2. Pink

Pink

Roasters 87–54

D amn, she’s fucking gorgeous when she’s pissed.

To be fair, I think anybody would be pressed to find a time when Nessa Gibbs didn’t look knock-your-socks off gorgeous. The entitled jerk-off across from me that was currently hitting on her was proof positive.

I couldn’t blame him for hitting on her, but I could and would blame him for harassing her after she’d told him she wasn’t interested. “No” was a full fucking sentence.

Apparently, he’d missed that day in second grade.

Tonight’s game had kicked my ass—in more ways than one—starting with the five runs I’d given up in the third inning and ending with the line drive to my right glute. The guys still managed to squeeze out a win in the end—no thanks to my sorry, soon-to-be purple ass. Playoffs were still a few weeks away, and even though we had already secured a spot, every game counted. Twelve more wins—well, eleven after tonight—would determine whether the Roasters earned the first or second seed in our division.

Not bad for the team’s first season in the league.

Rather than celebrating with the guys, I had opted for every pro-baller’s favorite pastime: takeout, TV, and a bag of frozen peas.

It gave new meaning to the phrase “Netflix and chill.”

Nero had been nice enough to accept the to-go order I’d called in an hour ago, long after Thorn Tavern’s kitchen closed. There weren’t a lot of takeout options past nine p.m. in Rose City—just one of the many things I missed about living in Portland—but even then, none compared to Thorn Tavern’s famous “Totchos,” the perfectly cheesy and bacon-loaded hybrid of tots and nachos.

Fuck ice baths. I’d swim in a tub of Totchos any day.

I had had every intention of just picking up my order and heading back to the townhouse I shared with the Roasters’ social media director—and my newly minted best friend—Dani, when I spotted Nessa reading at the bar.

Reading was sexy.

I’d always had a thing for nerds, especially book nerds. With freckles. Who wore cropped tops that exposed their tattooed midriff.

That was my fucking kryptonite.

Maybe I should have let her be or, at the very least, stayed hidden by the door while she gave this tool the tongue-lashing he so deserved. She could do it, too. I’d been on the receiving end of her vitriol for several months now.

Instead, I wedged myself in between her and the bar, lifted the untouched glass of wine beside her, and pressed it to my lips. Her eyes tracked my every movement. Those pools of grayish green narrowed with equal parts surprise, annoyance, and, dare I say, a hint of intrigue?

That last one was probably wishful thinking on my part. As much as I loathed to admit it, I had tried—and failed—to charm the (literal) pants off Nessa Gibbs earlier this year. Though, I still couldn’t figure out why because just about everybody, aside from the shitbag sperm donor who called himself my father, would say, I was “freaking adorable.”

Their words, not mine.

At least I knew how to stomach defeat—even if it tasted like sour milk—unlike Chadley Shadley Bradley over here.

It was time for this dickweed to hit the pavement.

Preferably chin first.

I swallowed a gulp of wine and tipped the glass toward Nessa. “Not bad, angel.”

I trailed my hand a little lower on her back, flirting dangerously with the hem of her top and the tattooed butterfly peeking out from beneath it. She’d probably give me shit for it later, but as far as I was concerned, Nessa Gibbs could punish me any day of the week.

“Thanks for keeping my girl company.”

“Your girl?” Douchebag Magee croaked.

“Oh, excuse me. You’re right. My woman. ”

He swallowed nervously. Warm satisfaction cut through my body like liquid fire. It blossomed into a blazing inferno when Nessa leaned into my touch, her full breasts pressing into my side.

His eyes bounced between Nessa and me. “But you’re—”

I could already tell how this was going to go. I’d spent the better part of my teen years surrounded by fragile male egos and the first few years of my twenties deconstructing my own. The most dangerous kind of man, the one most prone to lash out, was a humiliated one. “And she’s, well—”

“Way out of my league?” I answered honestly. “A fucking goddess? Dude, I know it. Do you know how many months of begging it took me to even get her to agree to go out with me?” I shifted my attention to the goddess in question, the one I had spent more than a few sleepless nights thinking about and picturing as I came all over my hands. “What was it, Ness? Two months?”

She just sat there staring up at me, her mouth slightly ajar. For a second, I thought I might have pushed the charade a bit too far until—

“Three,” she said with a devious glint in her eyes. “Three months.”

