by Laura Lee
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This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
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© 2018 Lovestruck Publishing LLC
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
EPILOGUE
ALSO AVAILABLE BY LAURA LEE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
The Morning After
Las Vegas
CHARLEE
Why is my bra hanging off the lamp?
I stare at the lacy red garment in disbelief. That is not the lamp from my hotel room, which means I’m in some rando’s bed. A quick peek under the covers confirms that I am, in fact, naked as the day I was born. Also, a freakishly large hand is covering my right breast.
Why is a stranger pawing my boob?
I wiggle away from the offending hand as I try recalling the events from last night. Despite my best efforts, the only thing my brain will produce is a blur of shots lining a bar and...Lady Gaga? Goddamn, how much did I drink? My head feels like all seven dwarfs are tunneling through my skull. And my mouth tastes like ass. Not that I’ve ever tasted ass, but you know what I mean. Nausea rolls through me as I gather the courage to roll over and see what I’m dealing with here.
Oh.
Okay, ignoring the fact that I had sex with a complete stranger, maybe it’s not so bad. The mystery man’s face is buried beneath a fluffy white pillow but the parts that I can see are quite nice. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a guy with so little body fat in real life—his biceps are probably bigger than my freaking head. As I take in the thick tribal tattoo winding around his upper arm, I get a sudden flash of tracing that ink with soft kisses.
Whoa.
Continuing my perusal, little bits and pieces come back to me. This guy’s bronzed chest is ridiculously wide and his abs are chiseled all the way down to a very lickable V. I should know, because my tongue was all over it last night. My lips turn up in the corner when I see the beginnings of a neatly trimmed patch of hair. I’ve always appreciated a man that keeps up with his pube maintenance. Nobody wants to suck on hairy balls. Just sayin’.
In case you’re wondering, mystery man’s balls are smooth as a baby’s bottom.
God, why can’t I remember anything other than getting freaky with a faceless stranger?
Is that a nipple ring? Damn. I can’t say I’ve given it much thought before, but that tiny little barbell is hot. The stark white sheet is resting over his package but there’s a considerable bulge beneath the cotton. Plus, if the thing poking me in the ass when I woke up is any indication, this guy is hung.
One little peek won’t hurt, right?
I mean, it’s not like I haven’t seen it before. It’s totally for science—maybe it will trigger another memory. I pinch the sheet between my thumb and forefinger, lifting it just enough to get a look-see-loo.
Wow.
Let’s just say my soreness makes perfect sense now. Also, that memory triggering thing did a bang-up job, because now I know that I somehow fit that anaconda in my mouth. Huh. Maybe I’ve recently learned how to unhinge my jaw.
Jesus.
I guess if you’re going to have a drunken one-night-stand, a nice body and big dick isn’t a bad way to do it, right?
I drop the sheet when the giant next to me groans and rolls to his other side. Shit, I need to stop ogling him and get out of here before he wakes up. I carefully slide out of bed and slink across the floor to the crumpled pile of black fabric. With the dress clenched in my hand, I crawl over to the sitting room and crouch behind a chair to pull it over my head. My panties are MIA so it’s going to be a little drafty, but I’m more concerned about getting out of here unnoticed than searching for them. I can’t bear the thought of leaving my favorite bra behind though, so I risk returning to the bedroom before I go. As I carefully untangle the straps from the lampshade, something on the opposite nightstand catches my eye.
What the hell?
No longer giving any fucks about my stealth, I run to the other side of the bed and grab the cheesy cardboard frame. There’s an eight-by-ten picture inside, of me and a beast of a man, smiling like circus clowns, standing in front of a Lady Gaga impersonator.
Well, that explains that.
If this is the same man lying in that bed—which by his sheer size alone, I’m assuming so—then, the faceless stranger isn’t so faceless anymore, nor is he a stranger. I’m not sure if that makes this situation better or worse though. Why can’t I recall anything? And why am I holding a little bouquet of flowers? I flip the frame over and almost vomit on the spot when I see the logo imprinted on the back.
Hunk of Burning Love Wedding Chapel
Las Vegas, Nevada
Taped to the back is a folded piece of paper. I open it with trembling hands, hoping and praying that I did not do what I think I did last night. I squeeze my eyes shut when I catch a glimpse, willing the words on the paper to change. I open my eyes and look again, but no such luck. I’ve officially become a cliché.
“What in the ever-loving fuck happened last night?!” I shout.
The hulking man groans again from beneath his pillow. I go to rip it off his face, but pause when the sunlight catches the little gold band wrapped around my finger. More specifically, the fourth finger on my left hand. When did that get there? Oh yeah, it must’ve been when I got freaking MARRIED!
