by Sara Cate
Epilogue
James
* * *
One Year Later
* * *
My God, where does the time go? I wonder as I’m staring across the table at my gorgeous girlfriend.
Girlfriend.
It sends a surge to my dick just as it always does when I think of her. Gabrielle and I have been together for a little over a year now, and quite frankly it’s been the best year of my life. After her freshman year, she pressed Mom and Dad about having her own room despite how much she loved Harper. She sold them on her being a partier and it disrupting her flow of studying and my parents ate it up, commending Gabrielle for not getting distracted with the college party life. Her own room meant no one was wondering where she was when she stayed at my apartment or who the mysterious man was creeping into her dorm at midnight to fuck her senseless.
I’m not entirely sure how we are going to spin the need for her to have her own apartment next year when she moves off campus. She stayed with me for the summer under the ruse of a summer internship because of course she should stay with me instead of wasting twenty thousand dollars on room and board for three months.
It took a while, but ironically, Monica has become our biggest advocate. After both of us had very long conversations with her, she started to see that this is real.
“You’re staring,” she tells me as she takes a sip of her champagne.
“You’re stunning.” I nod at her, taking her in. She’s wearing an off the shoulder black dress that accentuates her narrow waist and full hips. Her dark hair is curled and pulled over one shoulder, exposing her neck that I just want to sink my teeth into like I always do when her neck is on display. I let out a deep breath about what I want to talk to her about.
She sets down her fork and leans forward. “You look like you’ve got something on your mind.”
“Besides fucking you until neither of us can walk?” He shrugs. “Yes, I do.”
She giggles and leans forward as well, sinking her teeth into her full lips that are painted red. “That’s the exact same thing I’ve got on my mind as well, but tell me the other thing.”
I lean on my elbows and rub my hand over my jaw, scratching the stubble. “Baby, I think it’s time to tell Mom and Dad.” Her eyes widen and she darts her eyes around the room like she’s expecting them to appear.
“Wh-what?”
Keep her calm. “Gab, relax. We knew we were going to have to do this at some point.”
“But like…tomorrow?” she whisper-yells. Just like last year, we are driving home the next day for Christmas where we plan to stay for the week.
“It’s making me crazy that I haven’t properly and publicly claimed you and I’m becoming more obsessive about it by the day.”
“But baby…” she starts. She looks up at me through her thick lashes like she does when she wants me to do what she wants. “I’m not ready.”
My cock jerks in my pants and I reach down as discreetly as possible to adjust myself in an attempt to relieve some tension. “We’re never going to be fully ready to tell them this.”
“What if they disown us?”
“They won’t.” I shake my head at her. “They love us.”
“They won’t love this.” She tucks a long dark brown strand behind her ear.
“Doesn’t mean they’ll stop loving us.”
She furrows her brows and scrunches her nose. Fuck, she’s cute. “I’m not prepared to lose our family.”
“We won’t,” I tell her. “But…I’m ready to start my own family.” I give her a smile. The smile she can’t say no to. “With you.”
We’ve had a few talks about children and while she’s still on the pill for the foreseeable future, the idea of children together isn’t that far off.
“I want that too…I’m just scared.”
“I know, but I’ll protect you, just like I always have. You and me against the world, Gab.”
She snorts. “Yeah, literally.”
“Babe, it’s not going to be that bad.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“How?”
I shrug, preparing to drop a bomb on her that I know she’s not ready for. “Because I already talked to Dad when I bought your engagement ring.”
* * *
The End
Also By Q.B. Tyler
STANDALONES
* * *
My Best Friend’s Sister
Unconditional
Forget Me Not
Love Unexpected
Unlawful: Coming Soon
* * *
BITTERSWEET UNIVERSE
* * *
Bittersweet Surrender
Bittersweet Addiction
Bittersweet Love
* * *
CAMPUS TALES SERIES
* * *
First Semester
Second Semester
Spring Semester
About the Author
Hailing from the Nation's Capital, Q.B. Tyler, spends her days constructing her "happily ever afters" with a twist, featuring sassy heroines and the heroes that worship them. But most importantly the love story that develops despite inconvenient circumstances.
* * *
Sign up for her newsletter to stay in touch! (http://eepurl.com/doT8EL)
[email protected]
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The Attack Zone
BY B. CELESTE
© Copyright 2021 B. Celeste
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher.
* * *
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
* * *
Editing: KBM Editing
“The Attack Zone”
A boyfriend’s brother romance
* * *
Christmas is supposed to be the time for giving.
But after years of resentment toward my famous little brother for ruining my hockey career, I decide to take instead.