My attention shifted south in time to see a bead of sweat pool between her cleavage.

What I wouldn’t give to follow that sweat all the way down—

“But it was worth the wait, right, honey muffin ?” she asked, batting her eyelashes. Her eyes drifted down to my lips, just for a second, but it was enough to have my cock stiffening.

That was all it took—one smoldering glance—to knock me to my knees. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Not that I wouldn’t crawl to her. If Nessa wanted me on my knees, all she had to do was ask.

Don’t get your hopes up.

“That’s right, sugar puss, ” I said, punctuating it with a wink.

Her emerald eyes sparkled with amusement. I’d never been one to back away from a challenge, and from the looks of it, neither had she. The game was still afoot, and Nessa was doing a damn fine job at playing it.

She straightened in her seat when I brushed my fingers beneath the hem of her top, scraping warm, freckled skin. When she flipped back toward our unwanted guest, the loose tendrils of her messy bun brushed against my chest, sending shivers down my spine. My knuckles tightened around the wineglass. It wouldn’t take much to knot my hand through her hair, to tug her head back until those luscious lips met mine.

The ones I knew would taste like strawberries.

“What was it?” the douchebag asked, breaking me out of my daydream.

“Hm?”

“What was it that finally made you change your mind about him?”

“Great question.” I was keen to hear the answer myself. “Angel?”

I lifted the glass of wine to my lips again, nearly choking on the robust red liquid when Nessa answered, “Oh, definitely his massive cock.”

I wasn’t sure what I had expected her to say, but it hadn’t been that. And clearly, I wasn’t the only one left sputtering my words.

The Patagonia frat douche jumped from his seat, his eyes wide as saucers. “Well, that’s, er, great. For . . . both of you, I suppose.” He pulled a crisp twenty from his wallet, practically throwing it at the bartender. “I should be going.”

Before he could slip past me, I stepped directly into his path. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” I asked, arching an expectant brow. He might have had a few years on me, but I had more than a few inches on him.

And I wasn’t just talking about dick size.

“Um—”

His eyes flicked down to my outstretched hand. Realization dawned on his punch-able face before he all but pushed Nessa’s book into my chest. I rolled the thick volume over in my hands and smiled.

The cover art depicted a buxom brunette embracing a hulking green dude with tusks. Until a few months ago, I had never considered myself much of a reader. As it turned out, I just hadn’t been reading the right books.

I could get down with a shredded Shrek.

“Your book, my love,” I said.

My attention never wavered from the man in front of me when I handed the book back to Nessa. From the corner of my eye, I saw her tuck it back into her oversized purse.

While she was distracted, I leaned in closer to Mr. Kirkland brand Ralph Lauren and lowered my voice so only he could hear. “Oh, and word to the wise, man. Keep your fucking hands off women—and their books. Got it?”

He nodded vigorously and then nearly jumped out of his skin when I clapped a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Drive safe.”

His departure gave new meaning to the phrase “gone in sixty seconds.”

“Was that really necessary?”

I spun around just as Nessa hopped down from her stool.

“I’m not sure what you mean, angel.”

She nailed me with a pointed look. “You can quit with the act now, Pinky boy. He’s gone.”

My focus dwindled momentarily when she bent forward to adjust her shorts, giving me a picture-perfect view of her ass in the process.

“And just so you know,” she said, jamming a finger in my face. “I don’t take kindly to dick-measuring contests.”

I cocked my head to the side. “Pretty sure you’re the only one who brought up my cock size.”

She paused with her bag halfway to her shoulder. That was a first. In all the times we had interacted these past six months—which had been a fair amount, seeing as one of her best friends was dating my teammate—I hadn’t once seen her shocked speechless. It was both an unnerving and thrilling feeling to know that I had made that happen.

Maybe I should have mentioned my dick sooner.

“And by the way,” I said, tucking my hands into my pockets and rocking forward on the balls of my feet. “You weren’t wrong.”

That was all it took to shock her out of her stupor. “I’ll have to take your word on that.”

“If that’s what you prefer, angel.” I chuckled when she rolled her eyes.

“You are so—”

“Charming?” I offered. “Adorable?”

“Infuriating.”

“Potato, alfredo.”

She cradled her head in her hands. “You know that’s not how the saying goes, right?”

