I watch Tillie Jean watching everything in the kitchen except me.
“So she’s back for good?” I ask.
My sister not looking at me is answer enough.
Annika Williams is back. Back back.
Annika Williams, who couldn’t bake her way out of a paper bag.
Annika Williams, who spent high school counting the days until she could leave our little slice of the Blue Ridge Mountains behind, but still promised me once she’d come back one day and be my business manager when I opened the best bakery on this side of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Annika Williams, who took my heart with her when she left.
She’s back.
Opening her own damn bakery.
Trying to steal my customers.
I thought I’d already felt everything I was ever going to feel about Annika Williams.
Turns out, I was wrong.
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Sneak Peek at THE PILOT & THE PUCK-UP
Want to know more about those hockey players that Tyler hangs with?
If you love big, bad, spider-fearing hockey heroes, tough-as-nails heroines hiding her soft side, and one night stands gone sideways, read on for an excerpt of The Pilot and the Puck-Up…
Chapter 1
Zeus Berger (aka the biggest, baddest, most spider-fearing mother pucker in the NHL, except for maybe his twin brother)
Coconuts are itchy. I should’ve gone for the watermelons.
But it was a bitch and a half getting that last-minute private fitting at Madame Cosette’s anyway, and the woman probably would’ve had to stitch three bras together and then nailed the damn contraption to my shoulders to get it to hold without losing a melon, so coconuts it is.
Besides, it’s the heels that are gonna be the bigger problem. Damn good thing I have ankles of fucking steel.
And my minidress is stretched to max capacity over the coconuts anyway. It’s also in danger of showing my other coconuts, if you catch my drift. And there’s definitely a drift—or is that a draft?—on my other coconuts.
A wolf whistle echoes through the swanky private clubhouse where I’m strolling in with my twin brother on one side and my brother from another mother on the other. A passing server drops a tray of champagne. Conversation stops. And a bunch of stuffy golf pricks gape at us like we’re a mutant alien circus freak show crashing their million-dollar wedding reception.
We’re three dudes with more money than God, more muscles than all the Kardashians’ bodyguards combined, and more fun than cotton candy and roller coasters.
And this is no wedding reception. It’s a chance for pretentious rich asses to brag to each other about who gave more money to whatever foundation is sponsoring this Pro-Am golf tournament for charity.
Ares is scowling, squinting around the room like he’s looking for the dumbass prince who was stupid enough to bet me ten grand I wouldn’t show up tonight dressed like a chick. Chase is on his phone, snickering like he’s not half a foot shorter and a hundred pounds lighter than me and Ares are.
I swipe his phone from him and shove it between my coconuts. “Quit sexting my sister in public.”
“I was posting that picture of you getting dressed to Facebook,” he replies. “Ares, fetch the phone.”
Ares grunts. “Shut your face,” he tells Chase.
I slap my brother on the shoulder. “Lighten up, bro. I make this shit look good.”
“Hate to break it to you,” Chase says, “but your sister actually makes a better woman.”
“You saying you wouldn’t tap this?”
“Saying she gives a better blow job.”
He easily ducks my fist, because the fucker’s known me too long. Plus, my heart isn’t in taking him out. Chase is good for my sister, and he’s a damn good friend to boot. Not that I’ll ever tell him that to his face. Again.
Ares quits scowling enough to snicker too. “Girls don’t hit,” he tells me.
“You gonna let him talk about Ambrosia like that?”
“I know where he sleeps.”
People think Ares is dumb because he doesn’t talk in big words. But he’s one of the smartest fuckers I know, in his own way.
Only dude in the world as big as me too, but in these heels—special ordered Mablanoks something or others—I’ve got him by four inches.