Sweet Sinful Nights

She narrowed her eyes and shot him an icy stare. “That would have been a lot more believable if it didn’t require a prompt.”

Without skipping a beat, he gave it right back to her, firing off a retort. “How was I supposed to say it when your mouth was on mine? Tell me that, Shan. Tell me that,” he said, jutting out his chin, waiting for her answer.

She grabbed her silver scarf from the chair and glared at him as she brandished it. “Next time you want to see me you’ll need a better excuse than sitting on my scarf.”

She stormed off, but when she was a few feet away, he called out, “It’s called a wrap. Don’t forget that. It’s a wrap.”

She stopped in her tracks. He swore red clouds billowed off her, and as she clenched her fists, he was willing to bet she was fighting every urge to give him the finger.

She resumed her pace.

As he watched her walk away, this time he was pissed off too. The woman wouldn’t cut him a fucking break. She’d avoided his phone calls those first few days. She’d ignored every attempt he’d made to contact her. And now, she was kissing him back, then getting pissed at him for wanting her.

What the hell?

He used to think he understood her. He used to think he was the only one for her.

But she gave new meaning to the word whiplash.





CHAPTER SIX


She was one of two women in the gym, and the only one wearing heels.

“You can’t behave that way.”

The directive came from her brother Michael, who was in the middle of a workout.

He hoisted the barbell high above his chest with a measured exhale. A few feet over, a beefy guy in a muscle tank grunted as he raised his weights then dropped them in a loud clang on the floor. With pinpoint precision, Michael lowered the bar to his chest, inch by inch, then pushed up again. “You need to keep that temper of yours in check,” he continued in a controlled breath.

“I know,” Shannon said in a tiny voice, her head lowered, her hair falling in a curtain around her face. She’d unclipped her French twist on the drive home, gunning the gas and blasting pop music to drown out her thoughts as she sped along the highway, putting distance between Brent and herself.

But really, the space she needed was between her own untamed anger and the person she wanted to be. A person who should be in control of her emotions, of her feelings, and of her matchstick temper. She wasn’t in control, so as soon as she’d pulled off the highway near her home, she’d spotted the sign for the gym where Michael went and turned in.

Ever disciplined, Michael was exactly where he usually was at ten-thirty at night—lifting weights, after having logged an hour on the cardio machine. Michael owned a security conglomerate and ran it with their brother Ryan. Michael arrived at the office at eight every morning after his five-mile run? worked a full day, then headed to the gym nearly every night for a second workout. Call him a workaholic. Call him an athlete. Call him a machine. He was all of that, and he was also the moral compass of their foursome.

The eldest of the siblings, he’d been their rock, and their leader.

He lowered the weight once more, then raised it for a final rep before placing it on the rack of the bench press. Sitting up, he draped a strong arm around her.

She crinkled her nose. “Eww,” she said, pushing his sweaty arm away from her dress.

He grabbed her head and rubbed his knuckles against her skull, his light blue eyes twinkling. When he stopped laughing, he tugged her close. “So what are you going to do tomorrow?”

He was like a teacher, reinforcing the lesson.

“Apologize,” she grumbled.

He punched her arm lightly. “C’mon. Say it with spirit.”

She affixed a too-bright smile. “Apologize,” she said with forced pep. “Even though he’s the one who should be apologizing.”

Michael nodded, his eyes darkening momentarily. He was no fan of Brent. “You’ll get no disagreement from me on that point, but this isn’t about him. It’s about you.” He pointed at her as he spoke in that gentle but authoritative tone he had. His older brother tone. “Who you want to be. How you want to behave.”

“And who I don’t want to become,” she muttered.

He shot her a small smile. “I’m not worried about that in the least. But you can’t give in to anger. Though, trust me, I’d like to with that fucker,” he said. Michael had helped Brent with his proposal. He’d asked their grandmother for her wedding band to be used in the engagement ring.