All Downhill With You (Honeywood, #1)

by Julie Olivia

He’s not supposed to fill out a suit so well or be that tall. He shouldn’t be blessed with rich, dark brown, wavy hair. He’s not allowed to have a mysterious gaze that oozes both curiosity and intensity all at once. The man I’m currently in a million-dollar lawsuit with is not supposed to be on level with Mr. freaking Darcy.

I’ve been walking the midway for cleanup. My hands are full of garbage. I look like a raccoon, scavenging for dinner. Of course I’m holding trash when I meet the king of roller coaster design.

It’s like a new mom asking me if her baby is cute when he came out looking like a newborn Benjamin Button. There’s no nice way to say, Those wrinkles are adorable, ma’am.

He’s an absolute snack, but only if Gushers had poison injected.

Where do I even start with Emory? The snark? The height? The eyebrows? “We didn’t talk much,” I say.

“I propose Mr. Eyebrows.” “Mr. Eyebrows?” I ask with a weak smile. “I passed him on the midway today,” Theo says. “His eyebrows are thick, like caterpillars.” Bennett laughs. “Like Eugene Levy?” “No, no, much sexier.” Sexier?!

His gaze. His ticcing jaw. His eyebrows, I suppose. His sexiness. But that doesn’t change his attitude. His certified grumpiness.

Quinn understands me. We moved in together right after graduating high school, which was over ten years ago. If Georgia recognized domestic partnerships from extended joint residency, we’d be eligible.

Granted, the man who told me this is the same man who dilutes most of his blood with alcohol nowadays, so I take what he says with a heaping pile of salt.

While Fred and I meet at the front of the park with lazy smiles and travel mugs of coffee, Lorelei’s hands are free, and she’s running on nothing other than sheer sunshine. Or cocaine. I don’t know her life.

I don’t want to think of that man in bed. He’s probably boring and only does missionary and never reciprocates oral. If I had to guess. So, why does my mind want to imagine the opposite? A dude who takes charge?

I don’t have the heart to say that it isn’t me with the drinking problem, but my dad. I choose not to drink so that it’s one less vice I inherit from my father, but that doesn’t mean I mind if others indulge.

They’re all like sisters to me,” he says with a laugh, but he falters for a moment before adding, “Sorta.” I don’t overlook the weird bit of guilt on his face.

“I won’t ride it if you can’t.” “Why?” And for a weird moment, his breath is shaky on the exhale.

Sometimes, I try to pin down the exact moment our relationship changed.

The only time she didn’t bring it up was when she walked out. The jokes were over at that point. I would have followed had she not asked me to keep making coasters. “This is your calling,” she said.

I blink for a second or two because he’s got this weird thing on his face. Is that … a smile? My heart practically stumbles its way into a faster rhythm.

How in the world is he focused on me—sweaty, hair tied in the messiest of messy buns—when my best friend is literally in full Queen Bee makeup, painted up to look as beautiful as humanly possible? Yet here Emory is, staring at me. Expectantly. Not giving her a second look.

No little gesture of solidarity. Not even one tiny inkling of something that shows he’s remotely human at all. Beep-boop, must process business. “I’ve had a change of plans,” he says. Kindness does not compute.

She’s a different person with them. Beautiful, beaming, and laughing. Always laughing. I’m envious.

We’re two soldiers on either side of the embodiment of extroversion that is Orson Mackenzie. I swear, if Orson tells me to smile one more time, I’ll kill the guy. Cousin or not.

Lorelei, whether she knows it or not, watches the sun rise with me every morning. I wonder if she knows she’s no longer alone. I wonder if I could get any freaking creepier, Jesus Christ.

She doesn’t seem to carry the world on her shoulders; she looks like she dances with it instead. At least in front of others. Not me. Never me. They love her. Absolutely and thoroughly.

God, am I sick or what? This woman is suing my company for ungodly amounts of money, and yet … and yet … “I’ll be there in five,” I say.

“Come on, y’all,” Bennett says. “He’s probably just lonely. Look at the guy.” We all turn to stare at once. “Yeah, he does have an old man feeding the pigeons kinda vibe,” Theo muses. “Good,” Quinn and I say at the same time.

