Her head tilts just so…
Yup, that’s the spot right there.
Definitely fucked.
Significant risk of death by big bro rage or lock cock.
That's a thing, right?
And for-fucking-sure, it's altered my brain chemistry.
Everett hums, that knowing fucking hum of his, as his gaze flicks toward Holly. “I mean, I’m not saying it’s her or anything…”
I stop my glass halfway to my mouth and pin him with a mind-your-own-damn-business glare.
Yeah, not going to admit it, guy.
When I finally confess, there’s only one man I owe the truth to and an apology.
“Sure, right about the time you finally admit that you and Sierra have unfinished business.” I toss back the rest of my drink after dropping the bomb. That should wipe the smirk off his face.
Everett’s smile slips for a short, unsatisfying second before he slaps it back into place and lies to us both. “No unfinished business. She made her choices.”
“So that’s it. They’re written in stone, then? By that logic, I’d still be with Noelle.”
He shrugs. “Marriages on paper are a thing.”
“Bite your fucking tongue clean off, asshole.” He knows firsthand how fucked up I was during that time.
Apparently, my barb hit harder than he wanted to admit, but still—fuck.
It all goes away tomorrow because the truth will be out. But for him, who knows how long he and Sierra will do this dance.
I’m definitely giving him back the shit he likes to dish out.
Everett laughs and tosses the towel over his shoulder. “Oooh, testy tonight. Well, then, you aren’t going to want to turn around.”
“Yeah, why’s th?—”
The words die on my tongue when I turn to Holly and find Everett’s uncle strolling over, casual as can be, but for the inferno of interest in his eyes.
Interest locked on Holly where she's perched on the window seat, her legs tucked under her, glowing under the twinkling lights sweeping across the window, as she laughs at something Eve says.
Fucking dick-swinging Morgan men.
“She’s got a target painted on her forehead,” Everett says lightly. “Or, you know, her lips.”
Every muscle in my shoulders locks.
Son of a bitch!
About five feet above her and partially obscured by the string lights—the goddamn mistletoe hanging like a fucking omen.
“My uncle has excellent aim. You gonna stand here and let him take his shot, or are you gonna handle that?”
I snag my phone from my pocket and bring up my gallery.
Yup, there it is, right at the top.
