Cannon (A Step Brother Romance #3)

"You're one to talk about manners," she says, her voice trembling. "Ordering me around like I'm some kind of employee."

"I haven't even begun to order you around, sweet cheeks," I say. I clear my throat to try to hide the arousal that's evident in my tone, but the innuendo in the words is as plain as day. The fact is, I didn't want this fucking job, but after three months of trying to work in an office after getting out of the military, I'm shit out of luck. Apparently I was not adjusting well to a corporate environment. Now that I've see Addy in person, I'm not sure this was the best plan ever. A perpetual case of blue balls is not my idea of a good time.

Addy's cheeks flush pink, but I can't tell if it's because she's embarrassed or turned on. Either way, I feel smug when I see her reaction. "I'd love to see you try," she says.

"Is that a request?" I ask. The way her lips part slightly in response makes me think it sure as hell is, and I have to tell myself to step away from her before I really do something I regret. I can't even begin to imagine how the Colonel's head would fucking explode if I so much as laid a finger on Addy.

Of course, that might be even more incentive to behave inappropriately with the stepsister I haven't seen in five years, I think as I follow her inside the diner, watching her hips sway as she sashays on those heels.





SEVEN YEARS AGO


"He's troubled," my mother says, as she applies another coat of mascara to her lashes. She's half-bent over the vanity in her room, wearing a dress that's cut down her lower back, barely covering her rear, garish and more appropriate for a twenty-year-old than for her. Sometimes I think that my launch to stardom just gave her a reason to relive her youth. That's been doubly true since she met the Colonel.

At least the Colonel is somewhat responsible, better than the sperm donors that fathered my sister and I. Fathered is hardly the right word. They haven't been involved with us since they did the deed and left my mother. The Colonel might be okay. He's stiff as a board and doesn't smile much. And he makes everyone call him the Colonel, even though he's not in the Army anymore. So those are reasons to dislike him.

On the other hand, he does occupy my mother's time, gives her a distraction from micro-managing my life and career. So that's definitely a reason to love him.

But my mother and I aren't talking about the Colonel. We're discussing the Colonel's son Hendrix, who is tattooed and angry and the most gorgeous boy I've ever laid eyes on. "What do you mean, he's troubled?"

My mother gives me a long look, and for a second, I'm afraid she can read my mind, that she can see the very inappropriate thoughts I've had about Hendrix, that she can somehow sense the rush I get when I hear his name. I try to sound casual, nonchalant when I ask about him, try to give no indication of my curiosity.

My mother waves her hand dismissively and sighs. "You saw him, Addison," she says. "Tattoos and…well, anyway, you saw him."

Yes, I did see him. Hendrix Cole looks like trouble with a capital T.

Why does the thought of that thrill me?





PRESENT DAY


I stare at the menu, trying not to look at Hendrix, especially since I can feel his gaze on me without even glancing up. My body is still warm where his hands were when he carried me out of the building, and the thought of his arms around me sends a trail of goose bumps over my skin.

My cell phone vibrates, and I scroll through my unchecked messages, all about last night. Five from Jared the ex-boyfriend, none of which even apologize for getting a blow job from a redhead in the bathroom of the club. Two from my friend Sapphire: "OMG what a FUCKING TRIP. Sry @ Jared. U kno he's a player. U need 2 have revenge sex." One from Ada: "Sorry you had a fight. Jared will get over it."

Jared will get over it? He's the one with his cock in some other girl's mouth, and he's the one who'll get over it?

I put my phone in airplane mode. Screw Jared - and my so-called friends with their crappy advice. A waitress arrives at the table, and she stares at me for a minute, chewing her gum loudly. She taps her nametag, Beatrice, with the eraser end of her pencil, before directing the pencil at me, her eyes narrowed. "Anyone ever tell you that you look like that singer, Addison Stone?" It sounds more like an accusation than a question.

Hendrix peers over the edge of his menu. "Does she? I can't see the resemblance."

"She lives in Nashville, you know," the waitress says with a shrug. "That's what I've heard. I've never seen her around here, so it's probably not true. She seems more like a Hollywood type anyway."

"I've heard she's a huge diva," Hendrix says, and I kick him hard under the table.

"Anyway. Y'all ready to order, or what? I've got someone waiting for a to-go order. You want your usual?"

His usual?

Hendrix holds up his fingers. "Two," he says, taking my menu from my hands before I can protest. "And coffees."

Beatrice doesn't answer, just strides across the room, headed toward the cash register.