Cockney:A Stepbrother Romance(38)

     



 



Oh please no, please God don't say it-



"We've decided to get married this fall!"



The world goes silent, and it's in slow motion as my jaw drops and I  turn to stare in horror at the dangerous, tattooed, muscled bad-boy  standing there grinning at me.



"So Paige, meet Knox, your new stepbrother."



My tongue turns to lead in my mouth and I just stand there staring at  him in shock as the takes the cigarette out of his mouth, crosses those  lean muscle arms over his chest and just grins at me. His eyes roam  quite freely over my body as he opens those perfectly devilish lips;  "Well, well, well."



Oh this is not good.





There's a beat, and then a moment of clarity as I suddenly recognize the  fiery-haired, angry chick standing in front of me. And then my jaw  about drops to the ground.



Holy shit.



There's no way this is the girl from that night. She's got glasses on  now, and she's wearing her hair up in this old-lady librarian bun, with  this ridiculous collared shirt tucked into pleated mom-khakis - fucking  khakis. Like, who the hell even wears khakis anymore?



My brain says there's no way this can be the same girl, but the longer I  just stare at her, not saying anything like some kind of weirdo, it all  comes together. She had her hair down then, her red hair wild and  streaming out from under a cowboy hat. This was the girl in the  knee-high boots, with that slinky shirt that you could kind of see her  bra through.



The girl who sang her fuckin' heart out on that stage, so much so that  even the assholes like me who were only at that bar to begin with  because of their loose carding policy shut the fuck up and listened.



The girl who was all sass and vinegar when I tried to buy her a drink  after, and the girl who took off the second I tried to make a move on  her. OK, scratch that; the girl that looked at me like I had three heads  when I suggested that we go get to know each other better in the men's  room.



Yeah, OK, so not exactly my finest moment.



She looks like a deer caught in headlights right now as her dad just  fucking spills the news like that. And honestly, my face would probably  look a just like it if I was hearing it for the first time on the steps  of my house with - surprise! - my new family right there. As it stands,  it's exactly how my face looked yesterday when my mom broke the news to  me. I mean, shit, I'm still nursing the hangover from processing that  little nugget of news.



This gi- Paige is staring at the two of them, slowly shaking her head.  Jesus, she looks like she was even less ready for this than I was. And  here I was thinking that it was Amanda who was the world's most  secretive parent, what with this whole surprise relationship. At least  Paige looks just as fucking confused as I did last night, which I know  is a weird sort of comfort, but at least I'm not the only one walking  blind into this. I mean I guess I'd know my mom had a boyfriend, but  hearing the "fiancé" bomb was a slap in the fucking face. Oh, and we're  moving in with him? Fantastic.



And now here I am just meeting him for the first time right here in the  driveway of his crazy-ass mansion on the day we move into it. No, let me  take that back, I'm meeting him for the first time as my new  stepfather. I've met Joe before, but it was three years ago as "Mr.  McCauley, dad's boss who's here to offer his condolences and support."



Way to comfort the grieving widow, you prick.



So here we are, about eighteen hours after my mom dropped the bomb.  "P.S. I'm marrying you your dead dad's boss; good luck with therapy for  the rest of your life" is a pretty fucked up way to start dinner  conversation with your son.



OK, so it may have been slightly more tactful than that, but still; what  the actual fuck? I mean don't get me wrong, I hardly knew my dad  anyways since he was always out on some job site drilling somewhere.



But he was drilling for Joseph McCauley. Billionaire crude oil-tycoon  Joseph McCauley. The very same Joseph McCauley, in fact, who's standing  there with my mom's hand in his and looking at me like he's sizing me  up; like he's worried about letting this son of a roughneck - this kid  with tattoos and a leather jacket and a motorcycle - into his home and  anywhere near his daughter.



He should be.



