The Magnolia Chronicles
Page 26
"Almonds," I replied. And an iced venti skinny latte but I wasn't copping to that just yet.
Riley tried to fight a laugh, failed. "Almonds?" he repeated.
"Chocolate-covered almonds, yes." I folded my arms across my chest. "It was an appropriate amount of calories, fat, protein, and carbs."
He shook his head and ate another pretzel. "I don't want to live in a world where a few almonds—chocolate or otherwise—are lunch." He pointed to the plate and pushed his beer toward me. "Eat. Drink. Please."
I glared at the pilsner and pretzels. I hated being told what to do. Just fucking hated it. But then my stomach growled—goddamn digestive muscles—and Riley shot me a pointed glance.
"People think that a rumbling stomach is the sign of hunger," I said, reaching for his glass. I drained the beer and then selected a pretzel for dipping. "It is not. The muscles of the stomach and small intestines are always contracting, and those contractions make more noise when the organs are empty."
Riley gazed at me, his expression flat. It gave me a moment to study him while choosing another pretzel. He was wearing jeans, a tailored shirt with the cuffs rolled up to his elbows, and a pinstriped vest, and his hair was a wreck. It looked like he'd been tugging the dark strands in every conceivable direction. His eyes were rimmed with a bit of red and his lids heavy, as if he'd been rubbing them or hadn't gotten much sleep. Perhaps both. There was a small notebook beside his phone, and a mechanical pencil tucked into the spiral binding.
And he was still more attractive than I knew how to handle. Even tired and irritable, and ordering me to eat his pretzels and drink his beer, he was hot as fuck. I bit into another pretzel and offered him a small smile.
"Would you say the chip on your shoulder is massive or epic?" he asked. There was no hint of amusement in his tone, and he was staring at me with more ice than I'd believed he could muster. It didn't feel like we were sniping at each other anymore. "It might be semantics to you but I'm trying to get a feel for what I'm dealing with here."
But then one of his big hands found my leg under the table. He squeezed and rubbed his thumb along the hollow of my knee, and I started to believe I'd been all wrong about this man. There was the player and there was the overgrown kid, but there was so much more than that.
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Preservation is available now.
Excerpt from Necessary Restorations
Tiel
"Oh, motherfucking hell," I groaned. "I am too old for this shit."
I was offended—deeply, personally offended—by the sunlight. The universe should have known I required some fog and clouds this morning. It also should have supplied a bucket of Gatorade and ibuprofen, and left both within arm's reach.
"God help me, I cannot be responsible for my actions until I've had a bagel and a cappuccino." I groaned again, hoping the sun understood my dissatisfaction, and then I realized two very important things.
First, I wasn't in my bed.
Second, I wasn't alone.
"Hello there," I murmured.
"Why the fuck did we sleep on the floor?" Sam asked, his arms clutching my waist and his head resting on my belly. He looked up, surveying my apartment, and my bladder immediately rejoiced. He was groggy and disheveled, his eye a rainbow of bruises.
And he was shirtless.
Shirtless and tattooed.
Shirtless, tattooed, and wrapped around me like the best holiday garland ever invented.
"I think we had a little party," I murmured, gesturing toward the furniture shoved against the walls and the four empty wine bottles on the kitchen countertop. "And then passed out down here."
"That's right," he said. "They kicked us out of that shithole bar. I remember you saying it was too hot to dance in clothes anyway, and we had to get undressed." He hooked a glance over his shoulder at his black boxers. "Apparently, I agreed with that idea."
"And then we decided it was too hot to get off the floor." I draped an arm over my face and moaned, then studied his tattoos again. "Apparently, you agreed with that, too."
He seemed too well-bred for tattoos. Boys with fancy SUVs and gemstone cufflinks and watches that cost more than I earned in a year didn't get tattoos.
Two doves rested on his shoulder blade, a circle filled with repeating shapes on the other, and an intricate Celtic cross rose from his waist. There were others, smaller ones, on his sides, and another peeking out from his boxers.
These weren't spring break souvenirs or douchey faux-tribal bands. These were artful, significant designs that begged to be touched.
Explained.
I blinked away when he caught me staring.
"I'm never listening to you again," he said. "You're the one who dragged me into that damn elevator in the first place. If I'd taken the stairs, I would've had a decent gin and tonic, a respectable blowjob, and woken up in a bed like a civilized human being."
I felt his gaze land on my chest, a warm lick of attention, and I looked up to find him smiling at me. I didn't know what it was about this boy, but every time he smiled at me like that, all I could think was, Oh shit.
This wasn't dimple game. This was dimple war strategy.
I stared at him for a long moment, not sure whether I wanted to laugh or beat him with a broom. "Admit that dancing in your underwear is more fun."
"I will do nothing of the sort…but you…um," he stammered, angling his chin toward my chest. "You look good in that."
And yeah, like all the best hungover train wrecks in town, I was wearing nothing more than his tank and a pair of ratty blue panties. I smelled like stale wine, my morning breath could murder woodland creatures, and my thighs, in all their plump, unshaved glory, had been inches from Sam's face. He wouldn't be agreeing to much more alley kissing and friendly snuggle parties after this.
"Yeah, I really do need that cappuccino. I'm not fit for human interaction," I mumbled. I untangled myself from Sam's grip, slipped into the bathroom to put myself back in order, and prayed for the day when thinking about coffee would make it magically appear at my apartment.
After showering and changing into clean clothes, I felt a bit less like roadkill.
Just enough to know I practically threw myself at Sam last night, and then ordered him to strip down to skivvies and dance in my living room.
Classic post-traumatic response, right?
* * *
Necessary Restorations is available now!
Also By Kate Canterbary
Standalone Novels
Coastal Elite
Fresh Catch
Hard Pressed
Before Girl
The Walsh Series
Underneath It All – Matt and Lauren
The Space Between – Patrick and Andy
Necessary Restorations – Sam and Tiel
The Cornerstone – Shannon and Will
Restored — Sam and Tiel
The Spire — Erin and Nick
Preservation — Riley and Alexandra
Thresholds — The Walsh Family
Acknowledgments
This book is nothing like anything I've ever written and I have to thank the people who loved it every step of the way. Everyone who loved Magnolia all the way back to Necessary Restorations. All the early readers following Magnolia's story in serialized form on Book+Main Bites and all the readers who chose to wait until Magnolia's story was complete to read.
Thank you for loving my characters and their stories. Thank you for waiting until they are ready to be told. Thank you for trusting me to tell them the way they deserve to be told.
And thank you to the people who help me turn the loose pocket change that I call my ideas into big, beautiful stories. Without your cheerleading and support—and the occasional "I told you so"—I'm not sure I'd ever finish a book. You know who you are and you know you're dear to me. Thank you for everything you do.
About Kate
Kate Canterbary doesn't have it all figured out, but this is what she knows for sure: sp
icy-ass salsa and tequila solve most problems, living on the ocean—Pacific or Atlantic—is the closest place to perfection, and writing smart, smutty stories is a better than any amount of chocolate. She started out reporting for an indie arts and entertainment newspaper back when people still read newspapers, and she has been writing and surreptitiously interviewing people—be careful sitting down next to her on an airplane—ever since. Kate lives on the water in New England with Mr. Canterbary and the Little Baby Canterbary, and when she isn't writing sexy architects, she's scheduling her days around the region's best food trucks.
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You can find Kate at www.katecanterbary.com