Without a word, Maybe Susan stopped by his side and raised her glass. With a dog in front of him, trees to one side, and an angry woman on his other, there was no escape.
“Hi there.” He left off her name just in case he’d guessed wrong, but offered a warm, inviting smile. Most women fell for that grin, but if Maybe Susan had at one time—and seeing her up close, she looked very familiar, though he could swear he’d never slept with her—she wasn’t falling for it today.
She poured the cool beer over his head, her mouth set in a firm line. “That was for my sister. Susan Lewis? You spent the night with her six months ago and never called.”
Chad nodded, silently grateful he hadn’t addressed the pissed-off woman by her sister’s name. “My apologies, ma’am.”
“You’re a dog,” Susan’s sister announced. The animal at his feet stepped forward as if affronted by the comparison.
“For the past six months, my little sister has talked about you, saving every article about your family’s company,” the angry woman continued.
Whoa . . . Yes, he’d taken Susan Lewis out once and they’d ended the night back at his place, but he could have sworn they were on the same page. Hell, he’d heard her say the words, I’m not looking for anything serious, and he’d believed her. It was one freaking night. He didn’t think he needed signed documents that spelled out his intentions and hers.
“She’s practically built a shrine to you,” she added, waving her empty beer cup. “Susan was ready to plan your wedding.”
“Again, I’m sorry, but it sounds like there was a miscommunication.” Chad withdrew a bandana from his back pocket, one that had belonged to his father, and wiped his brow. “But wedding bells are not in my future. At least not anytime soon.”
The angry sister shook her head, spun on her heels, and marched off.
Chad turned to the blonde and offered a grin. She looked curious, but not ready to run for the hills. “I guess I made one helluva first impression.”
“Hmm.” She glanced down at her dog as if seeking comfort in the fact that he stood between them.
“I’m Chad Summers.” He held out his hand—the one part of his body not covered in beer.
“You’re Katie’s brother.” She glanced briefly at his extended hand, but didn’t take it.
He lowered his arm, still smiling. “Guilty.”
“Lena.” She nodded to the dog. “That’s Hero.”
“Nice to meet you both.” He looked up the hill. Country music drifted down from the house. Someone had finally added some life to the party. Couples moved to the beat on the blue stone patio, laughing and drinking under the clear Oregon night sky. In the corner, Liam Trulane tossed logs into a fire pit.
“After I dry off,” Chad said, turning back to the blonde, “how about a dance?”
“No.”
An Excerpt from
MAYHEM
by Jamie Shaw
A straitlaced college freshman is drawn to a sexy and charismatic rock star in this fabulous debut New Adult novel for fans of Jamie McGuire and Jay Crownover!
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” I tug at the black hem of the stretchy nylon skirt my best friend squeezed me into, but unless I want to show the top of my panties instead of the skin of my thighs, there’s nothing I can do. After casting yet another uneasy glance at the long line of people stretched behind me on the sidewalk, I shift my eyes back to the sun-warmed fabric pinched between my fingers and grumble, “The least you could’ve done was let me wear some leggings.”
I look like Dee’s closet drank too much and threw up on me. She somehow talked me into wearing this mini-skirt—which skintight doesn’t even begin to describe—and a hot-pink top that shows more cleavage than should be legal. The front of it drapes all the way down to just above my navel, and the bottom exposes a pale sliver of skin between the hem of the shirt and the top of my skirt. The fabric matches my killer hot-pink heels.
Literally, killer. Because I know I’m going to fall on my face and die.
I’m fiddling with the skirt again when one of the guys near us in line leans in close, a jackass smile on his lips. “I think you look hot.”
“I have a boyfriend,” I counter, but Dee just scoffs at me.
“She means thank you,” she shoots back, chastising me with her tone until the guy flashes us another arrogant smile—he’s stuffed into an appallingly snug graphic-print tee that might as well say “douche bag” in its shiny metallic lettering, and even Dee can’t help but make a face before we both turn away.