Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 100608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
His eyes darken. “Only with you.”
“I feel so special,” I tease, my lips quirking into a smirk. “Special treatment for the new guy, hmm?”
For a brief moment, his gaze falls to my lips, his entire body softening as he does it. To test my theory about his sexuality, I run my tongue across my bottom lip to wet it. He sucks in a sharp breath and nearly stumbles over his own feet to escape my nearness.
Closet fucking gay.
If I had to guess, he hooked up with Kian, most likely in secret, and now is a jealous asshole anytime anyone looks at the beautiful boy. But if my intuition serves me well like usual, I’d say Sheriff isn’t ballsy enough to admit to himself, much less this town, that he’s gay.
“He’s been hurt enough,” Jax says, his attention falling to his scuffed boots. “Don’t toy with him just to fuck with me. I beg of you.”
Jesus. This guy must think I’m a real dick.
“Don’t worry, Sheriff.” I give him a teasing grin. “I only toy with the ones I’m fucking.”
He yanks his coat up from the chair and points a finger at me, his face and neck turning crimson. “Watch your back, big city man.”
As he storms out of the conference room, I stare at his ass that’s firm and muscular in his jeans. A probably virgin as fuck ass if I had to guess. One I’d love to stick my slick cock into and make the tough cop whine from the stretch of it.
I shake away my lust-filled thoughts. Salivating over a secretly gay, grumpy cop is only asking for trouble. I’ll stick to my usual. Pretty boys who wear pretty clothes and make pretty sounds when in my bed.
I’ll stay far, far away from the likes of Sheriff Bell.
Something tells me that’ll be more difficult than I realize.
I’m trying to focus on the construction draws spreadsheet, but someone’s playing their music so goddamn loud, I want to rip my ears off.
Callan.
That damn kid is going to be the death of me.
Before Dad passed away, he made sure to put his affairs into order. Mainly, he had to make sure Callan would be taken care of. That meant setting up guardianship over my fifteen-year-old brother at the time. Dad spent far too much time explaining how to father the moody kid. Child rearing isn’t rocket science. Besides, I was already seventeen when Mom gave birth to Callan—practically a man myself. It was expected from day one for me to be an adult and look after him whenever the situation called for it. Callan has always been more of a responsibility than a little sibling.
“Turn it down!” I holler, tilting my head up to the ceiling.
I’m going to kill Shelly for putting him in the room above my office. It’s one of the first few finished guestrooms so far, so it’s not like she had much choice, but I’m only a few weeks in of he and I living here, and I’m ready to kill him. When the music continues, I let out a huff and rise to my feet.
Stalking out of my office, I walk down the hallway, nodding to at the workers laying tile in the grand entryway of the stately building. I’m glad I missed the drywall dust phase of construction. If I had to deal with dust all over my things, I wouldn’t have been able to office here during the build. Thankfully, all I have to deal with is noise. The sounds of drills or hammers or workers talking is manageable, but whatever teenage bullshit is blaring from the speakers is not.
I take the steps two at a time on the winding staircase, eager to shut off the noise. By the time I reach the guestroom, I’m practically itching with irritation.
“You have to be gentle with him, Dante. He’s just like Mom and Shelly. Not hard edges like us.”
Dad’s words ring loud in my head as I take a calming breath. Once I’ve exhaled my anger, I knock on the door. “Callan.”
The music stops and he flings open the door. As soon as I take in his outfit, I realize today is a black day. I can always tell his moods by the color of his clothes. Holey skinny jeans, black boots with a bunch of strange buckles, and a tight black T-shirt with a giant middle finger on the front. His hair is nearly black, much like Mom’s was, and his hazel eyes are lined in black eyeliner.
Sometimes, I really, really miss Dad. I’m not cut out for parenthood.
“Everything okay?” I ask, studying his expression for any indicator of his mood.
He shrugs, turning to walk back into his room. His desk is messy with all his art shit—sketches of high-rise buildings and the Statue of Liberty. Guilt tugs at my heart because I know he’s not handling this move well. Everything he knew and loved was back in New York. All his friends. His school. The architectural design degree he wanted to pursue once he graduated high school.