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Around seven the following morning…
Evie
A heavy chorus of booms sounds against the door, rousing me from a dead sleep. Bleary-eyed and dazed, I check the time on my phone.
“Ugh. Who is that?”
Rhett rolls onto his side and up, sliding into the wrinkled jeans I tore off him last night.
“I’ll check.”
Knowing I’m visible from the front door, I drag on my robe from the end of the bed, belting it closed as the door swings open.
Dane stands much like Rhett, shirtless and in a pair of jeans.
“Is she here?” He peers around Rhett.
“What did you do?” I screech as I fly down the stairs, my heart pounding in time to my footsteps.
He scrubs a palm down his tired face.
“I fucked up.”
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If you want to find out what happens with Caiti and Dane, preorder Where Our Turn Begins!
https://books2read.com/u/3Gwdvd
That’s a wrap on Rhett & E
vie! I hope you enjoyed reading their story! These two stole my heart from the very first meeting. If you loved their journey too, please consider sharing with a friend or leaving a review.
What To Read Next
Keep Reading for Kiersten and Nathan’s Story
https://books2read.com/u/47XYz7
Chapter One
Kiersten
Hand me a fun-size bag of M&M’s and there wouldn’t be enough candies to count the number of one-night stands I’ve had in my life. Hell, make it two bags, and I’ll gladly eat the leftovers.
I won’t ever apologize for the woman I am. Thirty-seven isn’t one foot in the grave, and nearing forty while single isn’t a death sentence.
However, at this exact moment, I regret some of my rambunctious actions of the past twenty-four hours. I feel the need to seek penance from Our Holy Creator in exchange for a little reprieve from the throbbing in my head and the ache in my joints.
There’s plenty of truth in saying we get less limber as we age, and I knew a backbend while I rode cowgirl was a stupid idea, but the vodka screamed yes! and my vagina backed that bitch up with a hell, yeah!
I bent and warped and cracked.
Nearly crippled myself all in the name of rough, wild sex.
Reality smacks me in the face this morning. I’m no longer a twenty-year-old spring chicken, proven by the pain rocketing through my back, and dammit, does that make me sound like an arthritic grandmother.
Groaning quietly from a pillowy cocoon of black sheets I don’t recognize, I wait for the hazy film obscuring my vision to recede. Squinting against the harsh sunlight—who doesn’t own freaking bedroom curtains?—I scan my surroundings, stop, and do a double take on the set of fantastic toned buns peeking from beneath the top sheet. And I’m not talking about bread.
