WHAT IN SAM HILL was wrong with him? Had he suffered a brain injury? West wondered.
He’d teased Jessie Kay. He’d flirted with her, had actually come on to her, and he hadn’t been subtle about it. Before that, he’d even shared little tidbits about his past, something he’d only ever done with Jase and Beck. He’d even asked about her childhood, and he’d sincerely wanted to know!
And in the car, when she’d paled, gasping for breath, he’d felt an instinctive need to help her, whatever the cause of her distress. To make things better for her. To be better for her. The beautiful girl with the keen mind, sharp wit and vengeful nature. Who else would tell him about a pap smear?
She charmed him, and the madness had to stop. For every reason he’d already considered, and a thousand more.
If they ended up together, the relationship would fail in two months. No more, no less. Because yes, he scheduled his relationships like everything else. He never deviated, never would, for reasons he would never share.
He could handle Jessie Kay’s upset over the situation, but not everyone else’s. Brook Lynn and Harlow would side with her and hate him, and though Jase and Beck would side with West, they’d also have to side with their girls. Eventually, West would find himself cut from the family.
He needed his boys like his needed his lungs. Couldn’t live without one, couldn’t live without the other.
Brook Lynn threw her straw wrapper at him. “You better start being nice to my sister, Lincoln West.”
“I wasn’t mean. Not today,” he added with a grumble.
“She has a tough outer shell, but inside, she’s actually a marshmallow.”
Was she? He only knew a little about her past.
There’s more to both stories...a lot more.
If he knew everything about her, would he want her less? Or even more?
Could he want her more? He already ached for her every minute of every day.
Neither of his friends realized the attraction had flared at meeting one, and he would never tell them, didn’t want them dealing with guilt for taking something—someone—he wanted. The predicament was his fault, anyway.
He’d met Jessie Kay at a Fourth of July BBQ and a few hours after he’d walked away from her, he’d returned, thinking he’d reintroduce himself to the woman he hadn’t been able to get out of his mind. But by then, Beck had set his sights on her. And when either of his boys expressed an interest in something, anything, West moved heaven and earth to ensure they got it. Period. Such deprived childhoods deserved extravagant adulthoods. Owe them everything.
He’d walked away again. And he didn’t regret his failure to step up and stake a claim on Jessie Kay. Nope. Not even a little.
Jase kissed his fiancée’s knuckles. “You just made a huge tactical error, angel. Never tell a man a woman is a marshmallow.”
“Why not?” she asked, truly confused.
Beck arched a brow. “Why else? Because he’ll want to eat her.”
Harlow slapped his chest. “Oh, my gosh! You are such a pig.”
But the guy wasn’t deterred. “Tell her, Westlina.”
He smiled without humor. “It’s true. If the guy has a sweet tooth.”
“The way you were looking at my sister...you better not have a sweet tooth.” Brook Lynn wagged a finger in his direction. “I worry about her enough, thank you very much. She lives alone in a crumbling house. She’s struggling to make ends meet, and she’s determined to trek the straight and narrow. There’s no reason to tempt her onto the winding and wide.”
Do I tempt her?
Every muscle in his body hardened like a rock. Every—single—one. “Don’t worry. I prefer savory to sweet.” At least, he always had before.
The stiffening got worse as Jessie Kay strolled around a corner. Her navy gaze avoided him. Probably a good thing. The scent of her—pecans dipped in cream and sprinkled with cinnamon—invaded his senses, more potent than any drug, heating him to the point of sweltering, intoxicating him until his head spun. A warmth and high he’d missed with every fiber of his being. A warmth and high he couldn’t allow himself to enjoy. The more he liked it, the more he’d crave it...the more difficult it would be to let go.
Clearly, he needed to select his next relationship. He usually had someone hooked and reeled by August and thrown back into the sea by October, avoiding the holidays. The move to Strawberry Valley had screwed with his schedule.
And even though sexual relief wouldn’t be a cure-all, it would be a bandage, and that was good enough. Anything was better than nothing right now.
“Y’all are suspiciously quiet.” With a frown, Jessie Kay eased into her chair. “I don’t like it. Makes me want to slap you to sleep, then slap you for sleeping. Someone say something before I go into detail about my last period.”
“Please say something,” West said, almost desperate.
Brook Lynn moaned. “Happy place, happy place.”
“Jessie Kay, why don’t you tell everyone about the indoor soccer team you’d like to start,” Harlow suggested.
Beck set his beer on the table with a clink. “You want to start a team? Have you ever played?”
“No, but I have plenty of experience knocking people around.” Jessie Kay threw a one-two punch at air. “I just need a coach...someone like West. His skill is—”
“Oh, no, no, no.” West shook his head for emphasis.
She ran her tongue over her teeth but still didn’t face him. “Why not?”
“We’d kill each other.” And, more important, he’d be on her before the end of session one.
“For all you know, I’m the next David Beckham,” she said, lifting her chin.
“Ball handling is not a skill you pick up like this.” He snapped his fingers.
Her gaze narrowed. Through a haze of fire and heat, a storm brewed, lightning flashing. “Well, good news. I’m already quite good at ball handling. Just ask your friends.”
He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth.
Brook Lynn moaned, once again hiding her face in her hands. “Happy place. Happy place.”
Beck choked on the drink he’d just taken.
Harlow rubbed him between the shoulders, saying, “Jessie Kay Dillon, you lock that snark up tight right this second. You know my he-slut likes to pretend I’m the only woman he’s ever been with. Reminders of past escapades only confuse him.”
Jessie Kay wilted, looking like the very picture of remorse and shame. “Sorry. My temper...”
Maybe
