Total pages in book: 21
Estimated words: 20660 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 103(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 69(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20660 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 103(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 69(@300wpm)
Jack’s eyes flick to me, slow and dangerous. “You planning to get adopted, Holly?”
I shrug, sipping my drink. “Depends. You planning to keep acting like I’m a stray you found on the side of the road?”
His lips twitch like he’s fighting a smile. “Strays usually come housebroken.”
“Ouch.” I smile sweetly. “Maybe I should get a treat every time I sit too.”
Laughter explodes around the table. Even Josie giggles beside me, clutching her juice cup and swinging her feet under the table.
But Jack doesn’t laugh. He stares at me like he wants to drag me across the table and shut me up with his mouth. And honestly, I’d let him.
“So, what’s your story?” Fox—quiet, bearded, and built like a bear—leans back in his chair, arms crossed.
“Jack put out an ad,” I say casually, resting an arm on the back of the booth. “I responded. And now I cook for him, help out around the place. And try not to rearrange his entire garage because apparently, that’s a war crime.”
Finn grins. “You live with him?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly, squeezing Josie’s hand.
Jack’s eyes narrow.
Zane whistles. “He let a kid in the house? Damn, this is serious.”
“It’s not serious,” Jack growls.
“Sure it’s not,” Ridge mutters.
Jack stiffens, then glances at Josie—who’s watching the group with wide, cautious eyes. Jack doesn’t say a word, but I notice the way his hand clenches on the bottle.
The protectiveness isn’t lost on me.
And I’m not sure what to do with the lump in my throat.
“So, Jack,” Zane drawls from the end. “You tapping that, or what?”
The table goes dead silent. Even Josie stops sipping.
My cheeks flame.
Jack’s gaze whips to me—dark, lethal, unapologetic.
“Watch it,” he spits at Zane, voice low and sharp.
Zane raises his hands, grinning. “Just asking. You know how tight-ass you get about your ‘space.’ Figured if she’s living in it, you’re—”
Jack slams his beer down hard enough to rattle the glasses.
“She’s off-limits.”
A pause. Then Zane whistles again. “Damn. That’s the closest thing to a love confession I’ve ever heard from Jack.”
My throat’s dry. My whole body’s hot.
Because he didn’t deny it.
He just claimed me.
Chapter Six
Jack
I’m not a suit guy.
Give me a flannel, jeans, and a quiet day in the shop, and I’m good. Weddings? Not so much.
But tonight, I’m wearing a goddamn tie—and Holly Dawson is to blame.
She walks into the lodge ballroom like she owns the mountain. Hair twisted up, dress clinging to every curve, mouth glossed and smirking like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
And maybe she does.
Because my palms itch. My jaw’s tight. And every single person at this wedding is suddenly an obstacle between me and the woman currently pretending to be my date.
Fake. This whole thing is fake.
Right.
Except when she loops her arm through mine and leans in close, her breath warm against my jaw.
“Smile, Jack,” she whispers. “You look like you’re about to bite someone.”
“I might,” I mutter. “Starting with you.”
She grins. “That supposed to scare me?”
“Wasn’t meant to.”
She leans in a little more, pressing against me like she’s playing a game. “Good.”
I’ve made furniture with less tension than what’s building between us.
Dinner is a blur. Too many people. Too much noise. Too much of her skin brushing mine every time she laughs at something that isn’t remotely funny. And when I feel her hand rest on my thigh under the table, I damn near forget how to breathe.
“You’re playing with fire,” I murmur, low enough that only she hears.
Her fingers tighten slightly. “You’re the one who brought a match to the wedding.”
I turn my head. Our eyes lock. Something pulses hot and dangerous between us.
“Keep it up and I’ll show you exactly what happens when I burn.”
She just smiles and pops a piece of bread into her mouth. Tease.
Later, when the music starts, I think I’ll get a reprieve.
Wrong.
“You owe me a dance,” she says, standing and offering her hand.
I blink. “I don’t dance.”
“You do tonight.”
I stare at her for three full seconds. She doesn’t flinch. Not even a little.
God, I hate how much I like that.
I take her hand and let her lead me to the floor, where couples sway under strings of lights. She turns to face me, smug and stunning, and places my hand on her waist.
“This is the part where you pretend to be having a good time.”
“I don’t fake anything,” I say, pulling her closer. “Including this.”
She stumbles slightly when our bodies meet, and her hands land on my chest. Her eyes flick up, and something shifts. The teasing fades. Her lips part.
My fingers flex against the small of her back. She’s warm, soft, infuriatingly close. I shouldn’t do it. Shouldn’t even think about doing it.
But then she tilts her face up, and I’m gone.
I lower my head. Brush my lips against hers. Not a kiss—a warning.
She gasps, and I take it deeper.
Our fake relationship shatters in that moment.