SweetHarts (5 Book Box Set)

by Kira Graham

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this!” I yell when I hit the beach and spot Achilles standing beside a hot beach babe, his smile so wide that I can see his teeth, even from this distance.

  The woman is dressed in a tiny pair of bathing suit bottoms the color of lemons, while the top half of her, the very generous top half, is covered in a vest-like thing that looks like it’s a wet suit or close to it. She’s blonde, tanned, toned, and exactly the kind of woman I’d normally look at more than once. So I do. Until I hear a throat clearing behind me and turn to see Cleo glaring at me, her thick glasses magnifying her slit eyes. She’s got her hair up in that old-lady bun thing she seems to favor, her body is covered in a flowery sack that I’m guessing is supposed to be a dress, not a tent, and her lips are painted that same nude shade from last night. Thick, disgusting, and so plain that I shouldn’t be gazing at her lips and wondering what they taste like. But wonder I do, and, sweet Jesus, I feel my dick respond when she licks her full lower lip before she purses them both primly.

  “Thank God we’re just friends because, as your friend, it’s my job to tell you that you’re a disgusting pig,” she mutters, her narrowed eyes straying to where Achilles is pretending to be graceful while the beach babe laughs and keeps him upright on the board.

  The man is good-looking—as both his brother and a man who looks a lot like the idiot, I can say that—but what he has in looks, he lacks in grace entirely. Ma once bemoaned his absence of coordination, and I heard her tell Pop that Achilles was born with two mismatched halves. One half goes left, while the other goes right, as if the idiot can’t decide what he wants to be doing at any given minute.

  It’s a damn good thing that he’s attractive, or I swear he’d be unlikable to chicks.

  “Why, thank you, Cleo-mine. It’s so lovely to see you, too. My day went just great, by the way,” I drawl, grinning when she frowns and shakes her head, her eyes straying behind me to Achilles.

  “Oh my God, he’s so hot that it’s hard not to stare. Until you keep looking at that train wreck and realize just how clumsy he is.”

  “That’s Achilles for you. The guy definitely needs to rethink surfing. And running. And probably going anywhere without bubble wrap surrounding his body.”

  “For other people’s protection,” Cleo snorts, wincing when we hear a female cry and turn to see Achilles sprawled out over the beach babe, his bigger form completely mashing her into the sand.

  I wince, too, but it soon turns to a curse of disgust when I hear giggling and see the idiot nuzzling his face into the general area of the beach babe’s boobs.

  “She doesn’t seem to mind,” I point out with a laugh, shaking my head when Cleo giggles and rolls her eyes.

  God, she looks terrible. And hot. I want to rip off her ugly glasses, kiss off that hideous lipstick, and peer under the surface so badly that my cock twitches behind my shorts, warning me that staring isn’t a good idea. Not when I forewent underwear and have nothing to hide a boner behind.

  “She’s probably all caught up in all that hotness,” Cleo mutters, smiling softly when I growl, hating the fact that she keeps eye-screwing my brother.

  What do they call it when you kill your sibling? I wonder, silently glaring at the asshole in question while planning some kind of torture for him. I shouldn’t be this pissed that Cleo’s checking him out. Hell, I’ve always found it hilarious when, in the past, my dates haven’t been able to stop staring at the good-looking SOB, so it shouldn’t bug me now that Cleo’s staring spellbound at the guy.

  But it does. It really fucking bugs me. Enough that I pull a dick move and step in front of her, blocking her view while I pout.

  “She’s getting paid to put up with his ass.”

  “Ooh, someone sounds grumpy,” she trills, giggling when I scowl. “What’s wrong, Hart? You feeling all left out and jealous because no one’s licking your balls?”

  I grunt, deciding that I like her sass, no matter how annoying it is, and force myself to focus on what’s supposed to happen tonight. After last night’s epic fail of a date, admittedly of my own doing, and after I realized that Cleo was screwing with me, it’s become my mission in life to find out what lies beneath all the ugly layers she’s so obviously armed herself with.

