Preservation (The Walshes, #7)

by Kate Canterbary

That was the power of Riley Walsh's growls: immediate, undeniable lust.

Too bad lust was a fucking idiot who didn't know what was good for her.

I couldn't decide whether he was a decent guy who simply couldn't handle the awkward morning-after shit or a straight-up psychopath.

Boys. Women always got a bad rap for being clingy and emotional after sex, but it was boys who couldn't hang.

Either my weekend fuckery was stalking me or Mercury was in cuntrograde because this Monday wasn't off to a great start.

This was the type of chaos I'd come to expect from working with my family. We knocked the fun right into dysfunctional.

"Ohhh," Sam said. "Did you just invoke the calm down clause?" "That does trigger the articles of ass-kicking," Tom added.

"I'm never building you people another piece of furniture as long as I live," Sam muttered. "Not when you're using it for fucking box jumps."

I stood up then, fumbling everything within reach. My laptop flipped over, my coffee went flying into my lap, my phone bounced off the hardwood floor. It was a tiny tornado, an entire weather system of my own creation.

Know that you're good and don't give a fried fuck about anything else."

"Is that another Oregonian specialty? The fried fuck?" Nick asked. "Or is it one of those local treasures, like steamers and Fluffernutters?

I love this - Nick is the best

He folded one arm across his chest and tucked his fist under his chin, and I had to look away. Seriously. The man was trying to kill me with all of his scowly-growly-sexy.

Those fucking vests were dangerous. They made me lusty and irrational. It was as though he required that extra layer to contain the beast that howled right below the surface.

This was the type of erection that demanded a scrapbook in its honor, and I might just be the woman to make it.

My siblings insult each other like it's an Olympic sport," I said, forcing some levity. "It's the only way we know how to praise each other. Every now and then, someone will say something nice or complimentary, and it's too fucking weird for life. We just stare at each other until someone comes out with, 'Shut the fuck up, shithead.'"

If we didn't have a fuck-ton of mutual respect, we wouldn't be able to run a business together. We didn't have to top it off with polite exchanges when our salty shorthand worked just as well.

She pulled a sour face. "I don't want to be adorable. Kittens are adorable. Miniature roses are adorable." She pointed at the framed prints. "Babies are adorable." "If it helps," I said, "you're adorable in that 'I want to bend you over and bang you like a screen door in a tornado' kind of way."

"I'm not perfect," she said, running her palms up her legs and over her belly. "You're real," I challenged, "and to me, that's perfection."

Alex: Of course. You know how I feel about beer. Riley: You like it more than you like most people.

Riley: I admire that about you. Alex: My fondness for beer? Riley: Mostly the antisocial stick up your ass, but also the fondness for beer.

You love when we fuck around. It's right up there with all your other favorite things, like sandwiches and front-clasp bras.

But it's my duty to tell you that my siblings are known for fucking shit up at weddings. Someone is always sneaking off to have sex, someone else is boarding a boat, and there are shenanigans a plenty.

Shenanigans, Alexandra. So. Many. Shenanigans.

Alex: If we get married, we'll have shenanies. Riley: If. Alex: I know, I know. Riley: It's funny. Alex: Is it? Riley: Yeah. Like I'd ever let you go.

"Certainly, Tom. I do like getting fucked in the ass early in the morning," Sam mused as he tugged his cuffs. "It keeps me on my toes."

She guzzled her sparkling water and gave him an apathetic look. "You can walk out now if you'd like," she replied. "Leave, suck my dick, row a boat to Rome. I don't give a fuck."

"Stop trying to make Slack happen, Thomas," I yelled.

The group texts are for lunch orders, emergencies, and photos from job sites," Matt said, ticking off each mode of communication on his fingers. "And Slack is for corporate windbags who don't work here."

I loved her. I knew it without qualification. More than that, I felt it inside me, heavy and expansive like a bottomless lake.

Spider-Man wasn't always on the side of justice. He made some questionable choices. Also, he was a fucking creeper."

Gigi couldn't tell a douchebag from a donut.

"What have you gotten yourself involved with? A Jags fan? Really? Is someone blackmailing him?"

"Good, good," she said. "Now, let's go downstairs and talk about this courtyard. I'm thinking traditional. Ivy and wisteria, and creeping rosemary." "I had no idea rosemary was such a pervert," I said. "All these years, I'd thought it was the chives."

Some people made lots of small mistakes. A symphony of screw ups. I, on the other hand, preferred big fucking disasters. Flooding basements. Cutting live electrical lines. Texting a picture of my cock lazing in a puddle of jizz on my girlfriend's belly to my entire family.

She rolled her eyes. "There's no need to be snippy," she said. "I'm pregnant as fuck and sitting on the goddamn floor with you."

Oh Shannon, you're perfect.

I couldn't force Alex into the narrow mold of a comic book heroine or fairy tale princess. She wasn't a handful of conveniently aligned characteristics. She was my Elektra, my Mystique, my Leia, my Katniss, my Daenerys, my Agent Carter, my Elizabeth Swann, my Arwen Evenstar, my Buffy, my Beatrice, my Catwoman, my Dorothy Gale, my everything, my… "Aly," I said. "She's my Aly."

"I can't believe you told the whole eye splooge story before introducing yourself,"

"Honestly, Lo. You go around with your twee little dresses and creamsicle toes, and you pretend you're such a nice girl but you're a dirty, dirty bird."

"It's like there's a Bat Signal only Riley can see," Andy mused. "But instead of Gotham needing a hero, his siblings are having sex and he needs to interrupt."

"Satan suck a dick, I love you already,"

"I could go for some Jam Man in my life. I don't know what it is about those red plaid flannel shirts and how he rolls the sleeves up. Fuck. Don't even get me started on those jeans."

"I'm with Shannon when it comes to the Jam Man. This guy was put on earth to be ogled," Tiel said. "I'll offer neither shame nor apologies."

"Don't let them fool you," he said. "They're little devil women. They do yoga and eat berries and cast crazy spells on their husbands."

Everything worked out when bacon was involved.

I thought I'd known shambles but this, this was true and total disaster.

"Unless he's also dating her mother or running an underground toddler fight club or something reprehensible, whatever's fucked up just needs fixing.

I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms over my chest, squinting at my brothers as they sniped at each other. "Should I call Will instead? Maybe Tom? Or literally anyone else because you can't talk about anything but your own assholes? My life is in actual shambles here."

I hadn't completely shaken off the shambles.

"Since I didn't want to watch him fall off the fire escape—or put him back together when he hit the ground—I invited him in," Hartshorn continued.

And there it was. The indomitable charm of Riley Walsh. People couldn't help but be taken with him, what with his odd, artsy ways and occasional stutters and unzipped pants. No one was immune, not even Hartshorn, the great king of stoicism.