Connell (Carolina Reapers 3)

Lucky for me, I was not the general population.

“I can’t. I have a work thing,” I told him, watching the GPS carefully so I didn’t miss her house. Not that there were many houses out here.

“Right. So not sure if you remember, but skating is your work thing.”

“And I would love to get on the ice with you again today, but I told Annabelle I would go to her family barbecue.” We’d just had a pick-up game yesterday.

After a good thirty seconds of silence, I sighed.

“What do you want to say, Cannon?”

“Nothing. I didn’t realize you two were that close. Or that you were family-meeting close with any woman. Or any man. You know I don’t care how you swing.”

“Ha. Funny. And it’s not like that. I guess her family has been asking to meet me since we’ve been working together for five weeks now.” One more week, and I’d be done with my community service.

“Ah, she wants to show off the prize pony. Got it. What I don’t get is why you agreed to it.”

“Because…” I blew out a frustrated sigh. “Because I want her.”

“Then fuck her and move on like you usually do.”

“It’s not that simple.” The truth of that statement had my hands strangling the wheel as I passed the first house since turning onto this backroad. Damn, where the hell did this woman live?

“You don’t just want her. You like her.”

“Yes, and I have no bloody clue what to do about it. There, is that what you were asking?” A line of parked cars appeared up ahead on the right.

“Not—”

“She’s impossible. You know that, right? She obeys every rule and does everything by the book. That’s why she’s so against going on an actual date with me.”

“Because you’re a convicted criminal serving his sentence under her? Or because she thinks that all you want is to get her under you?” he asked, a trace of amusement in his tone.

“The first,” I admitted since the way she’d kissed me back last week implied that the second might not be an issue. “We’re polar opposites. The woman seriously needs to loosen up.”

I pulled up behind the last car and parked, counting at least seven other cars. Exactly how big was her family?

“Look, Scot, I’m happy to play Dr. Phil, but I’m the last person you want to get relationship advice from. I’ve yet to find a woman I’d like to fuck more than once or twice. But it’s funny because both Noble and McCoy are probably who you’d want to talk to about relationship shit, and ironically, they’re headed to the rink to skate right now.”

He left the hint hanging there in the air.

“Yeah, yeah. You guys have fun.”

“See ya.” He hung up without waiting for me to say goodbye because that’s just what he did.

I grabbed the box of cupcakes I’d brought from Sweet Treats, the local bakery, and mentally patted myself on the back for getting two dozen instead of one. By the time I reached the front porch of Annabelle’s house, my short-sleeve button-down was threatening to stick to my skin from the heat and humidity.

The porch was decorated with boxes of cascading flowers in pinks and purples and even had a porch swing. It was exactly as I’d pictured it—not one flower petal out of place.

Before I could knock, the front door was yanked open by a woman with a wide grin. “You must be Connell,” she said in the same deep southern drawl Annabelle used.

“I am,” I answered with a practiced smile.

“Well, come on in!”

“Thank you.”

She pushed open the screen door, then led me in. “I’m Annabelle’s Aunt Milly. Belly-boo? Your very handsome Scotsman is here!” She called out as she looked me up and down. “And that accent? My, my!”

We walked through a well-kept living room and turned the corner where the floorplan opened up to the den, kitchen, and dining room. Holy shite, there were a lot of people here.

“Aunt Milly, I’ve told you a million times not to call me that,” Annabelle chastised with a tight smile as she pushed through the small crowd. Her cheeks flushed, and I immediately got it—she was embarrassed.

“I brought ye cupcakes,” I told her as we met beside the dining room table.

“Oh my Lord, did you hear him talk?” a feminine voice asked from the kitchen.

Annabelle grimaced.

“Dinna fash yerself, lass,” I said softly. When she arched an eyebrow in confusion, I laughed. “Sorry. I mean, don’t worry. I’m used to being gawked at, remember?”

“It really means a lot that you’d do this,” she whispered as she reached for the bakery box. Her hair was down today, the curls braided down one side of her face until they stopped just above her breast. I nearly swallowed my tongue when I saw the way her retro wrap dress hugged her frame. It was pale pink, which I figured had to be her favorite color by now.