Becoming A Vincent (The Wild Ones 1)

Her entire face falls. “Oh,” she says, her face reddening.

The sun is starting to set now, and she fidgets awkwardly, focusing on where the massive ball of fire is sinking into the horizon.

“Makes sense why he was so uncomfortable with us. I thought it was just because he was shy and not used to the attention. Found it sort of cute or endearing. Now I feel stupid.”

I laugh lightly. “No need. I feel stupid for making the beards go away.”

Her eyes widen and she grabs my shoulders, shaking me a little. There’s my Delaney. “Don’t you ever say that again. This town finally, finally has men in it that don’t look like they crawled out of a gutter or survived an island where no one had to look at them for a decade. We should erect a statue of you to commemorate this momentous occasion that has forever changed Tomahawk for the better.”

We both dissolve into laughter, and Benson is suddenly back, his arm slipping around my waist and dragging me closer.

“What’d I miss?” he asks, though he feels a little stiff.

Delaney’s eyes twinkle with humor, and she winks at me. “Nothing. Just talking about sculptures. I’m going to go keep Paul company.”

She saunters away, and Benson relaxes against me. “Let’s go before someone else tries to stop us.”

“What’d my brothers say?” I ask as he pulls my hand.

“Threatened me with bodily harm if I took your virginity.”

I stumble over my own feet, and he laughs, turning to face me.

“I’m not a virgin,” I quickly tell him.

“I don’t think they want to accept that as the truth.”

I glare over my shoulder at my two brothers, who are staring at us with their arms crossed over their chests, daring Benson to make a wrong move.

“You can still kick their asses, right?” I ask as Benson tugs me to his boat, helping me off the dock.

“One on one in a fair fight? Definitely.”

Chapter 8

Wild Ones Tip #413

If a squirrel has firecrackers, run for your damn life.

Benson brings me another beer, popping the top on one of his own, as he shrugs out of his shirt.

My eyes widen, and I grip the beer in my hand too tightly. He tosses the shirt away, and he sits down beside me, dropping his arm over my shoulders like it’s no big deal that he’s now shirtless.

And touching me.

And shirtless.

I try to fix my attention on the TV, but it’s too hard.

“We’ll go out when we hear the fireworks starting,” he says. “But all the beer has me burning up.”

I can’t help myself; I poke his stomach to see if it’s as hard as it looks, and he jerks, looking down at me like I’m a crazy girl.

“How are you so hard?”

He chokes on his beer, and I replay those words in my head.

“I mean your body,” I amend.

He laughs lightly, shaking his head. “I kayak first thing in the morning almost every morning, which you know. I work on various projects—physically demanding projects, which you know. You’ve seen my gym; it’s not just for looks. Not to mention the running—”

“You run?” I ask, interrupting him as horror washes over me. “On purpose?”

His smile slowly forms. I really like that smile he’s been hiding for too long. “Yeah. At least once a day, usually early mornings…why?”

I shudder dramatically. “I don’t know you at all.”

A rumble of laughter escapes him as I try to process that.

“I don’t think we can be friends anymore,” I tell him, looking back at the imposter who I thought was awesome just a few seconds ago.

He just grins broader, not taking this as seriously as he should.

“So Liam and you looked chummy tonight,” he says, deflecting.

“Well, he didn’t confess to something as nasty as running on purpose.”

That smile only grows. “You trading me in for him as a friend? Or was he finally asking you out?”

I shrug, smirking as I redirect my attention to the TV.

“He’s not interested in me in that way. And I’m not interested in him. Too pretty for me.”

“Because he doesn’t have a beard,” he says hesitantly.

“No. Because he’s freakishly gorgeous.”

He bristles beside me, and I turn to face him.

“Why the inquisition?” I muse, echoing his words from that odd little breakfast we shared.

“Just curious,” he says before turning his beer up.

Absently, I notice his other hand is twirling strands of my hair around it.

“Weirdly, I know more about his story before Tomahawk than I know about yours. And we’ve known each other for six years. Been friends for three years. I’ve known Liam for a handful of days.”

He clears his throat, shifting uneasily. “What do you want to know?”

“The usual,” I say, turning to face him, feeling a little eager to get some answers.

Just as he opens his mouth to speak, there’s a loud pounding on the door. Cursing, he stands and goes to answer it, but I almost demand he puts a shirt on when people start walking in.