Page 107 of Lowering His Guard

“I want your key to my house!” I shout.

“But I need the key. How else can I leave leftovers from the restaurant in your refrigerator?”

“Mom.”

“What?”

“Boundaries.”

“What boundaries? You live in our backyard.”

“In a house I paid for.”

Brock leans over. “Get dressed.”

I notice he’s no longer naked. “How are you dressed already?”

“I wasn’t arguing with my mom about stupid shit.”

“Stupid shit?” I narrow my eyes on him. “We were in the middle of s-e-x, and my parents waltzed into my house. I need their key.”

“We can spell, lucky charm,” Dad says.

“Why aren’t you deaf? My friends complain about their parents going deaf all the time. I should be so lucky.”

“You are lucky,” Mom says. “Lucky to have such wonderful parents who brought you breakfast from Pirate’s Pastries.”

Brock’s stomach rumbles.

I glare at him. He shrugs. “What? I’m hungry.”

“Do you want coffee or tea?” Mom shouts.

I give up. Mom couldn’t at least pretend not to hear us? No, she couldn’t. Privacy does not exist in her world. Which is why I live in a tiny home in the backyard instead of in the spare bedroom in their house.

“Go.” I shove Brock. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“You should probably…” He points to my hair.

“I should probably not join my parents for breakfast with sex hair?”

Dad groans and I giggle. He hates how his baby girl is having sex. Welp. This is your punishment for barging into my house when he knew damn well Brock was here. His ginormous SUV is hard to miss.

Brock smacks my lips before marching out of the bedroom. I jump to my feet and throw on some clothes. There’s no time to brush my hair properly – Mom will have Brock looking at wedding venues if I’m not quick enough – so I throw it up in a bun. Good enough.

When I reach the kitchen – which couldn’t have been more than two minutes after Brock – my parents and Brock are already sitting around my kitchen island with pastries spread before them. I’ve never thought my tiny house was tiny before. Until I saw Brock sitting on one of my bar stools at my kitchen counter. No wonder he calls my house a toy house. To him it is toy-sized!

I grab a baked peaches and cream whiskey muffin and stuff it in my mouth. Yummy. I settle on a bar stool next to Mom and across from Brock.

“Morning, Mom. Dad,” I greet once I swallow my bite.

Mom sets a cup of coffee in front of me. “I’m guessing it’s a very good morning.”

I sigh and Dad groans. “Lin.”

“What?” She bats her eyes at him.

Dad shakes his head. “She bats her eyelashes and I go stupid.”