Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Declan betrayed me. But I have the perfect way to get even: his sister.
Juliette is sweet, bookish, gorgeous… and completely off-limits.
Fake dating her should be easy. A little wining and dining, a little harmless flirting, and I’ll get revenge on the guy who wrecked my life.
But Juliette throws me completely off my game.
Beneath her button-up shirts and wide eyes is the sexiest and most fascinating woman I’ve ever met. All good-girl by day, lacy underwear by night.
She sees right through my bad attitude… and somehow likes me anyway.
Suddenly the one thing worse than losing my best friend, would be losing her.
I’m desperate for revenge. But hurting Juliette? That’s a penalty I just can’t take…
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
PROLOGUE
AARON
My teammate has been acting strange lately.
How he thought he could fly under the radar is beyond me. We share a locker room, a practice schedule, and a mutual hatred of leg day. But that’s professional hockey for you—grown men with multimillion-dollar contracts and zero modesty.
Case in point: I see that hairy bastard naked on an almost daily basis.
And yet, I would bet money he’s been slipping out of the locker room like he’s avoiding something. Or someone.
Me, mostly.
And that is not like him—might even be funny if it weren’t so damn obvious.
Declan Kennedy doesn’t do avoidance. He’s the guy rallying after a loss, after a win, or when team morale takes a hit. He kicks us in the ass when we’re dragging.
Hockey has a way of blurring lines for us.
Teammates become roommates.
Brothers.
Built-in best friends.
We spend more time together than we do with our families, for fuck’s sake. More time than I spend with my girlfriend, Bailey, if I’m being honest. Practices, conditioning days, travel, games—there’s no such thing as personal space when you share a bench, locker, and hotel room with the same fifty guys for nine months straight.
Longer, if we get lucky and make it to the playoffs.
I notice him leaving practice early lately, skipping team dinners.
I notice the absence of his usual shit-talk during drills, the empty seat beside me on the bench. I notice because he’s usually the one making the effort when the grind starts wearing everyone down.
The guy left his equipment bag at the rink, and Kennedy doesn’t forget things, not when it comes to hockey.
Kennedy is the guy who shows up.
And I want to be the guy who shows up for him.
Which is why I’m riding the elevator up to his high-rise apartment instead of minding my own damn business. Something is up, and I’m gonna find out what it is.
I knock.
Knock again when I don’t hear footsteps walking toward the door.
“Dude,” I call out. “I know you’re in there. Your truck is in the parking garage.”
Silence.
I exhale, dragging a hand down my face, unease curling low in my gut.
I don’t love this.
I don’t like meddling, but I trust my gut, and my gut is telling me something is off and someone should know about it.
Hesitating, I search my phone for the door code he gave me months ago after a late night and too many beers in case of emergencies.
I punch it in. Turn the handle, door clicking open.
Step inside, half expecting an alarm system to begin beeping out its ten second countdown warning.
Kennedy’s apartment is big and bright, with expansive floor-to-ceiling windows. Glass everywhere. An uninterrupted view of the city below, the entire place designed to leave nothing hidden.
And yet…
I tread lightly, door clicking shut behind me; every one of my instincts is on edge as my eyes scan every corner and doorway as if expecting to find Declan slumped somewhere, broken or drunk.
The living room is empty.
Kitchen, too.
I drift farther, gaze snagging on the counter. Several empty wine bottles. Take-out containers stacked haphazardly. Dirty plates pushed aside like no one bothered to clean up because they were too busy doing something else.
A half-eaten slice of cake.
I follow the soundless apartment down the hall, my pulse thudding in my ears, until I stop outside the bedroom door.
This time I don’t knock.
Like an idiot, I push the door open without announcing myself—a decision I immediately regret.
My eyes take in the scene rapidly, brain finding it impossible to process what I’m seeing. I thought I’d find Declan alone—possibly despondent. Instead, I see—
Bailey.
For several seconds, I barely know where to look—or how to breathe because that woman he’s fucking? Is my girlfriend.
Mine.
Not his.
Head tipped back, Bailey’s hands grip the headboard for leverage, and her tits bounce as she fucks him, whining moans I’m all too familiar with. Felt them against my skin dozens of times.
In my bed. In hers.
Declan smacks her ass, hard, fingers squeezing. Digging in possessively like he owns her, and that’s when it hits me: This isn’t a one-time thing.
This is not a mistake. They did not get drunk and fall into bed together last night.
They’ve done this before. Probably many times.
Behind my back.
I stand frozen, blood draining from my face. Fists clench as I stare down at them from the doorway, waiting for one of them to notice me. I can’t fucking move.
It’s sick, I know, but I can’t for the life of me look away.
Bailey moves with ease, working his dick. It makes my stomach churn how confident, practiced, and in control she is; this is a choice she’s fully committed to. She leans down, mouth brushing his neck, blonde hair spilling forward as she murmurs something I can’t hear, marveling in the power she has over him.
Declan groans loudly. His hands grip her waist, guiding her faster. Faster. “Fuck yeah, babe…”