Because as my eyes dart back to her, standing there with her arms  crossed tight over her chest and a wild, accusatory look in her eyes as  she stares at me, I get a certain notion inside my head. Yeah, I've know  girls just like this; the uptight, wound-up type. But I also know the  wild side that's trapped behind girls just like Paige McCauley. There's a  fierceness and yearning to run free that I can see behind her eyes, and  as I stand there grinning right in her stuck-up scowling face, I know  I'm gonna find that wildness.



And I'm gonna unchain it.



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Heat

Soldiers of Fortune: Book 1



Aubrey Irons





Five years ago, that cocky, egotistical a**hole played me like a fool and broke my heart.



Hudson Banks; the dominant, tattooed, womanizing,  ex-Marine-turned-billionaire who runs God-knows-what at my late father's  company.



Oh, and he's sexy as all f**k, and he damn well knows it.



He's like a gasoline fire; a scorchingly hot disaster, and if I'm not careful, I'm going to get burned.



I'm on track to be the youngest New York State Senator ever elected; the  bright, gutsy, good-girl media darling. Except my campaign funding just  went dry, and it looks like the only solution is coming from the last  person on Earth I'd ever want to take anything from. Oh, and it turns  out bad-boy, tough-guy Hudson will be shadowing me 24/7 after he makes  it clear that he's in charge of "protecting the investment.""



Yeah, just perfect; a reckless, irresistible d*ck like Hudson Banks is  the last person I need being "in charge" of anything to do with me.



Especially when I still can't forget the taste of his lips or the  feeling of that massive hardness I know he's packing between his legs.  It's not fair that he's even hotter now than he was back then. It's not  fair that those smoldering, arrogant eyes and that cocky, panty-melting  grin still make me warm in places they shouldn't. And it's definitely  not fair that five years later, I still can't get him out of my head.



So it looks like I've got two races on my hands: the one for election,  and the one against the burning heat threatening to tear us both apart.  But on the sprint to the finish line, what happens when the man who has  everything comes up against the one thing he can't have?





Author's Copyright



Copyright © 2015 Aubrey Irons

Cover Photo: FXQuadro/DepositPhoto

Cover Design: Aubrey Irons





This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are  solely the product of the author's imagination and/or are used  fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,  organizations, actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. The  author acknowledges the trademark status of products referred to in this  book and acknowledges that trademarks have been used without  permission, except in the case of brief quotations used for review.



All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in  any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except  in the case of brief quotations used for review purposes.



This book is intended for mature, adult audiences only. It contains  sexually explicit and graphic scenes and language which may be  considered offensive by some readers. Please do not continue reading  this book of you are under the age of 18 or are offended by content of  this nature.



All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older  and all acts of a sexual nature are completely consensual.





"They're fucking what?!" I almost drop the glass of champagne in my hand  as I feel the floor practically drop out from beneath my feet. My  campaign manager Donald's face is impassive and steely - pretty much  like it always is even in crisis meltdown situations like this - with  his bushy grey eyebrows furrowing slightly like they do when he's got  news for me neither of us want to hear.



"They're pulling out, Reagan; entirely." I see him reach out of habit  for the phantom pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket that hasn't been  there for five years; the frown in his eyebrows deepening.



"All of it?"



He sticks a pen between his lips instead of his old vice and glowers at me; "Every damn penny."



I swear fiercely under my breath, clenching my hand tight and digging my  nails into my palm as the reality of the situation hits me like a wet  blanket; "How fucked are we?"



Donald tenses his face; he hates when I swear, especially in public and  especially in public when there are cameras everywhere. "Lower your  voice, Reagan" He mutters through the pen in his teeth, looking at me  like I'm an ill-behaved child in that way that drives me crazy. In the  movie version of my life, Donald is the kind and sagely grandfatherly  type who guides me along a path of adorable metaphors and teary-eyed  life lessons to victory. In reality, he's cold, calculating, and  robotically efficient at keeping me in line with his battle plans. But  then again, kindly grandfatherly types doling out anachronisms like they  were candy don't win elections; robots do.