I grab the pillow and begin whacking my apparent husba
nd in the face repeatedly.
“Ow! What the fuck?” he screams.
I throw the pillow across the room. “‘What the fuck?!’ What the fuck, is right! This has to be your fault, you stupid asshole!”
“Charlee?” He blinks his eyes rapidly, clearing the sleep fog. “Why in the hell are you in my room? And why are you beating the shit out of me?”
“That’s a great question, Drew! Why the fuck am I in your hotel room?”
The big oaf grins widely as he takes me in. It’s pretty obvious that I’m wearing a walk-of-shame dress. I’m sure my wild hair isn’t helping matters either.
“Did we hook up last night? Damn, I really wish I could remember that.”
The picture frame bounces off his beefy chest when I chuck it at him. “Oh, we did a helluva lot more than that, you idiot!”
He scrubs a hand over his face before picking up the evidence of my living nightmare. It takes a few seconds for it to register, but once he too realizes what we did, his eyes widen and his jaw slackens.
“Holy shit.”
Yeah, holy shit, indeed.
I just married my brother’s best friend.
CHAPTER TWO
3 Months Earlier
Seattle
DREW
I am so fucked.
Like royally, epically fucked. Why, you ask? Two words for you: Bro Code.
Don’t know what Bro Code is? Well, simply put, it’s kind of like the Ten Commandments...but for dudes. It’s a credo that we live by, helping any ordinary guy be the best bro he can be. Containing approximately 150 unspoken rules, this code of conduct can range from the simple, like never drinking the last beer without verbal permission, to the complex, like helping your buddy figure out where a woman stands on the hot-to-crazy matrix before sleeping with her.
Oh, don’t roll your eyes at me on that last bit; I’m not the one who invented it.
Anyway, back to the lesson at hand. Bro Code can be fluid; certain rules are subject to interpretation and modification. That said, there are a handful of laws that are chiseled into that proverbial stone tablet so deeply, that only a special kind of asshole would consider breaking one.
The first is that you never sleep with a bro’s ex.
Rule número dos, if your bro needs a wingman, you be the wingman.
Three, you never chase after another bro’s woman or one that he’s called dibs on, even if you saw her first.
The fourth is that a bro should always have another bro’s back. This one covers several possible scenarios: If someone throws a punch at your bro, you jump into the fight. If your buddy is about to score but he finds himself sans prophylactics, you offer the rubber from your wallet. If you find out his girl has been cheating, you break the bad news to him, then take him to a strip club to get drunk. I’ve made my point with this one, yeah?
Moving on...
Last, but certainly not least, is that if your bro has a sister, she’s completely off-limits. It doesn’t matter how fucking hot she is, or how strongly she’s coming on to you. She’s OFF-FUCKING-LIMITS.
If you would’ve asked me a few months ago if I’d ever be tempted to break the code, I would’ve told you that I’d rather be kicked in the nuts every day for the rest of my life. But now? Well, now...I’m not so sure. What’s changed, you ask? The most enticing woman I’ve ever met walked into my life, that’s what. She’s pure sass, fire, and beauty and as an added bonus, she’s a fucking incredible cook. You know that saying that all a man needs to be happy is good food and sex? Well, truer words have never been spoken, my friend. Two of my favorite things in the entire world are eating and fucking. What can I say? Dudes are pretty simple and I’m no exception to that. We can survive with very little, but those two are non-negotiable in my book.
You’re probably wondering where I’m going with this, because this goddess sounds like the perfect chick, right? Well, I think she just might be...if she wasn’t chained to a giant cockblocker. The cockblocker in question being her brother, Brody. Why does he matter, you ask? See the abovementioned rule about not banging a bro’s sister. Brody is not only my friend...he’s my best friend. My main amigo. The other pea in my pod. I’d do anything for that fucker and he’d say the same about me.
So, here’s the thing: Brody and I have known each other for almost ten years. We see each other at least three times per week, yet I’ve only recently met his sister, and it was purely a coincidence that we happened to be in the same place at the same time. You can bet your tits that Brody kept her away from me all these years on purpose. And in case it’s not obvious, that’s because he would rather have his dick cut off than see me dating his sister. Trust me; he’s made that fact clearer than a glass dildo. Let’s just say that my dating history is a bit...colorful, and he’s borne witness to some pretty crazy shit.
