Wanting Will (Broken Heart Creek #3)

Chapter 1

“Oh my god. Sam! Yes!”

I groan, dragging the pillow over my head hoping it could somehow muffle the echo of my brother’s very vocal sex life.

They’ve been at it for hours. Not continuously, thank God, but enough that every brief silence has me holding my breath like maybe, maybe they’re done.

But no. There’s always a new round. Like they’re trying to qualify for the Olympic team in marital enthusiasm.

Between meals, nap schedules, and bedtime routines, somehow, they keep finding time to passionately remind each other they’re in love. All over the house. That we share.

“Charlie,” Sam groans now, low and rough like a soundbite from a bad romance audiobook.

That’s my cue.

I shove the pillow aside and snatch my book, phone, and headphones, stomping to the balcony.

I shut the door behind me, but the glass might as well be tissue paper.

I don’t stop there. I take the stairs down, cut across the backyard, ignore the glow of the pool lights, and head for the one place no one dares interrupt this late at night. The barn.

The door creaks open and I slip through.

It’s blessedly quiet. Just the soft shuffle of hay and the settling groans of old wood.

I climb the ladder to the loft, my unofficial second bedroom.

There’s a cot up here with decent bedding, a lamp, a stack of paperbacks, and, most importantly, no sex soundtrack.

I sit down hard, exhale.

I really am happy for them. I am. Sam and Charlie deserve the kind of love that consumes them.

But their happiness is a mirror I don’t want to look into too long.

Every kiss they steal, every soft laugh that drifts through the walls, just carves out the hollow in my chest a little deeper.

Even Liam, my ridiculous cousin, has someone now. Or did before he screwed up everything.

And me? I’ve got a cot in a barn and a front-row seat to everyone else's happily-ever-after.

Cool.

Real cool.

I try to focus on my book, but the words blur. I’ve read the same sentence six times and couldn’t tell you a single thing it said. My brain keeps circling the same drain, dipping into thoughts I don’t want to touch and memories I’m trying to keep boxed up.

Eventually, I give up and grab my phone. Social media: the modern-day anesthetic.

I scroll mindlessly, thumbing past selfies, engagement announcements, toddlers covered in spaghetti sauce, gym thirst traps, and a shocking number of before and after kitchen renovations. None of it sticks. None of it cuts through the fog.

Until I see a post from Will.

Well, technically, it’s from the bar’s account, but something about it feels like him. The caption is short, a little sarcastic, a little proud. Just like Will. There’s no selfie, no tag. Just a photo of the newly redone lot behind the bar.

He’s turned the space into something almost beautiful.

Rustic string lights, mismatched picnic tables, a few whiskey barrels serving as makeshift high tops.

But the focus of the shot is the mechanical bull.

Polished. Centered. Waiting. I stare at the image for longer than I should, my thumb hovering over the like button but not quite pressing it.

It’s ridiculous. It’s just a post. A dumb promotional post for a honkytonk bar. But because it’s Will’s bar, I care.

I glance at the time glowing at the top of my screen. Just past eleven. The bar’s still open. My teeth catch my bottom lip, worrying it for a beat before I make up my mind.

I park out front just after midnight. The town’s gone quiet, curled up for the night except this block.

No, this corner still hums with music and laughter, the glow of neon signs splashing across the sidewalk.

If you’re under fifty, this is where you are on a Friday night.

Honestly? Even a few over-fifty regulars look livelier than I feel.

I sidestep through the crowd, weaving around couples and cowboys, the scent of whiskey heavy in the air.

I spot him before he sees me. Impossible not to, really.

He’s all broad shoulders and unapologetic confidence, standing there like the world ought to thank him for showing up.

That camel jacket does nothing to soften him; it only sharpens the edges, casts him in gold.

His white shirt is open just enough to show that ridiculous chest, the dip of his collarbone, and a gold chain that shouldn’t look good on anyone but somehow does on him.

His face? Infuriating. Square jaw dusted with stubble, like he shaved yesterday and didn’t bother today.

That mouth? Smirking like he knows secrets I don’t.

His eyes, narrowed slightly, are fixed on something I can’t see.

He looks like he walked straight out of a country song written by a woman who should know better, and yet here I am, heart doing that stupid skip like I’m the fool in the lyrics.

I hate that he makes me feel like this. Like I’m winded just looking at him. Like I remember everything I’m supposed to forget. Like maybe I never forgot it at all.

And then he turns. Just a shift of his shoulders, a tilt of his head, and suddenly his gaze locks on mine.

