Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
She walks in, uniform crisp, badge gleaming, hair pulled into a high and severe ponytail. Her gaze sweeps the room, lands on me, and just like that, I feel a punch straight to the chest as my cock turns to stone. Fuck. I’m not sure these constant erections are healthy.
I tip my cup at her. “Good morning,” I call, hoping today she finally gives me the time of day.
Isla doesn’t flinch. She walks up to the counter, orders her usual, and moves to stand at the end of the counter while she waits. I watch the set of her jaw, the way she almost-but-not-quite smiles while pretending I’m invisible. It’s a performance, and I’m the only audience who’ll ever appreciate it.
Today I try a new play. I intercept her at the condiment bar. Fuck I’m acting like a lovesick fool. Oh well, I’ll do whatever it takes to win over my prickly little gorgeous girl.
“Morning, Deputy Merrill,” I say, flashing my best not-an-idiot smile. “How’s your week going?”
She doesn’t bother to glance at me, just tears open three sugar packets with such vengeance it makes me think I could be next. “It’s been fine, Mr. Hot.
She brushes past me, coffee in hand, and for a split second her hair grazes my arm. I catch a whiff of her shampoo—a crisp, clean scent that makes my cock even harder. She’s out the door before I can say anything. Only when the door swings closed do I realize I’m grinning like an absolute lunatic.
I’m wearing her down.
Wednesday? Even worse.
I get to the café earlier than ever, because apparently, I am a masochist who loves a little early morning pain. I’m nursing my second coffee when she walks in a little after seven. She barely nods at me before diving into her phone.
“Good morning, Isla,” I toss out, trying to sound like I’m not already naming our future children in my head.
“Morning, Hot.” She doesn’t bother to look up, thumbs flying over her screen.
I try again, desperate. “I have tickets to the—”
“Mr. Hot.” She doesn’t even let me finish. “Don’t you have anyone else to bug?”
I can’t help it. I laugh. “Not really.”
She blinks, and for a moment I think she might say something real, but nope. Her coffee’s ready, and she’s gone, leaving me and my bruised ego to nurse.
Thursday, I change tactics.
I order her usual—a large white chocolate latte with almond milk and an extra shot—and have it in hand and ready for her when she walks in the door. Before she's able to refuse, I slide the warm cup into her hand, our fingers brushing for the briefest second. "Here's your coffee."
"Uh…" she glances down at the cup where I've made sure her name is written in perfect block letters, then back up at me, her hazel eyes widening slightly. "Thank you, Dawson." Finally, a little progress. She's using my first name, and the sound of it in her husky morning voice sends a jolt straight through me.
"You're welcome." She gives me a slight smile—just the barest upturn at the corner of her full lips—and turns to walk right out the door, her ponytail swinging with each determined step.
Well, that didn't turn out as expected. Fuck. I need to up my game. Maybe I am the idiot my brothers think I am.
Since it appears my girl makes her coffee at home on weekends, I decide to sleep in on Saturday, hoping to catch up on the sleep I’ve been missing. Between staying up half the night dreaming about Isla and getting up early to meet her at the coffee shop, I’m running on half my usual amount of sleep, and the exhaustion is starting to catch up with me.
Saturday afternoon, I do the brotherly thing and show up at Beckett’s house for our sacred weekly ritual of watching college football and brotherly bonding, mostly just yelling at the TV screen. Beckett’s place used to stay military-level clean with everything in its spot. Then he adopted a pot-bellied pig named Beans and a Dachshund named Pork.
He greets me at the door in faded jeans and a black RRFD t-shirt. I roll my eyes when I see his socks have fucking flames on them. His hair is so perfectly gelled; I’m glad I no longer have to share a fucking bathroom with him.
“About time,” he says by way of hello before stepping back for me to follow him inside.
“You said three,” I shoot back, following him in.
He stares at my empty hands with a raised eyebrow. “You were supposed to bring the beer this week.”
"I figured you owe me since I brought you coffee and donuts all goddamn week." Beckett rolls his eyes, reaches into the stainless-steel refrigerator I helped him install not long ago, and grabs two sweating cans of Coors.
He tosses one to me. "You brought me donuts and coffee because you wanted an excuse to stalk Isla Merrill while pretending to be a thoughtful brother."