As if the situation wasn’t complicated enough, Charlee—that’s her name—has now become a regular fixture in my life. I went almost a decade without ever meeting her, and now I see her all the fucking time, and it’s indirectly Brody’s fault. He and his girlfriend, Rainey, officially became an item about six months ago. They’ve known each other for years so once they finally hooked up, they went from zero to sixty practically overnight, moving in together right away. Somewhere in there, Rainey met Charlee and the two have been thick as thieves ever since. On top of that, Rainey is my sister’s best friend which by default, makes Charlee my sister’s friend. And my sister, Devyn, and I are tight. We’ve always been, but after our parents died, it was even more so. Needless to say, pretending Charlee doesn’t exist is impossible at this point.
Speaking of Devyn...she recently got engaged and I’m currently attending her engagement party at a fancy restaurant. Guess who’s also here? Yep, none other than the star of my filthy dreams, Charlotte, AKA Charlee Harris. I’ve been half hard for the past two hours and trust me when I tell you that monkey suits are not all that forgiving when you’re built like I am. At six-foot-five and two-hundred-and-forty pounds of mostly muscle, squeezing into this damn thing was hard enough. Adding a boner to the mix is just asking for trouble but my dick hasn’t gotten the memo. It doesn’t help that Charlee is wearing a sexy black dress that pushes her tits up and hugs her tight little body. Oh yeah, and she’s been eye-fucking me the entire time that we’ve been here, causing all the dirty thoughts to flash through my mind. Let’s just say that Charlee’s made it quite obvious that she wouldn’t mind taking a ride on the Drew train.
All. Night. Long.
Fuck, there goes my dick again. Down boy.
Like I said earlier...Royally. Epically. Fucked.
CHAPTER THREE
CHARLEE
Drew Summers in a t-shirt and jeans is a beautiful thing, but Drew Summers in a suit? Downright sinful. I’ve been shamelessly flirting with him all night and consequently, he’s been finding reasons to move farther and farther away from me. I can’t figure him out; I know he feels the attraction between us. It’s kind of hard—pun intended—for a guy that big to completely hide the boner he’s always sporting around me, no matter how subtle he attempts to be. But despite this, he freaks anytime I get physically close to him. Between you and me, I’ve made a game out of it—the more he avoids me, the more I intentionally fuck with him. Like right now, as I play with the little gold chain on my neck, my fingertips perilously close to my cleavage. Like a moth to a flame, his eyes automatically trace the motion. After lingering for a few seconds, his guilty eyes flicker to mine so I lick my lips and smirk in response. I can’t be certain from across the room, but I’m pretty sure he just groaned.
“Knock it the fuck off, Charlotte,” growls my brother, Brody, as he sidles up next to me.
I side-eye him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Quit flirting with Drew.”
I scoff. “I can flirt with whomever I want, B. Don’t forget who’s the older sibling in this relationship.”
“I don’t give a shit. There’s no way in hell I�
��m going to stand by like a little bitch and watch you hook up with one of my friends. First Riley, now Drew? I swear to God you do this just to fuck with me.”
Now I roll my eyes. He’s referring to the one time years ago that I kissed his friend after a few too many beers. Coincidentally, we’re celebrating that same friend’s engagement tonight. Despite the fact that Riley could easily be a successful model, we have zero chemistry. Kissing him was about as hot as I’d imagine smooching my brother would be. I shudder at the thought.
“Newsflash: My sex life has nothing to do with you. If I want to pursue Drew, I will.”
Brody glares at me. “He’s a dog.”
“He’s your best friend,” I remind him.
“Exactly.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Which means I know him better than anyone. He’s not a commitment kind of guy.”
“Who said I’m looking for a commitment? Maybe I just want to fuck.”
Okay, so maybe I am screwing with little bro here, too. He makes it too easy sometimes.
“Quit being an asshole,” he gripes. “You’re wasting your time anyway. He’d never do that to me.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge?”
Brody’s nostrils flare and his knuckles clench. “I swear to Christ, if you—”
“Brody, can I borrow you for a minute?” his girlfriend, Rainey, interrupts. “You don’t mind, do you, Charlee?”
“Not at all.” I wink, silently thanking her for saving me from his overprotective bullshit.
The tension in his body immediately dissipates when she leans into him and whispers in his ear. As much as my brother is grating on my nerves right now, it’s nice seeing him like this. Prior to Rainey, he was the very definition of a playboy. She turned his world upside down and he couldn’t be happier about it. Those two are living proof that the right partner can bring out the best version of yourself.
I wait until they’re out of sight before making my move. Drew is sitting at the bar across the room with his back turned, so he doesn’t notice me until I take a seat on the stool next to him.
I trail my finger along his thick forearm. “Feel like buying me a drink?”