“It’s going to be fine. You two just need to talk. Seriously. The first time might be awkward, but it’ll get better once you tell him why you didn’t visit and how happy you are that he’s home.”
She nods her head and twists her long, auburn bangs around one of her fingers. When I first moved back a few weeks ago, she’d told me that she cut them after a night of stress worrying about Colt and then immediately regretted her decision so now, she’s growing them back out. I think they’re cute and fit her.
“Okay, so how are we going to do this?”
“Where is he?” I ask.
“Cash said he’s building a fire pit and working on the foundation of his home,” Regan explains, shifting nervously back and forth on the balls of her heels.
“Why don’t I head down there first, talk to him, and after about thirty minutes, you call me? I’ll tell you to meet me down there,” I suggest.
She nods quickly. “Okay, that sounds good.”
Placing my hands on her shoulders, I give her a reassuring grin and squeeze. Regan’s only a couple of inches shorter than my five-foot-eight frame, but she’s always seemed smaller somehow—more sheltered by her brothers, more petite, more unsure of the world. Even though we’re the same age, I’ve always felt an urge to protect her which is silly considering I’ve been the one being protected by her twin brother.
“We’ve got this,” I tell her.
“Okay. I’ll call you in thirty minutes and then head down to meet you.”
I throw her a thumbs-up before heading back to my car for the short drive to the back of the property where she said Colt is building his new house.
It’s not long before the tree line breaks, revealing a cleared space that stretches right up to the Creek. A wave of nostalgia hits me hard as soon as I see the water bubbling there. This creek was our playground growing up—me, Regan, Colt, and Maverick. We’ve spent countless summers here, wading through the cool water, catching crayfish with makeshift nets, and escaping the relentless heat in a town where pools were a luxury few could afford. The fact that this is the spot where he’s chosen to build his house feels almost surreal.
I spot Colt immediately. He’s chopping wood next to an old, rusting RV parked on the land, his movements smooth and deliberate as he swings the ax through the air like a man who knows what he’s doing. When my car’s tires crunch on the dirt, he pauses, turning toward me and lifting his hand to block out the piercing sunset. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a crumpled white T-shirt, swiping it across his face to wipe.
Andholy, hell.
Time stops for a second as my eyes lock on him. His biceps ripple with each movement, and his abs glisten under the warm sun, taut and sculpted like they belong on a damn statue. Tattoos snake across his tanned skin—smooth, inked stories covering his chest, arms, and back. One tattoo wraps tightly around his rib cage, a haunting image of a devil and an angel, the kind of work that must have been agonizing to sit through when he got it in prison.
My gaze lingers on the stark black lettering etched into his chest just above his strong pecs, the wordINNOCENTwith a thin black line crossed through it.
When did Colt get so big?
I swallow hard, torn between wanting to stare at the man standing in front of me and knowing that I need to talk to him about Regan.
I put the car in park as he realizes it’s me, waves, and I take a moment to compose myself, taking a deep breath and trying to calm my racing heart.
Sure, I’ve always had atiny, harmless, totally manageablecrush on my brother’s best friend. Who wouldn’t? The Marshall brothers are some of the most attractive men in the entire town—probably the whole East Coast. Colt was always the kindest one, the caring one, the one who had my back and Maverick’swhen we were just a couple of misfits trying to find our place with a reckless and neglectful father.
But he’sneverlooked like this before. This… this...temptation.
Pull it together, Molly. You’re here for Regan, not to drool over her brother.
Besides, what are the odds he’d ever see me as anything other than Maverick’s little sister? Arecently divorcedlittle sister, at that. If he hasn’t noticed me by now, it’s not going to happen.
I use that thought to propel me forward while I slide out of the car and head his direction, doing my best to look unaffected while he keeps swinging that damn axe like a mountain man. Each powerful strike sends his muscles rippling, cords of strength that look like they could snap at any moment. My eyes drift to the tattoos again, and I can’t help but admire just how good they look on him. He didn’t have them when we were younger, but he wears them like a second skin now.
“Hey, Mols. How’s it going?” he asks, glancing up and flashing me a brief smile before stooping to gather the chopped wood. He hauls the pieces into his arms and walks them over to a pile in at the edge of the clearing, and I swear I’m losing it. He’s in nothing but a pair of worn Wrangler jeans slung so low on his hips it’s obvious there’s no underwear involved.
What about chafing?And is he… barefoot?
Fuck, I forgot how big his feet are.
I force myself to answer, but my voice wobbles. “Hey… hey.”
Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice how flustered I am. It’s been too long since I’ve been with a man and I’m totally overreacting. Maybe this weekend I should go out with Regan to Krissy’s, get drunk and find someone for some meaningless sex so that I can stop obsessing over him.
Tossing the wood onto the pile, he grabs that dirty T-shirt again, swipes it across his face, and then throws it on the ground before stepping toward me, still shirtless, still so damn sexy.
