Crashed(book three)(212)

“Baby, this point was most definitely more than proven,” he murmurs suggestively as he splays his hand across my lower back and pulls me hard against him so I can feel every single inch of that point pressed against my lower belly. All I can do is breathe out as every part of my body craves him again. “Fuck, I love you,” he says, pressing a chaste kiss to my lips before winking at me and walking back toward Zander and the race team.

And all I can do is watch his back as he walks away—strong shoulders, head held high, and still sexy as hell. I shake my head, reminded of when all those years ago as he walked away from me in a race suit. How he called out my name, found the courage to tell me he raced me, and changed more than just our lives, forever.





The house is buzzing with noise like a goddamn beehive.


Just how Ry likes it. Though f*ck if I know why, because it’s filled with high powered testosterone, overtaking her tiny bit of estrogen.

I glance out on the patio as I walk down the stairs to see Shane talking to Connor about how he’s doing with his new job, his arm around his wife and a bottle of beer to his lips.

All of the boys are here for our once a month family dinner as Ry calls it, even though some of the boys—shit, men now—are starting families of their own.

“Hey, Shane,” I call out to him through the open pocket doors. “I have a few more beers in here if you want them,” I tease and he snorts and rolls his eyes in response.

“No thanks. I’m good with just one,” he says, holding the bottle up to me in a mock toast with a wide smirk. I laugh, the memory of him green and hungover making me smile.

I walk through the hallway and take it all in. Aiden in his UCLA baseball jersey fresh from practice shooting the shit with Zander in his board shorts and backwards baseball hat, a relaxed grin on his face. Scooter sitting on the deck outside playing with Spiderman figurines with Shane’s two year old son. Shit.

The sight makes me feel like I’m older than dirt.

Everyone’s here but Kyle and Ricky. I feel sorry as f*ck for the freshman girls at Stanford those two are currently unleashing their charm on. Or maybe it’s their own type of voodoo. The women don’t stand a chance against them. Hearts are gonna be breaking.

Fuck ’em and chuck ’em.

Thinking of those two has the old term hitting me like a ton of bricks as the memories of that first night flash back. I don’t even fight my smile as I think of the hearts I used to break … damn I was good—until a certain wavy haired vixen crashed into my damn life, grabbed hold, and never let go. Defiance and curves and my world got turned upside down when I opened up that damn storage closet.

And thank Christ for that.

My f*cking Rylee.

And then I hear her voice in the kitchen, and my feet head toward her without a second thought. I clear the doorway and every ounce of love I never thought I could have, never thought a possibility, f*cking sucker punches me like it does every goddamn time I see them like this.

Pots are boiling on the stove, the microwave is dinging, and the Goo Goo Dolls are playing overhead, but I don’t notice any of that because my eyes are fixed on the sight before me, my heart beating like a damn freight train. They’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, knees touching, giggling uncontrollably over some shared secret, flour coating their hair and faces, and complete adoration reflected back at one another.

I stand there and watch them, my soul aching in the best f*cking way possible at how I’m the luckiest son of a bitch on the face of the earth. I’ve been to Hell and back, but it was worth every goddamn second for what I feel right now … feelings that aren’t so f*cking foreign any more.