“Right, but I’m a white sauce kind of guy, so . . .”

I bit back a smile. Frustration emanated off her in waves. I might not have gotten into her bed (yet), but there was a certain sick satisfaction in knowing that I could get under her skin.

Hopefully, I could convince her to let me stay there.

“Order up for Jared.”

I grabbed the to-go bag from Baker and turned toward the door, doing my best not to limp. The stiffness had already begun to set in—in more ways than one—but I didn’t want Nessa to know that.

“I could have handled him on my own, you know.”

I pivoted back around. Even in the most casual of clothing, with mussed hair and sweat dripping from her face—which had me suddenly picturing her in a much more primal setting—she was fucking beautiful.

Maybe one day, you’ll let me tell you so, angel.

Until then, I’d settle for my hand and vivid imagination.

“I have no doubt,” I told her.

“He’s not the first asshole that didn’t take no for an answer.”

“Probably won’t be the last one either. Not that I’m excusing that behavior.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Thank you,” she said through gritted teeth, making my lips twitch with amusement.

I wanted to say more. I wanted to tell her that she made me nervous, in a good kind of way. The best kind of way, really. Or maybe that it had been months since I had even entertained the thought of any other man or woman. Or that her eyes reminded me of the vintage, emerald ring my grandmother used to wear—the same one she had promised to me to give to my future spouse.

I would have told her all that and more.

If I had any reason to believe that she would take me seriously.

And why would she? I hadn’t given her a reason to.

Thankfully, the phone vibrating against my thigh gave me an easy out. I reached into my pocket and smiled when I saw the name flashing across the screen.

“I’ve got to take this,” I said to Nessa. “Do you want me to walk you to your car?”

“Please,” she scoffed. “I can take—”

“Take care of yourself, I know.” I stepped forward, bringing us nearly toe to toe. The wrinkle between her brows might have made me smile if we were talking about anything other than her safety. “Please,” I said gruffly, my voice lowering an octave. “If you don’t want me to do it, at least let Baker walk you out.”

It wasn’t a question.

She looked taken aback by my uncharacteristically serious tone but nodded, nonetheless.

Good girl.

I kept my eyes trained on hers when I answered the call. “One second, Belles,” I said into the phone before turning it into my chest. “See you around, angel.”

“It’s Nessa,” she growled.

“I just call it like I see it.” I turned on my heels, calling back over my shoulder, “Have a good night.”

I could practically hear the steam whooshing out of her ears, propelling my feet out the door. I waited until I made it outside before lifting the phone to my ear again. “How’s my favorite sister?”

“I’m your only sister, Jared Hildebrand.”

I inwardly cringed at the sound of my own name. Jared Hildebrand Pink II. My parents really hadn’t given me a chance.

“That you know of,” I snapped back. “What’s up, Belles? It’s a little late for you to be calling.”

Arabella was in her third year at Bowdoin College, which meant it was nearly three a.m. in Maine. Then again, my sister was no stranger to keeping odd hours. I had spent so much time in my youth staring at the wall that had separated our two bedrooms, listening as Bella perfected Vivaldi on the violin and printed one design after another on her 3D printer.

That had been during her interior design phase.

Simply said, my sister was a low-maintenance woman with high-maintenance interests. She collected hobbies like baseball cards, and at twenty-two-years-old, she had one hell of a mint collection. Five instruments, seven languages—including French, Mandarin, and Russian—plus a countless number of additional skills.

“My meringue isn’t stiff enough.”

And baking now, apparently.

“Your meringue?”

“Yes, Jared. For my pie,” she said with the same matter-of-fact tone, acting as if it were the obvious answer to my otherwise ridiculous question. “The apiary club is having a bake sale tomorrow on the quad.”

“Apiary?” That was one she hadn’t mentioned before, and Bella and I talked at least once a week.

“As in bees.”

“Bees?”

“Bees. The American bumblebee population has declined by eighty-nine percent in the last two decades.”

My sister never ceased to amaze me. I would never understand why the rest of the world—including ignorant assholes like our dad—didn’t see that.

“Speaking of bees,” she said. “Do you think Mom would let me get a hive for the yard?”

“I don’t know about that one,” I told her.

