“Fuck it,” I mutter, shoving away from my desk. My chair rolls back on the hardwood floor of my office, coming to a rest a few inches from the wall.

It’s been three days since I saw Alison Baker. I figured I’d feel differently in a few days. I’d forget the sweet taste of her lips, the way her breasts pushed against my chest, and the sound of her laugh caressing my ears. Never did I think I’d still be replaying our conversations, jacking off every night to the vision of her body sitting on my cock.

Fuck. Me.

Her body is curvy perfection, her face is beautiful, her voice a call right to a place inside my chest that makes me feel like I light up on the inside when she speaks to me. But none of those reasons are why I’m a mess over this girl. I’ve seen banging bodies a hundred times before. Faces are a dime a dozen and I’ve heard the sexiest things, sweetest things, filthiest things whispered in my ear.

It’s not what Alison looks like, it’s not what she sounds like that has me messed up. It’s what she’s not.

She’s not calculated or conniving. She doesn’t have every word, every move thought out in advance. As crazy as it sounds, she’s a real person and one I can’t shake.

And that’s what has me fucked up, feeling guilt over something I said to a woman for quite possibly the first time in my life.

I feel like a complete cocksucker for making her feel like just another girl because clearly she’s not. And I love that she has the confidence to not just be another girl. And that makes her even more intriguing ... and me even more of an asshole.

A soft thud raps against the door before it pushes open. Camilla’s heels, a delicate tick against the hardwood, announce her arrival.

She slips inside my office and shuts the door securely behind her.

“Hey, big brother,” she smiles, taking a seat across from my desk.

“How are you, Swink?”

“Good! Mom had some paperwork for Rose, so I brought it by on my way to meet a friend for lunch.”

“A friend?” I ask, cocking a brow.

“A friend. Her name is Joy, so don’t panic.”

Laughing, I sit back in the chair and watch my sister fiddle with her watch. “How are things going around here?” she asks. “Anything you need help with?”

“Nope. Everything’s peachy.”

She assesses me quickly. “I’m gonna have to call you out on that, Barrett.”

“Call me out on what?”

“That little ‘peachy’ comment. You don’t say things like that,” she smirks, “and your face just gave you away. So ... tell me. What’s up?”

“You’ve earned your nickname, Swink. Such a meddler.”

“It’s what I do. Now spill it, Barrett,” she prompts.

Sighing, I try to consider getting around it, but I know she’ll pick at it until I come clean.

“All right,” I say, folding my hands on my desk, “I’m going to give you an opportunity to give me some advice.”

Her jaw drops. “Really? You’re really going to open up to me? Wow. Wait,” she says, shaking her head, “don’t overthink this. It’s a monumental day for sure, but you just talk and I’ll revel in the excitement afterwards.”

I roll my eyes. “Let’s say a guy you like says something that, I don’t know, offends you. Nothing terrible, just ... said things he’s used to saying, but he obviously should’ve known better. And now he wants to apologize.”

“Oh, God, Barrett. What did you do?”

I toss her a look and she motions like she’s zipping her lips.

“How do I say I’m sorry?” I ask as she lifts a brow.

“Well,” she says, “the fact you didn’t just chase this girl and make her bend to your will is throwing me a bit. You’re usually a more ‘I’ll take what I want’ kind of guy.”

“Maybe I’m changing tactics.”

“Maybe I need to know who she is.”

“Maybe not.”

“Fine,” she groans. “Okay, you should apologize. But here’s the thing—you can say you’re sorry all you want, but words are pretty useless. Everyone says they’re sorry but rarely means it.”

“So what do I do? I mean it, Camilla. I’m sorry as fuck. I feel ... I think I feel guilty.”

“Wow,” she breathes.

“Yeah,” I nod. “Wow.”

“Okay, so what you need is a grand gesture,” she exclaims, her eyes sparkling. “You need to convince her you aren’t the douchebag you presented yourself to be. Make her think you were just having a bad day. And if she believes you, you can’t go back to douchebag mode, okay?”

I sag. “Of course not. I ... she ... I ...”

Camilla giggles at my stumbling.

“I don’t want to make her feel like I think I did. I hate feeling like this,” I admit, throwing a pen across my desk.

“You have to win her over and you do that by showing her you’re still thinking about her. You need to demonstrate that you listen when she talks, that you care about what she has to say. That is, of course, if you really did listen to her.”

Camilla flashes me a look like she expects me to laugh it off. I don’t.

“Of course I listened to her.”

“Well then, if that’s true, find something she loves, something she’s mentioned in conversation. Something small that she wouldn’t expect you to remember, and then act on it.”

I scratch my head. “So, I should send her flowers?”

“No,” she scoffs. “Flowers are what you send your mother or, I guess, you can send to your wife for a holiday as long as you follow it up with something else.” She starts to grin, but I put a stop to that, reading right through the lines.

“I can’t discuss the follow-ups with you with that look in your eye. You’re my baby sister.”

“Good point.” She fidgets in her seat before exhaling a breath. “Find something else. Not flowers. Something that will mean something to her. If you want to win her over, that’s your plan.”

It’s not a bad plan. It’s even a good plan, really. If only I could think of something to send her that’s not flowers.

“You do realize I’ve never sent a woman something before, right?” I ask. “Rose sends people flowers—which we aren’t doing,” I add as she starts to object. “This is all new to me.”

And overwhelming.

I glance at the stack of papers on my desk and wonder if I have enough energy left in me to expend on Alison.

“I love that it’s new to you,” my sister says. “That means she’s special. Just tell me this isn’t Daphne we’re talking about.”

Laughing, I stand and walk around my desk. “No, Swink. It’s not Daphne.”

“Thank God,” she giggles. Standing up, she reaches for me and I pull her into a big hug. “I’m glad you’ve found someone that makes you want to do better.”

“Do better?” I pull away and smirk. “You don’t want to know—”

“Remember how you don’t want to hear about certain things in my life?” she interrupts. “Well, that works both ways, Mayor Landry.”

“Noted.”

She heads to the door but pauses before she leaves. “If you need anything, call me. I love this romantic stuff.”

“It isn’t romance,” I point out. “It’s just ... me trying to not be a jerk.”

Camilla grins the same grin our mother gives us when she sees right through our fibs. “If you care enough that you looked like a jerk that you want to go out of your way to fix it, that’s romantic, Barrett. Sorry to break the news to you.”

I watch her leave, her words hitting me head-on.

If I go out of my way to apologize, that would lead her to believe I’m interested.

I am interested.

But do I want to be that interested? Can I afford to be that interested?

The sound of the door closing at the Farm as she walked out echoes through my memories.