Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 102361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
I would have had a dozen babies with her. That was one more thing I mourned after I lost her.
Bryce sighs and fists my T-shirt in his little hand.
“You guys are all having babies, and I get to love on them, spoil the shit out of them, and then give them back.” Bryce makes a little sound, and I rub my hand over his back to calm him. “How many more are you going to have?”
“I think this is enough,” Bridger says with a laugh. “Two’s plenty. But Billie and Harper are adding to the clan soon.”
“Me too,” Beck says as he and Blake join us. “Skyla’s pregnant.”
“Holy shit.” Bridger stands to hug Beckett, and I shake his hand.
“Congrats,” I tell him.
I’m happy for all of my siblings. They’ve all found people to love. To spend their lives with. And they all chose well.
“That’s a whole lot of hormones in the family at one time,” Blake says with a cringe. “A lot.”
“At least they’re a little staggered,” Bridger says. “Hey, where’s Connor?”
“Ireland,” Blake says. “Until Saturday.”
We all glance over at Billie, who’s sitting with her feet up and snuggling Birdie. And all of us brothers are wondering the same thing: Does that mean she’s not sleeping well?
Billie’s always been a night owl, but it’s more than that. She doesn’t sleep much at all. Or, she didn’t, until Connor.
And I don’t even want to think about what happens in their bed. I’m the oldest, and Billie is my baby sister.
Nope, not thinking about it.
Two hours later, I swing through the plant nursery on the way home. They’re a few minutes from closing, and Mr. Dugan, the owner, meets me by the hanging baskets.
“Summer’s almost over,” he says as he props his hands on his hips.
I don’t even know what the fuck I’m doing here.
“Yeah, I know. Any of these hardy enough to make it through fall? I want to add some color to my porch.”
He nods and points out one with orange and yellow blooms. “Mums should last you into October, especially on a porch or something like that.”
“I’ll take three of those,” I say with a nod, and stow them in the back of my truck before heading home.
Rather than pull into my driveway, I stop in across the street at the big house. First, I have to walk over to my garage and find some hooks and a drill. Then I cross back over, climb the steps of the porch, and install three hooks above the railing, eyeballing the spacing. Returning to the truck bed, I pull out all three baskets, then hang them on the hooks.
Stepping off the porch, I back away to examine my handiwork. They seem to be pretty evenly spaced, and the yellow and orange look nice with the red door.
She wanted flowers.
She got fucking flowers.
I drive right across into my own driveway and cut the engine. Then, with anger simmering in my veins, I walk inside.
What the fuck am I doing?
She’s not my problem. If she wants flowers, she can buy herself fucking flowers. They don’t need to hang on a house I’m trying to fix up so I can sell.
But dammit, ever since I heard her say it this morning, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It’s as if I’m on autopilot, and whatever Juliet wants, she gets. Like my brain hasn’t read the we don’t give a shit about Juliet memo.
And it’s pissing me the fuck off.
First, the steps, and now goddamn flowers.
What’s next?
Shaking my head, I head to my bathroom to shower. I don’t want to do things that I think will make her happy. I don’t want to feel bad for her, or help her, or care about her.
Fuck, I don’t trust her.
But dammit. Dammit.
Her eyes are still so fucking kind, and she looked so lost when she hurt her leg.
I turn on the water, and when it’s hot enough, I step under the spray and let it pound on my head and stream down my face.
And here, in this three-by-six-foot box with the water hammering down on me, I can admit that she’s still beautiful. Fuck, that curly blond hair should be wrapped around my fist. Her lips, so full and pouty, should be on my cock.
“Jesus.”
I fist the base of my dick and give it a tug with thoughts of my wildfire front and center.
The way her eyes light up and she smiles when she’s being particularly sarcastic.
The way she bit her lip when I spoke to her at the pharmacy.
The way she looks wearing those shorts with her long legs on display.
And I grunt out her name as I come against the tile.
Fuck.
I need to stop this. Nothing good can come of it. She chose, and it wasn’t me.
But goddammit, a part of me still wants her.
It’s fucking torture.