One more word and I swear to God...
Me
In the interest of keeping a balanced diet… your sister=the food pyramid
Nick
You're dead to me. Actually dead.
Me
Good luck fucking my sister tonight while you’re wondering if I'm fucking yours
She sings in the shower.
Off key.
And her attempt at beatboxing? Makes my old drill sergeant's morning screech sound like a damn symphony.
Half an hour after she slipped into the bathroom, she steps out all freshly showered, ruining my life with the way she wears my favorite shirt.
In fifty years, they could ask me about the best piece of clothing I ever owned—and all I'll be able to recall is how she looks wearing it.
The way impossibly soft flannel swallows her from neck to knees, stripping away the chic businesswoman she is by day, transforming her into the goddamn girl next door everyone talks about, but no one can really define.
The one you want to scoop around the waist and drag against you while you fall asleep with your face nestled in the sweet-smelling, velvety skin of her neck.
Her hair curls at the ends, the tips brushing her rosy cheeks. Dipping her chin, she tucks her nose against my collar, her eyes drifting shut with her shaky inhale.
And just like that, my favorite shirt becomes the second most dangerous thing in the room.
Chapter Five
Holly
My carefully curatedexecutive armor dissolves the minute I slip into his shirt, and suddenly I'm just... Holly. Not the financial analyst, not the perpetual little sister—just me.
Drowning in—him.
The scent of pine needles and woodsmoke with something darker underneath, something distinctly Chance, teases my senses with every turn of the fabric as I roll up the sleeves. Pressing my nose to the collar, I inhale deeply.
Warmth floods my cheeks as his scent awakens something I thought I'd outgrown.
Like finding an old mixtape from a time when you fearlessly reached for the high, only wild young love can deliver, despite the inevitable crash landing.
Stepping into a room that seemed far bigger when I wore more clothes is stepping into an intimate dance in his shirt while his heated gaze tracks my every move.
It's not just breaking my carefully graphed rules—it's setting fire to my whole damn presentation.
No. Nope. Not going there. Not when I need every brain cell focused on winning this account.
Glancing away from his hot and wary stare, I dig my socks out of my bag. Red and white stripes because—candy canes.
If I have to be professional all day, my feet deserve to party. Some people have their little black dresses. I have my ridiculous socks.
They’re my tiny act of rebellion against a world of gray suits, glass ceilings, and men who think a lack of dangly bits means a lack of business sense.
"So I've got this figured out," I announce in my desperation to break the tension. I stretch the stripes over my calves and smooth the plush knit over my knees. My fingertips tingle where they brush my skin, nerves firing, no doubt from the two Red Bulls I downed on the plane.