  Like I said before, she looks awful tonight, even more so than last night, but now that I’ve figured out her game, I can see past some of the costume. Her lips are full and kissable, and so juicy that I lick my own at the thought of tasting them. Her eyes, a clear blue with just the smallest hint of grayish green, are clear and sparkle with life. And her body. God, the things I would do for just a glimpse of what she’s hiding beneath that monstrosity of a dress.

  Shifting my eyes away for a second, in an attempt to halt the rising erection I feel thickening rapidly, I make myself a promise that I intend to stick to. With Cleo, I am going to peel back the layers—all of them, including the superficial stuff that most guys get hung up on—so that I can get a look at her tits. And no, I don’t care how much of a dog I am for thinking that. I like tits. And then, as I watch her avoid my gaze and check out goddamn Achilles again, it strikes me that I’m smiling. Because I like her. She’s weird and sassy, and she’s as prickly as a cactus. And I want to get past the thorns.

  Starting tonight.

  My first order of business, thanks to Ma’s help—I shudder at the memory of her screams over the phone and the fact that she’s already planning my wedding to Cleo—revolves around my knowledge that she’s a slave to food, something that her mom told mine, and something that I am going to capitalize on shamelessly.

  “Why are you rubbing your hands together and chuckling?” Cleo asks suspiciously, dragging me from my thoughts.

  Flushing, I meet her skittish gaze and try not to appear predatory. Even if I am. Oh, baby, you are in so much trouble, I think, letting my grin grow when she stiffens and looks away, muttering something under her breath.

  “Planning what to eat first,” I tell her innocently, keeping my sick thoughts to myself.

  If I were honest and decent, I’d tell her that I want something much sweeter, warmer, and wetter to be on the menu. Thank God I’m not honest—or stupid—because Cleo immediately perks up, and, instead of trying to sneak glances at Achilles, her eyes go bright and come up to meet mine, pure delight transforming her face so that my breath stalls in my lungs and gets trapped there. Lord above, the woman is gorgeous, I think in a daze, taking it all in while I slowly suffocate.

  Her whole face is no longer pinched or…plain. Instead, I find myself spellbound as I take in the life that fills it. It hits me hard, and I shake my head to dispel the thought, but as I stare at her grinning face and meet her dancing eyes, I realize that she sort of reminds me of that actress with the small boobs and curly hair.

  “I want corn dogs. And tacos. And some of those fries that come with the dips. And there’s a little cart somewhere here that sells funnel cakes. If the guy’s still here. Come on.”

  “Yo! Check it out, man!” Achilles yells, just as Cleo grabs my hand, her excitement for food turning into a burst of amusement when we both turn just in time to see Achilles wobble on the board before he falls flat on his face into the sand.

  Her laughter is unfiltered, the kind that comes naturally and isn’t tinged with feminine calculation. It booms around us so loudly that I chuckle when she snorts like a pig and slaps a hand over her mouth, a red blush filling her cheeks.

  “Christ! How do you keep falling, idiot? You’re still on the sand,” I yell, my own amusement multiplying when he lifts his face, spits out a mouthful of sand, and shakes his head.

  Even the beach babe is laughing because apparently, Achilles is one of the rare few who don’t put their hands out when they fall. Freaking weirdo.

  “It’s harder than it looks, man! I swear, when I finally get my balance, though, it’s gonna be epic!”

  “Epically hilarious,” Cleo mumbles, her snort dying down when I squeeze her hand, refusing to
let go when she realizes that she’s still holding on to me. “Duuude, let go.”

  “Nope. We’re holding hands. Friends hold hands,” I point out, holding in a smile when she makes a face and tries to rip her hand away.

  “Do not!”

  “Totally,” I assure her, threading my fingers through hers and continuing to hold on as I start walking away from Achilles, dragging Cleo behind me.

  “Are you telling me that you hold all your friends’ hands?” she scoffs, still struggling even as she starts to jog to keep up.

  “Yep,” I throw back, holding on more tightly because the truth is, I like holding her hand, and I don’t want to let go. Even if her palms are a little clammy.

  “Oh, puh-lease! You do not.”

  “I do,” I assure her again, holding in a laugh when she sputters and finally stops fighting in an effort to keep up with me.

  “Dammit, fine. But I have sweaty hands,” she huffs, her eyes daring me to mention it.

