Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Chance

I should sleep in my fucking truck.

Hell, I've slept in worse conditions during basic. At least the truck has heat and no one forcing me to do pushups in the mud at ass o'clock in the morning.

And the damn booty temptress could keep her pert little ass right where I plopped her. Dead center in what had to be the comforter version of an ugly Christmas sweater that lost so bad it got kicked out of the competition and had to start its own support group. The thing probably plays "Jingle Bells" if you pat it hard enough.

I blame the emoji fest for this. The Tab A in Slot B or C successfully traumatized Nick, but the collateral damage is currently trying to bust through my zipper.

Mission objective: Success.

Collateral damage: Devastating.

Now, all I can think about is how she equated Tab A in slot B to some sort of amateur hour.

And the implication that she shed her training wheels a long time ago.

My fucking cock swelled against my zipper the minute the tinkling words rolled off her evil tongue. Like some hormone-driven cadet who can't maintain proper discipline.

No matter how many times I muttered, "Down boy," he continued to sit at attention in my fucking pants, bypassing my common sense entirely. Court-martial worthy insubordination if I ever saw it.

Fuck.

And if I stay out here much longer, she'll be teetering her ass out here on those heels. Because Holly McAdams never met a battle she wouldn't charge into headfirst.

I grab my bags and trudge back toward my purgatory for at least the next twelve hours.

When I push through the door, I skid to a stop at the sight of Holly sprawled on her stomach across the bed, legs kicked up behind her, ankles crossed, sucking on what appears to be a Ring Pop while scrolling through her phone. The flash of white lace peeking out from under her hiked-up skirt short-circuits my brain.

"We should get you out of those wet clothes."

The wince is immediate.

Well, that's not how I meant for it to sound—tactical error number one.

The suggestive words hang there. Holly's full pink lips part in a way that invites… you know what… not fucking going there.

The vein in my temple throbs.

My dog in her bun, okay.

There. Fine. I went there.

In my head. And my little head.

I didn't go there out loud. That's all that matters. Small victories.

"I mean—I don't know what you've got in your carry-on, but if you don't—maybe you need—I've got a shirt you can borrow. If you want to—uh, need to."

The fuck is happening right now?

I sound like a fucking fifteen-year-old boy again, trying to fucking form a sentence after Sierra Barrett gave me my first hand job, right at the very lodge we're on our way to.

So much for military precision.

"Right. Because my clothes are currently living their best life somewhere between here and Boston." She flips open her bag and rummages through the contents. "I've got my laptop, three pairs of thigh-high fuzzy socks because priorities, and a spare pair of underwear for emergencies—though this wasn't exactly the emergency I had in mind. A water bottle covered in Taylor Swift lyrics, four different kinds of lip gloss, a Marty Moose National Lampoon’s Vacation ornament, Nick's birthday present which is NOT breaking in transit, thankyouverymuch, my emergency supply of Red Bull, my entire stash of Ring Pops because adulting is hard, my collection of motivational sticky notes—seriously, don't judge—and… that's—looks like that’s it. Nope, I lied. My glasses."

She draws the Ring Pop into her mouth before popping it back out with an obscene little smack and grins up at me. "So about that shirt…"

I grab my lucky flannel—the one piece of clothing that's seen me through three deployments—and watch her bounce on the balls of her perfectly arched feet all the way into the bathroom, taking every last ounce of my peace of mind with her. Nick's the son of a bitch who set this in motion, and he's going to pay for it.

The sisters weren't on our radar. At all. That was the bro code.

Me

The Pappy is on you until I'm dead.

Nick

What if I die first?

Me

You better have made arrangements in the will to cover however many I suck down my gullet until I'm dead.

Nick

Talked to Charlie. Understand now the emoji bombs you dropped. Thanks for that asshole. Why don't you just kick me in the balls for fuck's sake.

Kick him in the balls, huh… welp, he asked for it.

Me

Your wish is my command fucker. Did you know Holly's luggage is MIA?

Nick

It's late... you wanna get to the point?

Me

She's wearing my shirt to bed

Nick

That’s full-on porn for women, like gray sweatpants. Don't even fucking joke about that.

Me

Dude, porn is full-on porn for women. Get with the times. The shirt is like a fucking diamond. At least mine is. Now back to that porn… I wonder how flexible she is

Nick

I will end you. Slowly.

Me

Don't worry, my dude. I'll take good care of her

Nick

One more word and I swear to God...

Me

In the interest of keeping a balanced diet… your sister=the food pyramid

Nick

You're dead to me. Actually dead.

Me

Good luck fucking my sister tonight while you’re wondering if I'm fucking yours

She sings in the shower.

Off key.

And her attempt at beatboxing? Makes my old drill sergeant's morning screech sound like a damn symphony.

Half an hour after she slipped into the bathroom, she steps out all freshly showered, ruining my life with the way she wears my favorite shirt.

In fifty years, they could ask me about the best piece of clothing I ever owned—and all I'll be able to recall is how she looks wearing it.

The way impossibly soft flannel swallows her from neck to knees, stripping away the chic businesswoman she is by day, transforming her into the goddamn girl next door everyone talks about, but no one can really define.

The one you want to scoop around the waist and drag against you while you fall asleep with your face nestled in the sweet-smelling, velvety skin of her neck.

Her hair curls at the ends, the tips brushing her rosy cheeks. Dipping her chin, she tucks her nose against my collar, her eyes drifting shut with her shaky inhale.

And just like that, my favorite shirt becomes the second most dangerous thing in the room.