So far, so good…

The eggs and bacon have been dispersed, and we’re passing around the pastry plate, but there’s still no sign of Carrie. If my luck holds, I’ll be able to wolf down breakfast, plead urgent work at the shop as an excuse to leave early, wish Dylan and Emma a happy start to many years of wedded bliss, and get out of here before another encounter with Emma’s sister.

We escaped disaster last night, but if I have to spend much more time in Carrie Haverford’s violet-eyed, plush-lipped, sexy-as-hell presence, I’m going to do something I’ll regret. Like invite her onto the back of my bike, drive out to my favorite secluded, oceanside cliff, and fuck her senseless on the blanket I keep in my saddlebag.

I spent half the night dreaming about her curves stretched out on soft gray wool, her legs spread to welcome my mouth between her thighs, her gorgeous body rippling beneath mine as my gear shift and I gave her the ride of her life.

I would very much like to make Carrie Haverford come screaming my name—pleasuring a woman who has the experience to appreciate an extraordinary lay is something I find very fucking satisfying. But if I stick my dick in my sister-in-law’s sister, I’ll be giving drama a handwritten, engraved invitation, and that’s just not my style.

“How are your eggs?” Dylan asks, nudging my elbow with his.

“Good,” I say around a mouthful of bacon. “Gone.”

“I noticed. I haven’t seen you eat this fast since you quit wrestling junior year.” My brother sighs. “Guess you’re aiming to get out of here before the shit hits the fan?”

I glance his way, brows lifting. Concern tickles the hairs at the back of my neck, but I ignore it. There’s no way Dylan knows what almost happened with Carrie last night. Whatever he’s talking about, it has nothing to do with me.

“You haven’t heard?” He shakes his head before continuing in a softer voice, “Carrie’s ex leaked nude pictures of her to the press.”

My eyes go wide and anger flares hot and sudden in my chest. “What the fuck? What kind of piece of shit does that?”

“The kind who doctored her PowerPoint presentation so nude photos popped up on the screen while she was giving a talk to some middle school kids last week,” Dylan says, frowning as I start to choke on my orange juice. “You didn’t know?”

I shake my head with a cough. “No.”

“That’s why Carrie moved into our guest cottage. She was hoping if she stayed off the grid, the scandal would blow over. But now her ex has taken it to the next level.”

I curse softly, the urge rising inside me to find this coward and punch his balls so far into his abdomen he’ll still be digging them out next Christmas. But I stopped tackling problems with my fists years ago and Carrie’s problems aren’t mine to solve.

Still, I can’t help wondering… “So what’s next? Is she going to take legal action?”

Dylan shrugs as he stabs another bite of scrambled eggs. “I’m not sure. It just happened a couple of hours ago. Emma’s going to talk to her after breakfast. I don’t know what they’ll decide, but if it were up to me, we’d absolutely lawyer up and go after this guy. Embarrassing her is bad enough, but he’s deliberately trying to wreck her career while he’s at it.”

I’m about to agree with him when Emma appears behind Dylan’s chair, a sticky-faced, syrup-drenched blond cherub in her arms. “Mercy got ahold of the syrup again,” she says breathlessly, as my niece giggles and thrashes her arms and legs, clearly pleased with herself and the mess she’s made. “Can you help me get her out of these clothes and into the bath?”

“On it.” Dylan tosses his napkin on the table as he stands. “You start the water, I’ll get her out of her dress and put it in the sink to soak.”

The happy couple hurries into the house while the wedding party continues to feast upon eggs, bacon, pastries, and several pounds of fresh fruit and berries. My dad is holding court at the far end of the table, torturing my nephews and their girlfriends with stories from his glory days, while my oldest brother, Deacon, shovels it in with the single-minded focus of a lifelong military man accustomed to eating far inferior food. Next to Deacon, Emma’s mother flirts with Farmer Stroker, even though our eighty-year-old neighbor is ancient enough to be her father. Closer to my end of the table, beside Emma’s empty chair, my younger brother Tristan speaks earnestly with the minister who married Emma and Dylan, both of them looking far too somber for people celebrating the union of a couple who are madly in love.

But the minister—Father Pete, a family friend who went to school with Deacon before going to Episcopal seminary—is getting a divorce, and my brother recently broke up with his girlfriend of over a decade. I doubt either of them feel much like celebrating, and though I respect Pete and love my baby brother, I don’t want to get sucked into whatever sad-clown fest they’re having.

I would prefer not to get sucked into any further conversation, as a matter of fact, and with Dylan and Emma gone and everyone else engaged, I sense the moment to escape is at hand.

