Connell (Carolina Reapers 3)

“Right, as I was saying. On the night of June ninth, Mr. MacDhuibh,” he paused and looked my way until I nodded. Guy’s pronunciation was shite, but it would do. “Did drive his four-wheeler at irresponsible speeds down Main street, at which point he lost control of his vehicle—”

“I swerved to avoid a wee rabbit,” I said to Gregory.

He shot me a glare. Guy probably would have elbowed me into silence had we not been in the middle of a courtroom...community center...thing.

“—causing a crash that resulted in a great deal of damage to—”

The door opened behind us and shut with a god-awful slam.

“You started without me?” The sweetest southern accent I’d ever heard in my life filled the community center, bouncing off the empty walls. Unfortunately, that sweet little voice belonged to the biggest pain in my arse I’d ever known.

Annabelle Clarke.

“Ms. Clarke, we were all in attendance and decided to start early,” Carson explained with a slight cringe.

“Well, I never.” She came into my peripheral vision and stopped just behind Carson’s table—the same row as Langley but definitely not the same side.

“Annabelle, as the city clerk, you are not required to be at every case this court hears.” Judge Hurston leaned back in his seat like he needed to settle in for the long-haul.

“Well, I certainly want to be present at this one!” She fisted her hands on her hips, and I gave into temptation, leaning back past Gregory to look at her.

The lass was bonnie, and that wasn’t a term I used lightly—certainly not since moving to America when I got drafted.

Her brown hair curled in thick waves that made my hands twitch as if they knew how soft it would feel. God, the woman was built for sin. That prim, tailored suit only accented the curves that starred in most of my x-rated fantasies lately. She wasn’t stick-thin like so many of the puck-bunnies that wiggled themselves into my lap at every opportunity. No, Annabelle was shaped like she’d been put on this earth purely to drive me bat-shit crazy—all soft skin, ample curves, thick, grippable hips, and breasts that belonged on a porn star.

Not that proper, orderly, stick-up-her-ass Annabelle Clarke ever watched porn with those big brown eyes—no, those were for spotting every single violation of the home owner’s association covenants or city ordinances possible. God, were they beautiful eyes, with thick, dark lashes.

Eyes that were currently glaring daggers into me over a lush mouth painted the most irresistible color of red. I bet she’d leave amazing prints on my—

“He destroyed our beloved Oliver!”

I did what?

“What are you blethering about, woman?” I asked, earning me a blistering look from Gregory.

Annabelle scoffed. “Oliver! Our cherished statue!”

“You named the bloody ostrich statue?” The woman might be the most fuckable piece of womanhood I’d ever seen, but damn was she daft.

“Take this seriously!” Langley hissed as she leaned forward and swatted my shoulder.

“I didn’t name it! The town did in 1933!” Annabelle exclaimed.

“Annabelle, sit down,” Judge Hurston ordered.

She shot me another quick glare but did as he bid.

“Carson, you were saying?” Judge Hurston finished with a sigh.

Carson shot Annabelle a look that said he clearly wasn’t comfortable with her sitting behind him, and then cleared his throat. “Right. Mr. MacDhuibh’s drag race—”

“Which I was winning,” I muttered under my breath, earning me another swat from Langley.

“—ended when he crashed into the ostrich statue.”

“Oliver!” Annabelle corrected.

Carson’s shoulders dipped. “Oliver,” he repeated with exasperation.

“Son, were you hurt?” Judge Hurston asked me.

“Bruised shoulder and broken ego, sir, but that’s all.” I bit back the instinct to tell him I wasn’t his son. Or any man’s son in any way but the most biological sense of the word.

“Glad to hear it. Carson, what are the damages to the statue?” The Judge flipped through the papers he’d been handed earlier.

“It’s about nine thousand in damages, but we’re waiting on one last estimate from a local company to be sure. It’s only the pedestal that’s affected—”

“A priceless pedestal!” Annabelle seethed.

Judge Hurston looked over his glasses at her, and she folded her arms under her breasts. If that neckline was just an inch lower, I would have had a whole new fantasy to work with tonight.

“Your Honor, if I may?” Gregory interjected.

“Please do,” the Judge answered.

“My client is prepared to pay any and all damages to the statue. He acknowledges his—”

“Idiocy?” Annabelle suggested sweetly.

“—mistake. I’m sure you know that June ninth was the day of the Stanley Cup parade, and my client is the first to admit that he was so overcome by that experience that his judgment was impaired.”

“Impaired by alcohol is more like it,” Annabelle quipped.

“He wasn’t drinking, Annabelle,” Carson retorted. “We have his toxicology report. For the love of God, would you like my job?”

Her cheeks ripened to a shade of pink just darker than the suit she wore. Her eyes flickered toward mine, and she mouthed, “sorry,” to Langley. Not me.