“Him noticing that I got fixed up to come over here is exactly what I don’t need right now,” I mumble.
I slam the door shut and start marching toward the enormous cedar and stone ranch house. It’s three stories high, with massive black-framed windows and a stone chimney that’s ten feet wide, stretching to the sky. It has a wraparound porch on the first and second floors, with a small balcony on the third floor. I’ve been inside the house a handful of times with Duke, but I’ve never been here alone or seen much of the inside.
My stomach feels like it’s full of the gravel rocks at the river bottom as I march up to the front door. I exhale and sniff my armpit to make sure the Texas heat hasn’t caused any unseemly body odor to seep out of my pores. It’s early fall, but the air hasn’t cooled down much from summer yet. I spritzed myself with my wildflower perfume before leaving the house. I raise my fist and firmly knock on the thick, ten-foot-tall double doors.
I wait, counting to five in my head before knocking again. I don’t hear anything inside the house, but to my left, a black Lab dog pants as he trots up to me.
“Hi, Belly Flop! You’ve gotten so big. I heard you made some babies with your ol’ lady—is that right? Are you a daddy now?” I bend down to pet him, scratching behind his ears.
A creak from behind me makes the hair on the back of my neck rise.
“Yeah, he’s a daddy now,” a deep voice growls from behind me.
Sam.
My entire body feels like it’s purring when he speaks. I’m like a damn cat in heat when I’m around Sam. It started when I was eleven years old. I’ve had so many fantasies about Sam Seymour that I’ve lost count. Sadly, I can count on one hand the amount of times he’s intentionally looked in my direction.
The first time was when I was thirteen. I started my period, but because I didn’t have a mom and my dad didn’t think about it after having raised four boys, I bled through my jeans while out driving the truck while the guys were throwing hay bales on the trailer. I had no choice but to get out of the driver’s seat and go tell my dad that I needed to go change and buy my first pads.
My brothers and Sam were all sweating in the Texas sun, watching me with confused stares as I whispered in my dad’s ear and he led me back to the truck, bloody jeans and all. I remember glancing at Sam and meeting his eyes.
I was embarrassed, but I also had the fleeting thought of,You see that I’m a woman now, don’t you? I’m not just your best friend’s little sister anymore.
Apparently, he didn’t think that because it wasn’t until three years later that he looked at me again, when I was sixteen and wore a bikini in front of him with actual boobs and an ass to fillit out. One subtle double take with those bright blue eyes was all I got, but, damn, I didn’t forget it.
I slowly stand, the cake still in my left hand. I pivot to face him, lifting my chin. His ocean-colored eyes meet mine, blinking slowly. His face is … destroyed. He has a green-and-yellow bruised eye on one side and a split lip that’s in the middle of healing. He lifts a bottle of amber liquid to his lips, slurping on it silently, gaze draping down over me.
“Whatcha doin’ here, sis?”
Did he really just call me that?
I form an annoyed smile. “I’m not your sister.”
He shrugs. “Feels like it.”
What the actual …
I stand up taller, stretching to my full height of almost five foot two. “I brought you a coffee cake. An award?—”
“Award-winning coffee cake?” he finishes, smirking at me.
He tosses back another gulp of the amber liquid, peering down at me even as he leans against the doorframe and towers over me. I can smell the stench of liquor from several feet away.
He’s shirtless, abs faintly visible under his freckled, tanned skin. Bruises in the middle stages of healing stretch from the bottom of his sternum to the middle of his abs.
Sam’s hair is reddish brown, with gorgeous curly pieces hanging over his forehead. He has a week-old beard on his strong jawline and a spark of sadness that never leaves his eyes.
“You’re here to tell me how sorry you are that I’m alone forever and my only living relative is dead. I get it, sis; you’re a do-gooder, and I’m your closest neighbor. I applaud the Southern hospitality. Don’t worry that pretty little head too much on it. I’m rich as fuck now.”
His knuckles are red and crusted with scabs. He wipes a stray drop of liquor from his full lips, and I watch the movement withrapt fascination, like any virgin would in the presence of her shirtless older brother’s best friend.
Especially one who looks like Aaron Taylor-Johnson in a Western-themed Calvin Klein underwear ad.
Even now, the CK logo is peeking out over his sweatpants.
“Stop calling me your sister. We’re not related.”
He chuckles, standing up straighter and turning to walk into the house. “Do you drink? How old are you now? I have … some kind of girlie shit from when Keely was last here.”
