Flirting with the Frenemy (Bro Code #1)(40)

Sixteen





Ellie



My brain is broken.

It’s like the How we feel about Wyatt switch got flipped overnight, and now, instead of annoying as a gnat, he’s at hot as fuck.

Or possibly I’m overheating in this monkey costume.

But watching him shovel dirt in the town square is making me horny in ways I can’t ever remember being horny.

He hasn’t even taken his shirt off, and he’s still smokin’ hot.

“No, Miss Ellie, let me do that for you,” Tucker says.

He’s skin and bones, but he’s putting his all into thrusting the short shovel into the soft earth, shrieking with glee every time he finds a plastic pirate coin.

I should really talk to Pop about getting some biodegradable pirate coins.

Yes.

That.

I should concentrate on how I can help make the Pirate Festival more earth-friendly.

Not on the way Wyatt just wiped his face with his T-shirt, exposing half of his six-pack and making ten women around us drop their shovels, including a pirate wench who just murmured, “I’d tap that.”

“He’s taken,” Monica tells her.

“Lucky woman.”

My cheeks burn, but I don’t disagree. “I can dig a few shovels,” I tell Tucker. “I’m not helpless.”

“I’m being shrivelpuss,” he informs me.

“Chivalrous,” Wyatt corrects with a grin.

“That means helping people because I’m a gentleman,” Tucker explains.

“And you’re doing a fantastic job,” Wyatt agrees. “But if Miss Ellie wants to dig some, you can let her have fun too.”

“But she’ll get her monkey fur all dirty.”

Such a sweet kid. “You’re the most chivalrous pirate I’ve ever met,” I tell him.

“Oh! Look! I found a pearl necklace!” Sloane exclaims.

All of the Dixons whip their heads around to look as she pulls a string of Mardi Gras beads from the ground.

“Those are fake,” Mrs. Dixon sniffs.

Sloane drapes them over her neck. She’s not sweating at all in her dog costume, nor does she seem at all the least bit offended that she had to play the dog. “They’re a fabulous addition to my collar, aren’t they, Patrick?”

He rolls his eyes. “Sure.”

“Are we nearly done?” Mrs. Dixon asks Jason.

“No way,” he replies. “We could dig for days and not find all the treasure they hid here.”

His mother goes pale. She takes a step and her heels twist in the dirt. “This is a safety hazard.”

“That’s why there are signs everywhere to wear boots,” Jason tells her.

“Big eyesore the rest of the year, isn’t it?” Mr. Dixon says.

“They’ll plant flowers in half of it and sod the rest when the week’s over,” Wyatt tells him.

I shoot him a look.

“I read the festival website,” he says. “You hot? Want a break?”

“Oh my god, Ellie, you’re so red you’re purple. Go sit down,” Monica orders.

“I’m fine,” I tell her.

It is really fucking hot in this costume.

“Wyatt, do you know the most important thing about a wedding?” Monica asks.

“The bride’s always right?”

“Correct. Now go make sure Ellie sits down and has something to drink.”

Tucker looks wide-eyed between all the adults.

“You can stay with me, because you’re a good pirate treasure digger,” Monica tells him.

I squint my eyes at her, because is she trying to get me to strip for Wyatt?

She doesn’t bat a lash of acknowledgment.

“Can I, Dad? Please?”

“We’ll be right here,” Monica tells him. “And Jason knows CPR, and he always carries a first aid kit.”

That’s such baloney, and judging by the way Wyatt’s lips twist and his eyes narrow, he knows it.

“If she dies of heat stroke, it’s on you,” Monica tells him. “Are you a good boyfriend or not?”

“All right, all right. C’mon, Ellie. Let’s go get you out of this costume and into some air conditioning.”

“She loves the banana pudding at Crusty Nut,” Monica offers.

“I know,” he tells her.

Of course he does.

He fought me over which one of us got to put the bedspread covered in last night’s banana pudding into the washing machine this morning.

I let him win, but only because I had a call come in from an employee who needed to take an emergency sick day because her daughter was diagnosed with appendicitis.

And also because I know he didn’t forget the deal he offered, whereby he’d get to see my doodle pad.

“I’m not that hot,” I tell him when he stops beside me.

“Just dead sexy hot,” he replies.

Heat funnels to my core, and I try to stutter out a response, but before I can, he bends and tosses me over his shoulder.

I gasp in surprise.

“That hurt?” he asks quietly.

“No,” I answer honestly, half-surprised.

“Good. Tell me if it does. And don’t be a stubborn ass.” He turns, and adds, “Tucker, I’ll be right over there if you need me, okay?”