Chapter 12
Bennett
Two Months to Opening Day
Laughter echoed through Diaz’s basement home theater.
The kind of laugh that rattled the walls, bounced off the surround sound speakers, and probably scared the neighbors into thinking we were reenacting a bar fight instead of watching Meg Ryan fake an orgasm in a deli.
It was our first M we share a kitchen.”
“Don’t be jealous,” I teased. “I can’t help it if my immune system’s superior.”
“Don’t forget which of us is the one with the poison garden, Benny boy.”
He wasn’t kidding. Pink’s poison garden was a sight to be seen, though never touched. Rows of flowers that looked soft and harmless, all bright petals and delicate stems, while quietly being toxic as hell to anything that didn’t know better.
Beautiful, but deadly.
Something told me Pink probably didn’t have any actual plans to murder anyone anytime soon. But if he ever got a glimpse into the dirty, depraved thoughts I’d had about his sister, his virgin sister, I had a feeling I might be fertilizer.
I could practically hear the Dateline theme song now.
The thought was enough to make my grip tighten around the margarita glass.
“Who’s got Valentine’s Day plans?” Diaz asked, smiling when a collective groan rang out. “C’mon, think of your single friends. We need to live vicariously through you.”
“Clarke and I are locking the doors all weekend,” Soren said, stretching his arms behind his head like a man who had absolutely won at life. “Picnic on the living room floor, fireplace on, that red lipstick she knows drives me crazy. Don’t plan on hearing from me until at least Tuesday.”
“Proud of you, old man.” Pink held up his hand for a high five, but Soren slapped it away. “Nessa and I are heading to the coast. I booked a suite with a jetted tub in the bedroom. Ocean view, no interruptions.”
“A little cold for the coast, don’t you think?” I asked.
“Like I said, jetted tub.”
Tucker snorted from the corner. “Brock and I have reservations at La Vache Belle.”
Brock Heller, acclaimed sports reporter turned podcaster turned bestselling queer romance author, had been Tucker’s boyfriend for over a year now.
The two of them had made it official during the Buns I didn’t want to. Every ounce of blood in my body had rushed south, leaving me dizzy and breathless.
Bella stood there in matching black lace that looked like it had been designed specifically for every inch of her curves.
The bra cupped her full tits perfectly, and the matching panties sat low on her hips, a thin strip of lace framing the generous dip of her waist and soft, inviting roundness of her thighs.
She was all lush, feminine curves—warm, real, and so fucking beautiful, it hurt to look at her.
It would’ve killed me to look away.
I leaned heavier against the door, hands clenched at my sides to keep from reaching for her, every careful speech I’d rehearsed evaporating as I drank her in.
She’d made her move.
And whatever happened next, I was already all in.