Claiming Serenity(17)

“It’s got nothing to do with you.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Declan threw back Donovan’s arm and stood, looking down at him like they weren’t friends, like Declan’s warning was meant for some asshole he didn’t trust and not his best friend. “What you do to Autumn’s friends affects me, trust me it does. If there was a problem and I didn’t offer to sort it out, then she’d be put off and, mate, I don’t like my woman put off at me. Ever.”

“That still…”

“Layla is Autumn’s friend. Thick as thieves, the whole lot of them. You mess one about…” he waved his hand, likely knowing Donovan got what he meant. “For your own good and for my bloody sanity, mate, please, promise me you’ll leave off Layla.”

Donovan nodded, knowing Declan was right, knowing that anything he and Layla did together would end in disaster. If it did, the shit would land sure and heavy at his feet. But as they left McKinney’s silently walking down the sidewalk ignoring the tension that Declan’s warning had brought, Donovan wasn’t so sure he could keep that promise to his best friend.





Five a.m. was too damn early for a run, no matter what Mullens said. By five-thirty, Donovan’s coach had the squad running up the mountain, past Fanning Falls, with a steady bellow of “move, you bastards” drowning out the loud spray from the waterfall and the wind rustling the trees.

All Donovan could think about was getting a shower and sleeping until his nine o’clock class. Then, he’d be free until his one o’clock class which meant he could have a small nap before practice that afternoon. He was looking forward to it and so he was not paying attention to much of anything in his apartment when he returned from their pre-sunrise run. Donovan didn’t notice that his roommate, Jeff, had left the television on or that there was a half-smoked blunt in the ashtray on the coffee table.

He simply moved to his room, slipping off his sweat-slicked shirt and made for his bathroom, still somewhat asleep, his mind fogged by the early morning and his exhaustion. The water scalding his skin; the sweet sting making a low moan lift from Donovan’s throat, the hot stream of water pounding into his overused muscles as he stretched his neck and moved his shoulders. And then, Donovan leaned back, tried to lather his thick blonde hair but the tangy scent of something sweet like syrupy snowballs melting in the summer caught his attention and then, finally then, did he see the shower of red water cascading down his body.

“What the hell?”

He jumped away from the spray, inching his nose toward that strawberry scent and then Donovan cupped his hand, taking a tentative sip of that red water.

“Fucking Kool Aid. Oh, I swear to God…” And he jumped out of the shower, tried rinsing his hair, his tinted skin with the sink faucet only to be assaulted by another whiff of strawberry and the pink water flowed again. “Where the hell did that little brat get so much damn Kool-Aid?”

Donovan left the bathroom with one person on his mind and thinking up plans, scenarios, of just how he’d pay her back.





Quinn O’Malley thought a lot of himself. That was Layla’s first impression of Declan’s half-brother. Why Autumn had brought him to the café was beyond Layla. The redhead professed to hate her boyfriend’s brother. She’d told Layla and Mollie that her knee had met his junk at least three times since he’d started living with Declan and Autumn’s dad, Joe.

“You like to party, love?”

Quinn’s low, heavy voice came right at Layla’s ear, making her flinch when she realized that he’d slipped into the seat right next to her. He’d at least waited until Mollie and Autumn had gone to the counter for a reorder. He wore a typical ‘I don’t care, but I really do care’ outfit—skinny, dark jeans, pristine black Chuck’s and a vintage wash tee that read “Feck Off, Please” in a large, obnoxious white font. It annoyed Layla that he was so good looking. It annoyed her that his shoulders were so broad, that the offensive t-shirt he wore pulled against his large chest.

“Depends on the party,” she told him, scooting her chair away from him when the Irishman leaned on the table.

His smile was lecherous. There was no other word for it. Maybe devious. Possibly indecent, but Quinn’s low-lidded eyes moved up her legs, to Layla’s hips and landed on her chest, where they stayed for a good moment too long.

Layla whistled, a quick, sharp sound that followed the snap of her fingers and brought Quinn’s gaze back to her face. “Upstairs, asshole. Where the eyes are.”