Adelaide Peters.
My little brother’s best friend-turned-girlfriend.
What I don’t expect is that I take way more than I bargained for.
And I have no intention of giving her back.
Chapter 1
Adelaide
* * *
If I hear one more rendition of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” tonight I may scream. As in, down the rest of the expensive champagne in one swig, storm over to the DJ booth, and give the fresh-faced college boy a piece of my mind. He must have gotten a list of carefully selected songs to play by the party hosts, which included thirty different versions of the controversial holiday classic, along with five other Christmas favorites by artists old and new.
Gripping the chilled glass of bubbly liquid in my fingers to ground myself, I stretch a strained smile at some developmental executive producers that Jill, my agent, asked me to play nice with tonight. They’re all donning expensive business suits with red and green ties tucked into the collars of their crisp button downs and talking amongst themselves about who knows what.
When I made my way over to them earlier, I’d interrupted their Hollywood gossip session about a hot new scandal involving some eighteen-year-old winner of a singing competition who was caught coming out of one of the judges’ hotel rooms in the middle of the night. According to them, he’s married and she’s as old as one of his daughters. Scandalous? Sure. But not the worst thing I’ve heard or been involved with myself in this industry.
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“Addy!” a shrill voice calls out, making me—and a few other guests—cringe from the high-pitched tone.
I turn toward the woman I’ve been trying to avoid all night. Her face is contoured with hundreds of dollars’ worth of makeup, but nothing can hide the fake smile spreading across her lips that’s not nearly as convincing as the one painted across mine.
As usual, Marigold Wethington is in the finest threads and jewelry she could find—the gold and diamonds covering her are probably worth more than my latest contract.
“Hello, Marigold,” I greet, turning my head as we peck each other’s cheeks.
Her hands touch my arms as she steps back a fraction to give me a once-over in appraisal. I already know what’s coming when her brows arch. It’s the same look she gives all women when she doesn’t like what she sees.
“Wow, Adelaide. It’s a very daring dress choice for you. And those lips.” The fashion mogul’s condescending tone makes a few eavesdroppers snicker as she latches onto the bright red color coating my heart-shaped lips that I get from my mother. “How very…holiday oriented of you.”
I point out the obvious with a forced smile as I shift on the sky-high stilettos I was told to wear tonight. “It is a Christmas party.”
She hums, letting go of my arms. “I’ve been trying to catch you all night, but you’ve been busy schmoozing with these stuffy industry execs. We really should talk about your mother’s—”
“There you are.” An arm circles around my waist, tugging me into a firm side that has my champagne almost sloshing over the rim. I steady it and glance over at the sudden but happy interruption, quickly tensing at the man whose arm is currently holding me against him. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
The naturally tanned face looking down at me has the wrong color eyes. They’re brown, but not the soft shade of milk chocolate like my favorite candy that are supposed to be looking at me tonight. The ones currently pinning me to my spot are nearly as dark as my eyeliner—not quite black but darkened by mischief and bad intentions. His lips kick up at the sides in a smirk, revealing two dimples that could make any straight woman in here weak in the knees.
Don’t get me started on the body I’m pressed against. I can feel the thick cords of muscles flexing in his arms beneath the suit jacket I know he couldn’t have borrowed from Noah because it’s too fitted to his body. These muscles are toned and sculpted from years of playing and coaching hockey—covered in intricate ink that make him look like the badass he is on the ice. The suit he’s in is far cry from the usual jeans and flannel he prefers, and sadly covering the broad shoulders and lickable six-pack abs I know he has. The pants, though fitted, do little to show off the kind of thick thighs that can propel him faster than anybody I’ve ever seen.
Internally, I sigh over the perfect specimen saving me from another painful conversation about my mother. Marigold never stops until she gets what she wants, but she’s met her match with me. My mom, and her previous career, is off limits for a reason.
Who wouldn’t get a little swoony when they see a man like the one standing beside me? The problem is that the person whose big hand curls around the small of my waist and squeezes once is the wrong Scott brother.
The one who should be holding me is Noah—my best friend. My date to this stupid party that was his idea to come to in the first place. The very 20-year-old being called our generations Brad Pitt. Charming. Hot. Desired by industry reps and fans alike.
Except there’s one tiny problem.
I’ve had a crush on his older brother basically the entire time I’ve known him.
The brother with his arm around my waist.
The one smiling at me.
Dairen Scott.
Better known as Daire.
As in truth or—
“Daire,” I squeak, voice a little higher than normal and making his cheek twitch with the rise of his lips. “I mean…hi, Daire.”
