Feels like Rain (Lake Fisher 3)

“We will. Soon.” I rush over to him and wrap my arms around him from behind, bringing him close so I can blow a raspberry on his neck. “And you can call me whatever you want, whenever you want,” I say. “Starting now.”

“Mom,” he says quietly, like he’s testing the word.

But inside, it’s like he just shouted it for the very first time ever.

“You’ve gone and done it now,” Ethan teases. But he’s grinning too.

Gran glances toward the sky. “It feels like rain, y’all. My old bones are aching.”

Ethan looks at me and smiles. “I love the rain. Don’t you?”

And in that moment, I know Ethan will stand with me in any kind of weather for the rest of my days. Of that I am completely sure.

About the Author

Tammy Falkner lives on a farm in a lovely, sprawling little town in rural NC with her beekeeper husband and a house full of boys, a few dogs, and a cat or two (or five - who has time to count?). As half of the Lydia Dare team, she co-wrote ten books, including the Westfield Wolves series and the Gentlemen Vampyre series. A huge fan of Regency England, she wrote three books for Sourcebooks as Tammy Falkner, featuring Regency Faeries, and then she began writing contemporary New Adult romances featuring the five tattooed Reed Brothers.

Keep Reading for a Sneak Peek at Book 4!

Feels like Trouble

Keep Reading for a Sneak Peek of Book 4, Feels like Trouble!

41

Grady Parker

Sunday morning is usually a time for confessions. But while many people find themselves on a church pew, singing about His glory, I find myself naked in Markie Allen’s azalea bushes. How could I be sure I’m naked? Because Ms. Markie herself tells me.

“You’re naked,” she says as she nudges my foot. I crack one eye open and look up at her. She stares down at me, her white hair limned by the sun like she’s wearing a halo.

I lift my head and look south. “Well, I’ll be damned. I am naked,” I reply. I start to nod my head, but that hurts like a son of a bitch, so I stop that nonsense real quick like.

“And you ain’t got no clothes on, neither,” she says. She leans forward, getting closer to me, her brown eyes squinting. “That’s a nice tattoo you got, right there beside your junk.”

I reach down and cover said junk with my palm. “Now, Ms. Markie,” I start. “You know it’s not nice to talk about a man’s junk in public.”

“Well, I reckon if a man is indecent enough to wave his junk about in public, I can be indecent enough to talk about it.” Markie unties her apron from around her hips and passes it to me. “Cover all that up. The neighbors are looking out their windows. Nosy bastards.”

Ms. Markie tilts her head and stares at me. She has a way of getting to the truth, and she typically does it quick. Just one glance from her, when her eyes narrow at you, and you want to bare your soul about why you’ve bared your ass.

“It’s not what you think,” I rush to say.

She holds up a hand to shush me. “You got no idea what I think.”

I imagine I’m probably thinking damn near the same thing she is. I’m thinking that I’m an idiot. “Yes, ma’am,” I say instead. I stand up with Ms. Markie’s wadded up apron over my man parts. She glances down once and rolls her eyes, so I shake it out and tie it around my waist.

“Now you feel like telling me how you ended up in my azalea bushes?” she asks. She motions for me to follow her.

I scratch my head. I cautiously pick my way across her driveway on my bare feet. “I don’t rightly know, Ms. Markie.” I’m pretty sure it had something to do with a mason jar full of moonshine and my broken heart.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” she asks. She turns to face me as she swings open the screen door, holding it wide with her body.

I scratch my head again. “I remember Junior Adams passing me a jar of moonshine. I remember it burned like fire going down.” I stop and think. “I don’t remember much after that.”

“Junior Adams’s grandpappy makes some strong shine,” she says. “I got some in the cabinet. You know, for when I get down with the cough.”

“Mm hmm,” I hum. Everybody in Macon Hills knows Ms. Markie tips back some shine, and she doesn’t require a sore throat or cough to give her a reason. But it’s her lie; she can tell it any way she wants.