Oh god.

He sees me.

And that ache in my chest? It explodes.

So, I do what any rational, self-respecting woman in love with her brother’s best friend would do. I give him an awkward little wave.

Smooth.

I come to a stop at the bar, trying to ignore how my heart’s doing somersaults in my chest.

“Phern,” he says, and of course his voice is low and warm and rough enough to drag along my spine like gravel.

“Hey, Will.”

“You’re out late.”

I snort. “Let’s just say it was too loud at home.”

“Ouch. Again?”

“Yup.”

He gives me that grin where just the corner of his mouth lifts like he’s in on a joke the rest of us missed. “I’ve got just the thing for you.”

He turns, and my eyes betray me, dropping immediately to the way his jeans cling in all the wrong-right ways. Fantastic. I’m ogling his ass now. Definitely nailing the ‘cool and collected’ vibe.

When he turns back, he sets a drink in front of me. It’s purple. I lift one eyebrow, and that only makes him grin wider.

“Just try it.”

I take a sip, grimace dramatically, and push it back across the bar. “Nope. Not even close.”

“Damn,” he says, unbothered, already reaching for a bottle. “Want a beer?”

I nod, and he pops the cap with one fluid motion, sliding it to me like he’s done it a thousand times. Which he probably has.

We’ve got this thing going on. Will is trying to make me the perfect drink. He’s come close a few times. Close enough that I’ve started to wonder if he’s trying to figure me out one flavor at a time. But this purple mess? Absolutely not it.

Still, I take the beer. Let our fingers brush just a second longer than necessary. And he doesn’t pull away. Only because his attention is fixed over my shoulder.

“Dammit,” he mutters. “Your cousin just walked in.”

I spin on the barstool and groan. It’s Liam, and he’s drunker than a skunk in a rainstorm.

Will’s already moving to come around the bar, but I hold up a hand to stop him. “Let me talk to him.”

“You sure? Last time he got pretty feisty.”

“I’m sure.”

I slide off the stool and cross the bar, weaving through the crowd until I reach where Liam is leaning way too heavily against the wall.

“What in the heck are you doing here?”

“Cousin,” he slurs with a big, lazy smile. “What are you doin’ here?”

“Liam Stone! Did you drive in this condition?”

He shakes his head and jerks a thumb over his shoulder where, sure enough, Uncle Carl stands swaying by the door like a damn scarecrow after a storm. I glare at both of them.

“Liam, sit. I’ll be right back.”

Uncle Carl snorts when I march up to him.

“Well, look at you. You look madder than a wet hen right now.”

“I’m fucking pissed,” I snap. “Have you been drinking?”

He shrugs. “A bit. We ran out of booze at the house and decided to come into town.”

“Of course you did.”

His gaze slides past me, lingering on a redhead near the jukebox. Typical. I snap my fingers in front of his face. Hard.

“Eyes on me, Carl.”

That gets a reaction.

His expression shifts, tightening with a mean little curl of his lip. “I don’t take too kindly to a little bitch telling me what to do.” His gaze sweeps down and narrows. “Well, little is a stretch.”

It hits like a slap and I freeze for a beat. Not because it’s new but because he’s family. Because he said it like it was a truth I should’ve already known. My stomach twists, heat rising up my neck. I open my mouth, ready to tear into him, to make him regret ever forming words—

But before I can get a syllable out, I’m pulled backward.

Large hands wrap gently, but firmly around my arms, tugging me out of range, and suddenly there’s a wall between me and Carl. A living, breathing wall named Will.

He steps in front of me, and he’s so damn tall, so solid, that I can’t see around him, let alone over him. All I get is a front-row seat to the white shirt stretched tight over his back and shoulders, muscles straining under cotton like they’re ready to take someone apart.

Wait.

Didn’t he have a jacket on earlier?

My heart stutters. That jacket was soft, golden, warm. This is raw heat. He smells like sweat and bourbon and something woodsy I don’t have a name for. But I’d know it blindfolded.

I should be mad he stepped in. I should say or do something but all I can do is stare at the curve of his shoulder and the fists he’s making at his sides. Will’s not just standing there. He’s bracing.

“Carl Stone.” Will’s voice is low, rough enough to scrape bone. “Thought I told you not to come back to my bar.”

Carl raises both hands like this is some big misunderstanding. “Hey now. It was Liam’s idea.”

“Don’t care.” Will takes a slow step forward, and Carl finally has the sense to flinch. “Get out of here. Now.”