Powerless (Chestnut Springs, #3)

by Elsie Silver

What kind of man stops in the middle of breaking me out of my sham of a wedding to rub my sore feet? A damn good one.

I shouldn’t be salivating over him on what was supposed to be my wedding day. But salivating over Jasper Gervais is part of my personality at this point.

“Sunny, you’re gonna need a bath when we get to the ranch.” “Maybe if I drink enough of these”—I lift the six-pack, feeling a little loopy—“I’ll invite you to join me.”

“That’s probably what you tell all the girls, Gervais.” “Nah, Sunny. You’re my only girl.”

Because I’ve been staring at Jasper Gervais since I was ten years old, and suddenly . . . he’s staring back.

Jasper: I don’t like talking to people. Sloane: You talk to me. Jasper: You’re not people. Sloane: Lmao. What am I then? Jasper: My person.

“Times have changed, Sloane. I’m not scared anymore. You’re not my fucking friend. You’re just mine.”

“I feel like I could crumble under the weight of not wanting to disappoint you. I’m paralyzed by my fear of losing you.”

Suddenly I don’t really care about deserving you when it’s so damn clear you belong to me and always have.”

I decide I will now refer to this phenomenon as The Jasper Gervais Effect. He’ll edge you for a day and turn you into a happy desperate ho! That could be his tagline.

“On a scale of one to tail-baby-cousins, where would you put Jasper and Sloane?”