The Bluff (Love Stories in Sheet Cake, Texas, #2)

by Emma St. Clair

My life is the lawn, and I’m yelling at Winnie to get off it.

Nothing forms the foundation of friendship quite like being the two people with boobs in a room filled with beards.

It was the kind of kiss that starts wars or ends them. The sort that sonnets are written about. Country songs too—the happy ones that you line dance to, not the sad ones or the vengeful ones. (Though I do love some vengeful Miranda Lambert.) As much as the thought should terrify me, it’s the kind of kiss that becomes your last first kiss. Because I can’t imagine any other kiss will ever come close.