After wiping my mouth discreetly, I place my napkin beside my empty plate, take a last drink of fresh OJ, and slide from my chair. I slip around the tall shrubs at the edge of Emma’s impressive garden, and a moment later I’m out of sight, following the paving stone trail around to the front of the house, making a mental note to text Dylan and thank him for breakfast when I get home.

He won’t mind that I bailed without a formal goodbye. Dylan and I might only be half-brothers, but we’ve been best friends since we were five years old. He knows ghosting is part of who I am, and not a part I’m ever going to apologize for. Goodbyes aren’t my thing, especially big family goodbyes that take half an hour to get everyone out the door.

My bike is parked by the house for an easy getaway, and I’m nearly home free when a flash of light and color on the porch draws my focus.

I glance over, meeting a lavender-blue gaze so sad the emotion reverberates through my chest like a mallet lobbed into a drum. Immediately, I slow, turning to face the woman huddled in the red rocking chair with her knees drawn in to her chest.

Yes, I was hoping to make my escape without seeing Carrie, but I can’t leave her like this—braced for the next bomb to hit and clearly on the verge of tears.

“Hey.” I prop my hands low on my hips. “Not up for breakfast?”

She shakes her head. “I was headed that way, but then my agent’s assistant texted to tell me my speaking gigs for the rest of the summer have been cancelled, so…”

I sigh. “I heard about what happened. What your ex did. I’m sorry.”

Carrie winces as her focus drops to the dusty ground at my feet. “Thanks. So… I guess everyone has seen them, then? The pictures?”

“I haven’t. And I won’t go looking,” I assure her. “No one here will.”

“Thanks.” Her lips twist. “But I’m sure my mom is going to hunt them down. And when she sees them, I’m going to get a lecture about the importance of professional lighting, especially when taking one’s clothes off, and why I should stop trusting people because I’m a shit judge of character.”

Hmmm… Mom issues. Not surprising from what I’ve seen of her mother so far, but definitely not something I want to get into. I don’t do issues. I offloaded mine in junior high, perfected not giving a shit in high school, and embraced the Zen lifestyle fully as an adult. Not sweating life’s bullshit is something I take pride in, and a trait I seek out in other people.

If you’re looking for a shoulder to cry on, I’m not your man, not by a long shot.

I’m about to say something kind but vague—sorry again, hope things get better, or some such—when Carrie stands, stretching her arms high over her head, causing her breasts to strain the front of her pale purple tank top.

My mouth goes dry and my pulse picks up, throbbing in my throat. God, she’s beautiful. Perfectly made from the tip of her button nose to the tips of all the other parts that I shouldn’t be thinking about, let alone openly drooling over.

Exerting more willpower than I would like, I wrench my gaze from her chest as her arms fall to her sides.

“Forget it,” she says. “I don’t want to talk about this shit, and I’m sure you don’t, either. And I can handle breakfast. I have to handle it.” She sighs as she jabs a thumb toward the driveway. “When I moved my car last night, I guess I didn’t shut the door all the way after. Stupid battery is dead. Until I get a jump, I’m trapped.”

Trapped. It’s one of my least favorite things in the world. And judging from her tone, I’m guessing it’s not high on her list, either.

“But you’d rather run?’ I ask. “If you had the chance?”

She huffs a soft, “Oh yeah. Much rather.”

I let out a measured breath, weighing my options. The smart thing would be to tell her goodbye and good luck, jump on my Harley, and get the hell out of here before I do something I’ll regret. The kinder choice would be to give her a jump and send her on her way alone, ensuring she has the juice to run as far and as fast as she needs to in order to escape the misery weighing her down.

But when her full lips tremble and her violet eyes begin to shine, I find myself jerking my head toward my bike. “Come on. Let’s go for a ride.”

She blinks, shoulders rolling away from her ears as she stands up straighter. “Really?”

“Really. I’ve got an extra helmet and nowhere special to be.”

With a soft yip of excitement, she jumps over the porch railing to land lightly on the ground in front of me. A moment later, her arms are around my neck, her curves pressing against my chest as she locks me into a surprisingly powerful hug. “Thank you, Rafe. Really. I appreciate it. I could use a friend this morning.”

“No problem.” I return the embrace with one arm, trying not to notice how perfectly she fits against me or how amazing she smells. She said it herself—she needs a friend, which is perfect because that’s all she and I are ever going to be.

Carrie and I are friends.

Friends, I repeat silently as she settles onto the bike behind me, her thighs sliding against mine, her arms locking around my waist, and her breasts soft and tempting against my back.

Friends don’t give friends raging erections, asshole.

The inner voice is right, of course. But my dick doesn’t give two shits about right or wrong, and by the time we pull out onto the highway, I’m as hard as a steel pike and not sure who will win out in a battle of wills—the logical inner voice or the hunger curling low and tight inside me, whispering that sometimes rules are meant to be broken.