(Wilder Adventures, #2)
Publication date: September 23rd 2021
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, Romance
Synopsis:
His best friend’s sister is rocking his boat. In the best way possible.
Brody: What’s a bad boy doing hosting a book club? Excellent question. All I can tell you is, it’s not going well. I forgot the bug wipes, the extra TP, and the hand sanitizer, we’re out of wine, and… well, I may have made some people angry, if the reviews are any indication. The only way to dig myself out of this hole is to redeem myself by offering the best girls’ nights out in town.
Enter my best friend’s sister. I’ve gone out of my way to avoid Rachel, since despite her good-girl rep, I can’t seem to get her out of my head. Now she’s in my boat… and if I don’t watch myself, soon she’ll be in my bed. Things are going surprisingly well between us… but I know myself, and I’m not this guy. I’m the guy you want for fantasy fulfillment, not the guy you want for forever.
But what if I need this time to be different?
Excerpt
The growl of an engine drowns Amanda out as a motorcycle takes the turn into the Wilder driveway a little too fast, kicking up wood chips and dust. It comes to a stop and Brody dismounts, removing his helmet and setting it down. The sun catches a glint in his hair, of course. He pushes his fingers through it, a habit he’s had since childhood. His hair is always disheveled, which takes nothing away from it.
Ohhh, Brody Wilder, you are a work of art. A scowl-y, troubled, troubling work of art.
He’s wearing bad-ass motorcycle boots, a form-fitting black t-shirt that shows off spectacular pecs and ripped abs, leather cuff bracelets on both wrists—one braided, one looped with chain—and a pair of ripped jeans.
As he gets closer, I try not to track each and every rip, but it’s tough, and my eyes find the one at the top of his thigh, where the golden hair on his thick quads peeks through. My fingers itch to touch it. It’s tough to look away.
I discover Amanda is watching me drool over Brody, amused. She raises her eyebrows at me, and I mouth, Sorry.
“No worries,” she says. “I’m really fucking used to it.”
It’s possible I look alarmed, because she hastily adds, “I mean, not just him. All of them.”
“Hey.”
Brody utters the monosyllable in a honey-rich voice that I feel somewhere right below my belly button. Or, say, six inches lower.
I’m somewhat shocked to discover that he seems to be addressing me, or at least my general vicinity.
Brody Wilder doesn’t talk much, and he never talks to me.
I got used to it during my long teen years when I pined for him and he seemed not to know I existed, except for the occasional, “Oh, hey, Rach,” when he was at our house and I was impossible to ignore. Like, standing right in front of him.
“Oh, hey, Rach,” Brody says, when he reaches Amanda’s side, which I guess means he wasn’t addressing me with the first “hey.” Big surprise there.
“How are things?” I ask him, because making conversation is the polite thing to do in situations like this.
He shrugs.
Right.
I don’t know if he hates me? Or just finds me so boring as to not be worth his time? Or…?
“Well,” says Brody. “Guess I’ll head into the backyard.”
“I’m surprised you showed up,” Amanda says. “Given that rumor has it Gabe’s gunning for you.”
Brody scowls. “He already laid into me. Figure I’m safe enough here with everyone around.”
In response to my raised eyebrow, Amanda says, “The guys are trying to revamp their business to change with the times, and it’s a better fit for some than others.”
I’d heard a little bit about this plan from my mom and Connor. Just about the time the Rush Creek rodeo failed, a hot spring popped to the surface—apparently, hot springs naturally come and go on their own. The arrival of this one ushered in a whole lot of wedding-and-spa businesses. And the Wilders are trying to win over those tourists, because outdoor adventuring has taken a big hit recently.
Brody’s permanent scowl deepens. “Book-club-on-a-boat,” he says, darkly, to me. It’s the most words he’s said to me in a decade.
“Sounds fun?” I hazard, and the scowl settles into permanence. Yeah. He doesn’t like me. I catalog the black-and-gray ink on his arms instead of sulking about his attitude. His tattoos are gorgeous, complex patterns—rain on a window, a school of interlocking fish, waves.
It must have taken someone hours to ink them—and it must have been a long, painful experience for Brody.
I bet he didn’t even flinch.
Why is that so unbelievably hot to imagine? Brody, grim-faced and stoic under the needle.
Why, Rachel? Why are you having underpants feelings for a man who doesn’t speak complete sentences to you?
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