  I don’t. I just keep walking until we’re far enough away from Achilles to not see the asshole anymore, and close enough to the pier that we get the tantalizing aroma of cooking food and sweet confections. Just like that, Cleo stops glaring at me and instead throws her head back, breathing in so deeply that I see the vague outline of her boobs.

  Score, my mind screams, cataloguing everything it can take in. She’s a C-cup. I’m a boob man; I know these things. And her breasts are the soft kind that look all natural, with a slightly rounder underside that promises me a lot of pleasure. When I finally get her naked. I also notice that her stomach isn’t washboard flat, and for some reason, perhaps for the first time ever, I find that I like that. Here is a woman who isn’t filled with plastic, absurdly toned, or so thin that I can count every rib through her dress when she inhales.

  “God, I loooove food,” she moans, her face going dreamy.

  I love food, too, I think. If this is what it does to her, I’ll feed her so much that she’ll fall in love with—no! Hell, no, Hart. What the hell, man? We’re into sex, remember?

  “Ahhh, do you smell that? Someone’s frying onion rings. And I smell barbecue. And cotton candy. Come on!”

  I let her drag me behind her, my dick going crazy when I catch sight of her ass swaying beneath the sack dress. Hell, yes. Sex. A lot of sex. Maybe. Friendship. Too.

  I can do friendship, right?

  Cleo

  The smells! They’re almost as good as the tastes, I think, groaning through another bite of the best taco I have ever tasted in my life. Being this close to Florida, we have a lot of cultural variety in our food that I think makes it better than food anywhere else. This taco, for instance, isn’t just about the spice or the vegetables; it’s a beautiful combo of shredded pork barbecue and tangy relish that makes me want to eat until I can’t eat another bite.

  Hart, I notice, is just as into it as I am, and, for the first time ever, I find myself sharing a meal with a man and actually enjoying it. On dates, guys will usually order for me, something I despise because salad is a side dish, people! It’s not a main anything. Unless some dick wants to be mainlining salad through his asshole, which is where I threatened to shove the last salad a date ordered for me, expecting me to watch him eat a rib eye with all the trimmings.

  Hart, though, doesn’t seem at all fazed when I reach for a third taco. He just happily munches on his own, offers me more soda, and gazes at the ice cream cart with a look so rife with longing that I want to giggle.

  “These are good, but you should try Ma’s lamb. You’ll eat until your gut threatens to split your pants. And she makes the meanest baklava you’ll ever put in your mouth.”

  I snort, thinking that if I taste something as good as all that, and Hart turns out to be my only ticket to getting it again, then we’re in deep shit. Because I’d marry the man if his mother can do better than these tacos, and I’d be enough of a shameless food whore to give him babies if it’d cement my place around her table.

  “My mom can’t cook. Anything. She makes the worst, and I mean worst, food that you can imagine,” I mumble around a mouthful, my stomach groaning as I take the last tasty bite.

  I shouldn’t have had three tacos on top of that corn dog—okay, two corn dogs, but they were sooo good—and the fries that Hart got me. I covered those puppies in every sauce you could possibly want, with a double dip on the cheese sauce because it smelled so good that I almost had a stroke when I saw it.

  “Moms can’t cook badly,” he argues, his mouth twitching when I shake my head so hard that I get dizzy.

  “Not true. My mom’s eggs are so runny that when she serves them, even the cat refuses to eat them. The cat. I once caught that sick little bastard licking his poop-covered ass fur, but he won’t eat Mom’s eggs. Once I ate a piece of bacon, and, I swear to God, she must have taken it straight from the package and just slapped it on the plate. And toast? Don’t even get me started on the toast. Or the biscuits,” I say matter-of-factly, shuddering and tonguing my left incisor.

  I had it replaced with one of those permanent ones that they screw into your jaw because I mistook one of Mom’s biscuits for some leftovers that I’d hidden in the back of the fridge. To this day, I maintain that Mom found my secret stash and put one of her biscuits in there. It didn’t just chip my tooth; it broke it clean off on the first bite.

  “My ma is better than a chef. She loves to cook. And she loves for people to eat and leave her table groaning with bliss.”