His chuckle is low as he leans down to close the gap between our vastly different heights to press his lips against the top of my head. My 5’4” is nothing to his 6’3”.
My heart thumps wildly as I glance at the wide-eyed Marigold watching the mild PDA unfold in front of her. When her lips start to slowly rise, I know I’m in for it. “My, my Ms. Peters. You certainly are more interesting than I thought you were.”
The backhanded compliment stings, but I choose not to say anything. I mean, it’s never been me she’s wanted to talk about whenever she’s approached me places. I’ve learned to brush her off the best I can.
Daire on the other hand? His arm tenses around me as he pulls me closer, nuzzling his nose into the dyed red and orange ombre hair I curled into chunky waves and let rest loose over my shoulders for the evening. “Don’t listen to her. She’s just jealous she won’t get to see the size of my cock tonight.”
My face blasts with heat as a few people nearby turn with interest at the statement he definitely didn’t mumble. I glare knowing that will wind up online by the night’s end. “What are you doing here?”
His smirk grows. “Noah couldn’t make it. But don’t worry. I think we both know that he sent the better Scott brother.”
Daire shoots Marigold a wink and then pulls me toward the exit.
Even though I should, I don’t fight him.
Chapter 2
Daire
* * *
There are a million reasons why coming here and eyeing the leggy redhead talking up a platinum blonde who looks like she has a stick up her ass is a bad idea.
One of them has to do with our different lifestyle choices. Whereas her tight little body is wrapped in clothing brands more expensive than my mortgage payment, the monkey suit that I’m in is one I found on the clearance rack to wear to award ceremonies and stuffy functions like this one. She’s holding onto a flute of champagne like it’s her lifeline, and I’m holding onto a cheap beer just to keep myself busy while I watch her talk it up with people.
Snobby, pretentious people with deep pockets and huge egos that help fill the space currently covered in expensive Christmas decorations to celebrate the upcoming holiday. I know the types lingering here thanks to my little brother’s involvement with them in the industry for most of his life.
The Noah Scott—America’s heartthrob.
The boy-next-door-turned-celebrity that makes all the teenage girls, and some guys, go crazy. Ever since Mom pushed him into an audition for some soap opera pilot that a big-time network was hosting, he was a star.
Born to be famous, is what the media said when he landed his first gig at eight-years-old. A natural, is what the talent agent told our mother along with about every manager and team member Noah has had since.
Not a day has gone by where people haven’t blown smoke up the boy’s ass. He’s worth millions, so the people that work for him know when and how to kiss his ass to earn an extra wad of cash.
But me? I’m not one of those people.
I know Adelaide Peters isn’t one either, though the world doesn’t see it that way. She’s been my little brother’s best friend since they were pimply pre-teens going to the same ritzy ass private school for the gifted. The difference is, Noah made it big when he was younger, and Addy’s fame has only just begun in the past couple of years. People tie her success to her friendship with my brother, not because she earned it.
But she has.
I watched her through each of her awkward phases, never giving up no matter the criticism she got along the way. It was always something that had her shoulders weighing down whenever she’d come over to my parents’ condo with Noah in tow. She was told she was too fat, too short, or not naturally pretty enough for this or that role. Degrading bullshit that nobody seemed to counter except me.
Not even my jackass sibling said anything whenever she was visibly upset by the remarks of people who determined their success in this world. I remember the day she came to my parents’ place and started looking up makeup tutorials on YouTub
e because Noah said learning how to apply makeup to look older could help her get more attention from agents. But me? I told her she shouldn’t waste her time trying to impress people whose heads were shoved too far up their asses to see straight.
It was my way of trying to tell her she looked pretty without saying the words or crossing any lines. Truth is, I preferred her when she filled out her school uniforms and jeans more. She had the kind of curves that a lot of grown women would be jealous of, but she decided to ignore all my subtle compliments—after turning red from them—and go through a ridiculous makeover anyway.
Does she look pretty? Yes.
The girl I’ve known for years is still the beautiful one she’s always been. She just fits the part she’s meant to play in this life. But to me, she’s too thin. Too fake. Too done up with her caked-on makeup. And how the fuck are those shoes comfortable? They’re hot as hell and make her look like she has legs for days, but they have to be squeezing her feet to death.
Despite all those reasons as to why I shouldn’t be paying so much attention to her, I’m not sorry for causing a scene and carting her off. It isn’t like she was having fun anyway. If anything, her tense body language was begging for anybody to get her out of there. And when I got a text from Noah earlier asking to pick her up because he couldn’t make it all the sudden, I was more than willing.