I leaned back against the bricks, soaking up the dark and quiet downtown, save for the nearby field full of crickets. As a born-and-raised city boy from the East Coast, Rose City, Oregon, was a far cry from home. And as much as I hated to admit it, it was growing on me more and more every day.

After our mom had divorced the asshole-who-shall-not-be-named, she’d moved us into a cozy, three-bedroom cottage on the border of Vermont and New Hampshire. Bella still spent summer vacations with her.

“Or I could always move in with you?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Belles, we’ve talked about this.”

“Yes, but I wasn’t satisfied with the outcome of that discussion.”

I smiled to myself. That was Bella speak for “I didn’t get the answer I wanted.”

My sister knew how to press my buttons better than anyone. She knew that I would do just about anything for her or my mom. If they asked for it, I made it happen, be it a new roof for mom’s cottage—which I’d built myself after watching a dozen or so YouTube tutorials—a new computer for Bella, or a family trip to New Orleans during Bella’s ghost hunting phase.

To be fair, that last one was my idea. Ghosts, gators, and gumbo? Sign me the fuck up.

I owed the women in my life everything. The least I could give them was the world.

However, Bella knew that the one thing I wasn’t willing to budge on was her education; she just didn’t like it.

“You’re not dropping out of school, Belles.”

She heaved an exasperated sigh. “Jare-bear.” Uh oh. She’s pulling out the big guns. “I can’t do it.”

“You can.”

This wasn’t a new conversation for us. Even before being diagnosed as autistic, Bella had never been a fan of the formal classroom setting. Not because she couldn’t understand the subject matter being discussed. In fact, nine times out of ten, she understood the material better than her instructors. She just didn’t know how to communicate her point of view effectively. At least, that was what every teacher had written on her report cards year after year.

Bella lived by absolutes. She excelled in math, science, history, even. Any subject that had a black-or-white, clear-cut solution. Anything beyond that was a different story.

“Belles—”

“You don’t get it. You don’t think like I do.”

“I know that.”

“College isn’t for everyone, you know.”

“I know that, too.”

I ducked further into the shadows when the door to the bar slammed open, giving way to tan, tattooed legs and a denim-covered ass made for eating. Fuck, what I wouldn’t give to spend a lifetime—or at the very least, an hour—between those dimpled cheeks.

Nessa wore her curves with confidence, which only made her more intriguing, intimidating. Five-and-a-half feet of charm and assertiveness packed into cutoff shorts and Old Navy flip-flops. She made me nervous in a way I hadn’t experienced since I’d been a scrawny teenager struggling to ask Maddie Mason to the homecoming dance. That had been the spring before I’d made varsity and shot up seven inches practically overnight.

“Are you even listening?”

I snapped out of my Nessa Gibbs-induced daze and lowered my voice. “I hear you, Belles.”

“You should be okay with me wanting to drop out. After all, you’re the one footing the bill.”

I stepped away from the wall, watching as Nessa trotted down the sidewalk, keys clutched between her fingers like Wolverine. She might not have wanted an escort, but I wasn’t going to leave until I knew that she made it safely to her car.

“You know the cost isn’t a problem.”

“Then what is?”

How could I explain this to her in a way that she would understand? How could I tell my baby sister that for years, I had watched as our father had financially manipulated our mother, the woman he had gotten pregnant when she’d been barely out of high school and he’d been old enough to be her father, and that a degree was the first step toward making sure that never happened to her, too?

Talk about a conversation that no brother wanted to have with their sister. It wasn’t fair for either of us. Still, it beat being stuck in an abusive relationship. This way, whether Bella understood it or not, she would always have something to fall back on, to sustain herself if Mom or me weren’t around.

“Look,” I told her, evening out my tone. Tonight wasn’t the night for this conversation. Not when I could barely muster the energy to hold up a bag of loaded tater tots. “The semester just started. You just moved into your new apartment. Please, do me a favor and give it a chance.”

Silence met me from the other end of the phone.

“We can revisit this conversation at Christmas.”

“Fine,” she grumbled.

“Thank you.”

An engine rolled over down the street, drowning out the sound of my rumbling stomach. I watched as Nessa’s car, which was desperately in need of a wash, pulled away from the curb, bound for the east side of town.

“Belles, you know I love you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, exasperated. “If you really loved me, you would prove it.”

“How?”

“By getting me two hives for Mom’s yard.”