The Anaconda Downstairs (The Cocky Kingmans, #4)

by Amy Award

For all the women who’ve had the word “FAT” weaponized against them. The real revenge is to love yourself. They hate when you do that.

Beauty begins the moment you decide to be yourself. – Coco Chanel

There are three things that I love in life. Family. Football. And making a woman come...so hard they forget their own name.

And to be honest, family and football aren’t even a close second.

“Billy! Billy! Come get your pet snake out of my house before I go all Indiana Jones on it.”

“Says the guy who just dove into a pit of snakes to save me,” Penelope teased. “That really was very heroic.”

Penelope laughed. “Even better. Everett just tried to rescue me from certain death by rubber snake. It’s all on camera.”

“Hey, I thought she was in trouble.”

Nope. Not going there. Penelope was off-limits, end of story. She worked for Kelsey, who was marrying my brother. Almost a sister-in-law. She was practically family for crying out loud. Declan would murder anyone who looked at Pen wrong. I. Was. Not. Looking.

This was where I belonged. On the field, with my team, doing what I did best. Well, besides modeling underwear and making women forget their names with my head between their legs.

The way she’d look up at me, bedhead of red curls, calling me her hero. The feel of her hands on my shoulders. The wink she’d throw my way as I left.

Absolutely not. If my head was going anywhere, it was not between Penelope’s deliciously thick thighs. Dammit. I needed my head in the game.

So I had a little crush on Penelope. She wasn’t the one. I’d have known.

Christ. There it was. Anaconda. Guess I was lucky my new nickname wasn’t something cringy like Cobra Kai or Sir Hiss.

I always kind of thought I was pretty, but that didn’t seem to matter if I was also chubby.

Everett, in particular, with his easy charm and killer smile, has starred in more than a few of those daydreams.

Besides, a guy like Everett Kingman was so far out of my league, he might as well be playing a different sport entirely.

I simply could not tell her I was afraid of being laughed at and made fun of and shamed for what I looked like. I couldn’t.

It would help if I had an Olympic-level dating coach to help me do this. And I knew exactly who to ask. The love guru himself. Everett Kingman.

I was always unapologetically me, because anything else was the path to heart break.

“Don’t... don’t look at me like that, Pen. I can’t... those pretty brown eyes of yours, they’re too much. It’s like trying to say no to a puppy.”

“Please help me, love guru.”

“Oh, come on. That’s not fair.” “All’s fair in love and war,”

“you have no idea,”

Oh my god. I’d been having a sex dream. About Everett Kingman.

What kind of lesson had you planned for the butt crack of dawn if I wasn’t flying to Cali today?

I was going to make you send me a smiling, sleepy, bedhead morning selfie.

Oh my gawd. He did know I had a sex dream. How?

When she opened it, looking adorably confused in her pink polka-dotted pajamas, my mouth went dry, my palms started sweating, and my determination to keep this completely platonic went down in a huge tackle by my libido. How the fuck was I going to resist stripping her out of those?

I stood there, momentarily stunned. The jeans were tight, and just right, accentuating her ass in a way that made me forget my own god-damned name. And the crop top? It showed just enough skin to be enticing, playing peek-a-boo with my fucking one-track mind.

She was so gorgeous, and I was so dead.

She applied it, then gave it another swipe and smacked her lips.

Did I wish I was lip gloss right now? Yes, yes, I did.

I looked down at her, fast asleep, a strand of her red hair falling across her face. Every fiber of my being wanted to scoop her up, carry her to bed, and curl up beside her.

But for now, with Penelope sleeping peacefully on my shoulder and the soft glow of the TV illuminating the room, I allowed myself to imagine, just for a moment, what it would be like if this was real. If she was mine.

Too bad someone like Everett would never go for an awkward, chubby—did I mention awkward?—woman like me.

Not that I want to talk about my brothers’ sex lives, but everyone knows the Kingmans play better ball when they’re getting laid.”

I had a plan, and I was going to get the love guru to fall in love. Just not with me.

It was becoming harder to ignore the way my stomach flipped every time I even thought about Penelope Quinn.

This was just a crush, nothing more. When I fell in love—really fell in love—I’d know it immediately.

“Just be yourself,” I repeated. “That’s the most attractive thing you can be.”

“Good. Then I think it’s time for some private lessons,”

“We’ll start with body language instead of flirting. Then you don’t have to worry about what to say.”

Oh god. Did I seriously just say I couldn’t fit a footlong in my mouth? Please don’t let him think that was some kind of innuendo.

I couldn’t help it, I was going to kiss her. Lesson be damned, I needed to know what those lips felt like against mine.

“It’s exactly like that,” Trixie insisted. “Look, it’s obvious to anyone with eyes that you two are totally into each other.

“Pen, that’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard. First of all she’s not even his type, and honestly, you can’t teach someone to fall in love, and you definitely shouldn’t try to set up the guy you’re clearly crushing on with someone else.”

Everybody knows you Kingman boys play better when you’re in love.

I had been using these lessons as a shield, afraid to admit how I really felt about Everett. He was the only man I’d ever truly felt comfortable around.

Body positivity isn’t about feeling confident every day. It’s about loving yourself enough to be your most authentic self, even when the world doesn’t like it.