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When Mom died Zane had been fifteen, Brock thirteen, Baxter twelve, Caanan and Corin the identical twins ten, Lucian nine, and Xavier, the baby of the tribe, had been seven.
He had my zipper open to mid-back, paused, and spun me around. Roughly, harshly, and good thing he had a strong grip on me because I would’ve gone down otherwise, and I don’t mean on him, I mean to the floor—Dru go boom.
He was also barefoot and, holy mother of fuck, what was it about a man who was barefoot in blue jeans? So cliché, I know, but shit, it was so goddamn hot.
I was wifing on him so hard my ovaries were wondering if it was baby time.
“That’s where you’re wrong, you macho fuckstick.
Dru. It was her. And from the looks of it, she was trying to wrangle a ride out of here with my raincoat. …And my heart. Or some sappy emotional bullshit like that.
