The Wayward Sister (The Wayward Sons 5)

Monica watches him go, like a vulture eyeing a piece of carrion. Honestly, I don’t blame her. Smith is hot. I’m the idiot that has a strange, strained relationship with him. Plus, I have two other handsome rangers in my life and bed. I may have a serious case of wanting my cake and eating it, too.

“Wow,” she says, gripping her notebook, “do the others look like that, too?”

“Adrian is prettier. Holden sweeter.” I nonchalantly tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “Oh, and they cook.”

Her perfectly sculpted eyebrow raises. “Really?”

“Yes.” I open my mouth, wanting to brag about their tongues and fingers, and of course, their cocks, but I don’t, because that’s crazy. Even though I think these men have made me lose my mind a little bit, I’m not that far gone.

“I’m sure you’ll be sad to see them go.”

“It’s a temporary situation. They have their lives, and I have mine, but it’s been nice having them around.”

The bathroom door closes down the hall and I give Monica a tight smile. “If that’s all, I probably should get back to work.”

“Of course.” She tears off a sheet of paper. “Overall, I think the house has great bones and I like what you’re doing aesthetically. I’ve made a few suggestions on the paper—things I think will open up the rooms and make it more appealing. I’ll check comps in the area and get back with you on a price tomorrow. Oh, and don’t forget, you’ll need to get your brother’s signature for the paperwork.”

“Right.” I take the paper from her, pushing aside the uncomfortable feeling in my chest again. Selling the house. It’s the end of an era. I have a lot to do, including talking to Dexter.

She leaves, skirt swishing behind her while leaving a lingering hint of her perfume. I scan the list. One of the things she’d like me to do is move the big bookshelf by the fireplace. Her note says it would look better against a different wall. The shelf is empty, we’d already cleaned it out and boxed up the books and knickknacks.

I cross the room and size up the bookshelf. It’s not a built-in, but it’s tall. I walk up to it and spread my arms. I can get my hands around each side. Moving it a few feet shouldn’t be a problem.

Pos

itioning myself on one side, I wedge it out from the wall. It’s heavier than I expected, but if I take it a few inches at a time, it should be fine. I tug and twist, shifting it slowly, dragging it across the floor. Everything goes smoothly until I move to the front, grabbing it by both sides to turn it. I jerk it too hard over an uneven spot in the hardwood and it lurches forward. “No, no, no, no…” I mutter to myself, feeling it topple toward me. The scene feels like it’s in slow motion, yet I can’t manage to get out of the way. The shelf falls, slamming hard against the coffee table and trapping me between it and the side of an arm chair. I’m completely stuck—unhurt but stuck—and before I have the chance to figure out what to do, Smith comes rushing around the corner.

Completely wet.

Soap still trailing along his neck and down the hard curves of his chest.

Oh, and he’s only wearing a towel that barely hangs over his defined hips.

“What the—” he says, the panic slightly diminishing from his eyes. “How the hell—”

He can’t complete a sentence, but he doesn’t hesitate, leaving wet footprints on the floor. It’s embarrassing how easily he lifts up the bookshelf.

“Are you okay?” he asks, squatting next to me once it’s stabilized. The flap of his towel gapes and I look away, focusing on his face.

Nope. That’s dangerous, too.

“Yes. I thought I could move it and it fell.”

“You scared the hell out of me. It sounded like the whole house fell over.”

I scramble to my feet, uncomfortable with how close I am to his nearly naked body. He smells so good, so soapy and clean. Somehow the water glistening on his skin only accentuates his muscles. Of course, the simple act of getting off my feet is awkward, and I quickly realize I’m not okay. I wince, swearing under my breath.

“What’s wrong?” his eyes skim over me.

“My wrist.”

I hold it up and he gently runs his fingers around the tender skin.

“The shelf was probably too much weight on it. Can you bend it?”

I test it. It moves, but a sharp pain shoots down my arm. “Yes.”

“Let’s get some ice.”