“What?” I ask. “Don’t say what, all innocent-like,” Quinn says. “Even I got a little hot, seeing that.”

“Oh, that man feels for you. Maybe it’s hate, but boy, does he love to hate you.” My whole body tenses.

“Yeah, sure, the dude has problems,” Quinn says, tilting her head side to side before taking one long gulp of her drink and setting it down on the table. “But I think you might be ninety-nine percent of them.”

All I can think about is how Lorelei laughs. And how she doesn’t laugh with me. Not ever.

She’s trying to stay calm, but I can feel the energy radiating off her. I know because I feel it too—a live wire electrifying every nerve in my body from just looking at her. I’ve never met a woman so invigorating.

It’s not until she’s out the door that I realize my heart is beating fast. Beating for her.

I see it in his eyes first, how they relax a little. They trail down to my lips, linger for one second, then two—much too long—and then slowly make their way back up to my eyes.

And before I can take another breath, he steals it from me. Emory Dawson kisses me. His lips press against mine. Suddenly. Out of nowhere.

Lorelei Arden is everything. She’s the steady rise of a lift hill. She’s more exciting than the anticipation as you crest the top. She is the thrill of the downhill, the rush of anxiety through your chest, the harsh banked turn, the dip in the track, the grip from the brake run. And I couldn’t help myself.

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It’s sunny today. Lorelei’s hip might not be hurting. I can find solace in that.

“Oh God, don’t tell me you’ve slept with Theo too.” “No,” he says, halting me with his hand in the air. He looks like a deer in headlights before shaking his head. “No, she’s … no.” His face reddens. “No, I haven’t.” I sip my coffee. Touchy subject. Got it.

“Hmm,” in response. I narrow my eyes. “What?” “You’re kinda sounding like a nice guy.”

To top it all off, he’s in a tight white tee and gray sweatpants—gray sweatpants that hang artfully from his hips and leave almost nothing to the imagination. Just below the knotted drawstring is a nice, healthy, thick bulge, and by God, if that is him not erect, then how in the world— I glance up at his face, and he pauses on the spot. He’s staring at me, no doubt watching as I just checked out his freaking wiener.

We pack up, me rolling my mat in silence as Quinn continues to whisper, “Holy moly, that was next-level porn.” “Quinn!” “Is that weird to say? It’s weird. Sorry. Yes. We hate the guy.”

I know what Honeywood deserves. This will be better. I just know it.

I resist the urge to look over at her. I know we’ll be working together longer if Fred approves my pitch, but the less I look at that dreamy, doe-eyed gaze, the less I’ll try to get her to kiss me again.

“Okay,” Lorelei says. “I’m curious to see what you can do.” My heart beats a little faster. My stomach does flip-flops. Is that … butterflies? Oh God, pull it together, man. You’re thirty-six, for Christ’s sake.

I imagine most people don’t push her. They do exactly what she accused me of doing. They pity her. Nobody wants to hurt her feelings. I call bullshit. She’s got thick skin. She just needs the right passion project to talk about, and for her, it’s these coasters.

She gives her head a small, almost-imperceptible shake, as if wordlessly asking me, Why? I also wish I knew why the gentle small-town girl captivates me so.

What would you say if I told you I’m in trouble?” “Where are we burying the body?”

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For me, I wanna know what I did to deserve my life getting turned upside down. Maybe it was that time I didn’t donate to the Sarah McLachlan dog commercial at three in the morning. Yes, surely, the universe is giving me karmic retribution for that.

My mama raised me better than that. She would murder me if she found out I’d kissed the guy I was suing. First degree. Premeditated. She’d be smiling in her mug shot, all while my dad said, I brought you flowers for jail, honey.

Emory Dawson is an excellent kisser. He’s the type of man who kisses with his whole weight and all his passion. I wonder if he’s won awards in that too.

“He admitted that his last presentation was generic too,” I say. Quinn, mid-sip, sputters out her drink. “Good Lord, let me keep my food down!” she says, placing the can next to her discarded pizza.

Quinn slurps her drink. “Good kisser though.” I throw the pillow on the ground and loll my head to the side, blinking at her. “And,” she continues, “I bet he’s good at oral too. Most good kissers are.” “Quinn! Jesus!”