  “Not the vegans, though,” I point out, huffing out a laugh when he grins easily and shrugs.

  “Serves her right for setting me up the way she did.”

  “Preach, mister! I hear ya,” I sigh, leaning back with a happy grunt of fulfillment while Hart collects our trash to take over to the garbage can.

  So far, this…friendship thing isn’t going too badly. He insisted on holding my hand, and he flat-out refused to take our food and head back down to the beach where Chilli is still falling on his face, but he’s been cool, too. He’s bought me enough food to put me into an orgasm-induced coma, he’s good company, and he has an awesome sense of humor.

  And it’s awful!

  Because the more time we spend together, the more I like him. I mean, I really like Hart. He’s funny and sarcastic and normal in a way that I would never have expected him to be—once you take away all the surface bling, of which there is a lot, I think, checking him out as he bends over to pick up some spilled trash and put it in the trash can. His clothes, while laid back, are expensive-looking and obviously designer. His haircut must have cost him no less than a couple of hundred, which I know because while Dad may be a laid-back, salt-of-the-earth type of guy, grooming is important to him. Hence the sick flirting that my friends always tried with him.

  Everything about Hart screams money, and yet in the last forty-odd minutes, I’ve learned that he’s as un-snobbish as they come. He likes food, and he’s not too good for street food. He drives fast, expensive cars, but when he was growing up, he drove around in a beat-up old Ford something that he bought and fixed up with money he made taking care of the gardens at home.

  He likes rap or hip-hop, or whatever the kids are calling it these days, and he hates classical music, something I thought all rich people were into, except us Sweets because we have actual taste.

  I know that he runs Hart Inc. and that, despite what he’s said, it wasn’t a family business that he took over. Yes, his father started out in business, and, from their current state of sick richness, I’d say that Mr. Hart did really well, but Hart himself is the reason that the company is a global powerhouse.

  He’s a hard-working guy who likes expensive things, simple things, and outright outlandish things, too. I mean, who collects eighties movie memorabilia, for God’s sake?

  What I like the best about him, though, is that I’ve spent almost a full hour with him, and he hasn’t made me feel threatened even once. Simply put, when he said friends, he meant it. Which is cool, don’t get me
wrong. It’s what I wanted. Only…it’s really, really hard to be okay with being friends when I’ve spent just as much time perving over him as I have eating.

  Forget Chilli Hart and his amazing good looks—of which there are plenty! Hart is just…magnificent. He’s all manly, and he smells nice, and he looks like he takes care of himself, but only to the point that he’s clean and well-groomed, not in that metrosexual way that reminds me of going to the spa and seeing men with face masks on in the mud baths. That actually happened, and, let me tell ya, a date with a guy that vain is not a good idea.

  We both ate salad that night, and I felt so bad for hating poor, superficial, looks-obsessed Brad that I ended up paying, plus giving him a gift card for a free mani-pedi at the spa. And I still call him when he texts me because that man has some serious self-esteem issues, and he needs a friend.

  Whatever. The point is, Hart is hot in a manly man kind of way. He’s put together, and he’s as vain as hell, but in a funny way that makes me laugh. He knows he’s handsome, and he preens and jokes about it, but even with the way I dressed for this…meeting, he hasn’t once made me feel ugly. If he had, it would be easier to dislike him. Instead, he smiles and says sweet and funny things, and he makes it impossible to dislike him. In fact, it’s hard to look at him and not see something that makes my insides go all gooey. He’s—gulp—what most moms consider “the whole package.”

  He has a good job, he’s got all of his own teeth, he’s successful, he’s kind—if his charity work is anything to go by, at least—and dammit, he’s just sexy. Not because he’s hot, but because he’s him.

  Have you ever met a man who wasn’t much in the looks department, but something about him was so sexy that you just couldn’t help fantasizing about traumatizing him with desperate sex moves? That man is Hart, and it’s even worse because he’s got the looks, too.

  Dammit, ovaries, we aren’t ready for commitment, I remind my body when my insides throb. I can’t help it. Hart has an amazing ass that is even more spectacular when he bends down to grab something from the ground. Sweet Mary, something inside me is definitely on fire.