Challenge (Harris Brothers, #1)

by Amy Daws

Having a twin in general is a royal pain in the arse. Having him on the same team is like a bad case of haemorrhoids. Having him playing the same position is like a jagged butt plug rammed in at the wrong angle.

But now, being bunked up with a blonde Jesus in a smaller-than-I’d-like, two-bedroom flat in Bethnal Green sure doesn’t seem as exciting as it did initially, even if we do live close to the pitch and above a tattoo shop and a pub.

When I crack my eyes open, my vision readjusts to the light as I gaze at my Cumcasso painting on the wall. Not half bad for a match-day inspiration.

Tequila Sunrise: 1 part Grenadine 3 parts Tequila 6 parts Orange Juice Do not mix.

She told us to go home and make them when our shifts ended, and to remember that there is still sunshine above the chaos.

Rather than God answering my virginal prayer with a player, the devil answered it with four.

Suddenly, I see a rosy hue crawl up her cheeks as she catches me watching her. My brows lift in a “what’d you expect” sort of expression. Her gaze narrows in contemplation, and I swear I see a tiny spark that tells me she’s not all together put off by my perusal.

In the past, I’ve tried to steer clear of redheads because they’re usually the crazy ones. But lord, between this one’s scent and her pretty face, I’m quite certain that won’t be necessary.

“Lying about your pain number doesn’t make your dick any bigger,” she mumbles under her breath.

They look like those wax lips we used to get as kids from the old-fashioned sweet shop in Manchester. Except those lips were just something my brothers and I wanted to be perverted with. Hers…Oh, who am I kidding? I just want to be perverted with hers as well.

“Baby? Seriously?” She rolls her eyes and grips the stethoscope around her neck, clearly affected by the excitement vibrating in the air around us. “You can’t come up with anything more original? The dictionary has lots of choices. It’s even sorted alphabetically for your convenience.”

It’s not that the woman did not know how to juggle, she just didn’t have the balls to try.

was either kissing her or peeing on her so every guy knew to back the fuck off. Indie Porter belongs to Camden Harris.

I’m drowning in deep, dark, delirious destiny. I’m in a place I never want to leave. A place I never want to say goodbye to. A place I never want to let go. Just sinking further and further into a world I’ve never known.

For some bizarre reason, the notion feels like razors in my stomach as it tumbles out of my mouth.

Then, just when I think things can’t get any worse—when I’m certain I can’t possibly feel anything more—he lies down beside me, pulls me into his arms, and softly whispers into my ear, “Thou art mine.”

“Indie, I hurt you because I was angry. But you hurt me because you don’t care enough. One is certainly worse than the other.”

“Camden,” Tanner says from the back seat, shaking my shoulder to get my attention. “What do you call cheese that is not yours?” “I don’t know, what?” I ask, turning my head to look at him. “Nacho cheese!” His eyes crinkle as he bursts out laughing. I can actually see his mouth smile now that the season is over and he’s trimmed his beard at last. Booker chuckles quietly beside him, and I glance over at Gareth in the driver’s seat whose shoulders shake with silent laughter. The corner of my mouth tilts up.