Joey

Life rule number one: Just because a guy has a big dick doesn’t mean he knows how to use it.

I know this, and yet I still fell into the trap of mistaking hormonal impulses for good judgment.

A hockey player? Really, Joey? You fucking know better.

Still, who would’ve expected Zeus Berger to be king of the early shot?

And why am I so pissed about it?

Not like he owed me anything. Or that I should be surprised. A guy with an ego like that? Of course he’s compensating. Twelve solid inches in his pants—good dog, he’s huge—and he has as much control over it as a rookie pilot in a windstorm. It’s like putting a toddler in charge of a cannon. Letting an elephant steer a rocket. Asking a goat to wrangle a bull.

And I was the one stupid enough to think he’d actually care about getting me off.

And I’m also the one who can still taste the meaty, manly flavor of his chest. If men are pigs, his body is the bacon, and god help me, I love a good piece of bacon.

Unfortunately, he’s undercooked. His package needs a warning label. Contents may combust with minimal handling.

After leaving yet one more blowhard with a bigger ego than his shoe size and less stamina than a squirrel—I don’t care that they can jump from tree to tree all day long, don’t tell me it takes them more than thirty seconds to get their rocks off—I follow the scent of hairy Viking bodyguards to find Gracie out wandering the golf course with Prince Whoever The Hell He Is. I know Stölland. Nordic country between the Northern Atlantic and Norwegian Sea. Ceremonial military. Exports mead, sheep, and apparently fourth-in-line heirs to the kingdom. It was all on the cheat sheet Peach gave me when she shoved us out the door to come here in her place this morning while she hightailed it to the hospital.

There’s a reason she usually does our networking. And don’t let her name fool you. Or her appearance. She’s blonde, cute, brilliant, and Southern to the core, and she’ll skin your bones with her tongue faster than you can say bless your heart.

“Gracie,” I say into the dusk. “Time to go.”

A big dickhead steps between me and my sister near the sixteenth green and gives me one of those overbearing, intimidating glares that I can mimic in my sleep.

“Identification,” he growls.

“She’s harmless,” His Royal About-To-Be-Deadness says cheerfully to the bodyguard.

“No, she’s not,” my sister replies.

The light’s fading, so I can’t see the nuances of either of their expressions, but he’s definitely smiling and she’s definitely giving me the back off glare.

“Join us, Ms. Fireball,” the prince says. “Care for a spot of mead?”

“I’d care for taking my sister back to the hotel.”

“All by your lonesome?”

“No, I thought the club manager might join us. Such a winning personality.”

The prince’s smile widens.

Just like Zeus Berger. So freaking amused by the world, and probably just as likely to be a disappointment.

“Gracie,” I say again. “Let’s go.”

“She’s just getting her steps in,” the prince tells. So much fucking cheerfulness. And how the hell does he know about Gracie’s steps? Does he know about her competition with Peach too? What other secrets has he gotten out of her? And why is he speaking for her?

I suck in a breath through my nose, because even I realize I’m not getting my sister out of here by being a dick.

Unless Prince Butthead has hypnotized her, in which case I fully intend to beat the shit out of both him and his royal bodyguards.

“I have M&Ms back in the room,” I tell her.

She steps around the thick-necked royal guard and now that I’m thinking about necks, I’m thinking about Zeus Berger and his useless mountains of muscles and hair-trigger dick again.

I might’ve just growled.

Being horny and disappointed and worked up over the sixteen different ways today could’ve gone better tends to do that to a person.

Gracie looks me up and down and sighs. “It was just a walk. He didn’t compromise my non-existent purity or infect me with any horrific diseases or trick me into buying into some royal pyramid scheme with the promise that I, too, can be a princess if I just get six of my friends to sign up as duchesses and countesses below me. He’s polite enough to throw down with Miss Manners herself. You brought me here to have some fun. Please let me have some fun.”

I brought her here because Peach didn’t give me a chance to object after dropping the bombshell that she had to skedaddle to take care of her meemaw after some accident with a zoo hippo. Gracie, go with Joey and make sure she doesn’t burn the golf course down if one of them rich boys tries to touch her rack.

Gracie’s been my responsibility since our mama left when I was eight. Our daddy did what he could to do right by both of us, but he didn’t know any more about raising girls than I did. Always figured Gracie would’ve been in therapy by now.

But even though she’s never been to a city bigger than Huntsville, never met a celebrity more famous than that local kid who made it to the semi-finals on America’s Got Talent with his burping puppet routine, and even though it goes against every hard-ass, over-protective instinct I possess, I hold up my hands in surrender.

Because Gracie’s all the family I have left in this world, and I don’t want to lose her over a stupid argument about a stupid guy.

Can love a person all you want, Joey-girl, but you can’t make them love you back. I might’ve been eight, but Daddy’s wisdom stuck. He kept doling it out until we lost him two years ago. People leave, baby girl. All you ever really have is yourself.

I don’t want Gracie to leave.

I don’t want to give her any more reason to leave.

Plus, I know she still knows how to use her elbows, knees, and right hook, and we had a refresher birds, bees, and baby diapers discussion just before we left the hotel for this reception tonight.

I expected her to charm her way into Levi Wilson’s company. I know Levi. I trust he has a healthy enough fear of me to not try anything with my sister.

This prince guy?

Not so much.

But even I know I can’t stop her. Sometimes, an alternate approach is necessary. I don’t like alternate, bullshit, prance-around-the-problem approaches. But I’m not bullheaded enough to ignore them.

Mostly.

“Okay. You’re right.” I hand her the keys to my rental car. “Don’t stay out past midnight. Don’t let him drive you. And don’t sign anything without consulting an attorney.”

“It’s a walk on the golf course, not a business arrangement.”

“He’s a fucking prince. Everything’s a business arrangement.”

“Not the crown prince,” Manning says with all the jovial cheer of Santa Claus. “I’m expendable. And not nearly smart enough for business decisions.”

Before I can growl out a response, Gracie’s hugging me tight. “Go back to the hotel. Take a hot shower. Wash off the rich golfer cooties before you have to do it all over again tomorrow. Eat a steak or two. I’ll be back before you know it.” She drops her voice to a whisper. “And I’ll convince him he needs to book himself and all his brothers on a flight with you to see who pukes first. Imagine the photo opportunities.”

Yes, yes, fine. She knows me well, and she probably can handle herself.

Doesn’t mean I have to like it.