The Brothers Next Door (A Striker Brothers Romance #1)

by Terry Towers

  “Yes.” As soon as the word came from her mouth her blue eyes went wide and she wished she could take it back. What in the hell was she doing? He hadn’t even asked her a question. Hadn’t even hinted towards proposing. He’d just said they were only having fun… No big deal.

  “Excuse me?” He frowned, his eyes shining with confusion.

  How in in the name of God do you backpedal out of this? She didn’t know. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She looked down at the ring, heat colouring her cheeks. Grabbing the ring, she attempted to pull it off her finger; it wouldn’t come off.

  Ohmyfuckinggod ohmyfuckinggod ohmyfuckinggod! “I can’t. I mean.” She tugged a little harder, but it seemed to refuse to come any further than her knuckle.

  After frantically watching her attempt to pull the ring off of her ring finger to the point she’d turned the skin red and raw, he grabbed her hands in his, forcing her to stop. “What do you mean, yes?”

  “It’s nothing.” Tears filled her eyes. She was so humiliated. She’d let her mind wander and let her guard down. “I was thinking. I just…” Rambling again, I’m rambling. Her gaze frantically looked everywhere but at him. She didn’t want to see the look of pity in his eyes. She couldn’t handle that.

  Cupping her chin in her hand he forced her to look up at him, directly into his eyes. “What are you saying ‘yes’ to, Violet?”

  She sighed. His eyes didn’t hold pity or scorn, they held confusion and… hope… maybe? She attempted to pull her chin from his hand, but he refused to allow her to look away.

  Devon’s voice softened. “What do you want, V? Stop feeding me bullshit, what do you want? Just say it.” He released her and straightened, waiting for a response.

  “I want this.” She waved her hands toward their surroundings but nowhere in particular. “And I want to gather eggs in the morning with you and share the stories of the day with you. And I want to catch up on all the years that were stolen and I just… I want what I’ve always wanted…” She looked up and caught his anguished gaze. “I want you. Forever.” She looked down at the ring and stroked the small diamond. “I want this to be real.”

  It was as if something burst within him and he deflated. He couldn’t be hard with her, he’d never been able to be strong – not with her. Grabbing her shoulders, he pulled her to him, holding her tight, allowing her to cry for the years they’d lost and for the pain they’d felt alone, but had never shared. She clung to him, fisting the back of his shirt as her tears saturated the cotton covering his shoulders, drawing from his strength.

  He waited until the sobs lessened, brushing his lips across her temple. “Then stay, V. Stay. No one is chasing you away this time,” he whispered. “Keep the ring. Stay.”

  She pulled back, just enough to look up and into his eyes, but refusing to move out of the strength of his embrace. “Isn’t it fast?”

  Wiping the tears from her eyes with his thumb, he smiled. “I’ve loved you for twelve years, since we were thirteen, Violet. It’s hardly fast. I’m not saying get married today or tomorrow, but when it’s time. So stay, it’s time to come home. If you want.”

  “I want. So much, I want that.”

  “I love you Violet, I’ve never stopped.”

  Their eyes locked a final time and he nodded; his sweet, sexy dimples appeared as he gave her his patented Devon Land smile. “I love you too.”

  He lowered his forehead to hers. “Stay.”

  “Forever.”

  The End

  Excerpt from

  Strictly Research

  By

  Terry Towers

  Prologue

  One Year Ago

  Monica

  Oh thank God, it’s done. It’s over. It was so hard to keep a smile from spreading across my lips, you have no idea. It had been a long time since I’d felt such relief. It was like being suffocated to the point where I thought I would die and finally getting a breath of fresh air. It was over—freedom. A year with Joseph Ramirez had been about six months too long. But it was done, and the relationship was over. I looked at Joseph, Joe or Joey to his friends, but I always called him Joseph and forced my expression to remain dower.

  “I’m really sorry, Monica,” Joseph said. He was legitimately upset. I could see the conflict in his eyes. For a moment, I thought I saw a hint of tears. He had been the one who had brought up the idea of a breakup, but I could see his conviction wavering. Oh please, God, don’t let him change his mind! No, it was too late for that. No mind-changing. No take-backsies. Maybe he was expecting me to protest, to cry, to beg him to change his mind. He got none of that. He’d finally done what I hadn’t been strong enough to do myself: put this relationship out of its misery.

  I suspected I knew his motivation for ending it, even though he didn’t have the balls to say. Her name was Sophia Gomez, and she was a new employee of his, working for him at the hardware store. I wasn’t stupid, I saw the way he looked at her. She was 20 and slender, with stunning bronzed skin and captivating dark, nearly black eyes. She was out of his league. Way out. But I figured he thought he had a shot. “Good luck to him” is all I had to say about that. Let’s not even begin to talk about how miserable he is in the sack. Sure, it takes two, but I tried. You can’t fault me for that; he was simply too conservative, and he refused to go down on a woman, but expected me to suck his dick?

  Nope. Sorry pal.

  So oral was out. Same went for anything kinky or different. Our sex life consisted of three things: missionary, me on top, and me bent over some piece of furniture. And he made really weird noises when he came. I was never sure whether he was having an orgasm or in pain. It was disturbing and totally threw off the mood.

  I will give credit where credit is due. He was a good man. Very good man. Reliable, dependable, financially stable, and caring. Notice how words like exciting, outgoing, impulsive, and all the other qualities that make relationships thrilling are absent? With Joseph, there were no surprises. Even my Christmas present was dull. He bought me a blender. A fucking blender for Christmas! Not because I asked for one, but because mine had broken. Yes, the man is practical to a fault, and oh-my-god was it ever boring. I realize that it isn’t really his fault, it’s how he is, but it would be an exercise in futility to try and change him.

  I gave him a reassuring smile, lightly touching his upper arm. “It’s fine. It’s for the best.”

  His expression turned confused. Yes, this is definitely not how he expected this to go down. “But…”

  “There’s no ‘but,’ ” I say to him. “You’re right. We’re good friends, but it’s time to move on.”

  “If we had more time... you’re always working,” he trailed off.

  Nononono! You are NOT taking this breakup back! NO! I won’t allow it, even if it means me being the bad guy in this. “But you know, my writing is my life. It’s my world, I’ll never give up my 12 and 15-hour days on the computer writing. My focus is my work right now. You know that. It won’t change.”

  And that’s true. From the moment I wake up until I go to bed from exhaustion, I work. Whether it be writing or marketing or one of a dozen different tasks I have to take care of, I work. Even my closest friends and family don’t understand my long hours. It seems the only people who truly understand the pressure to work and keep pushing are other self-published authors. They get it. They get me.

  Like most other people, Joseph doesn’t understand me. Even with us living together for the past couple of months, he still doesn’t get it. I doubt he ever will.

  It’s for the best. And boy, am I ever glad I never gave up my own apartment. Packing my stuff and getting out of his house would be easy-peasy. Thank you and goodbye. It’s been fun—sort of—but it’s way past time to move on.

  “Can’t—”

  With a shake of my head, I cut him off. “I’m going to go back to my place. I’ll gather my stuff when you’re at work tomorrow morning.”

  He didn’t say anything
, but simply stared. Damn, this is hard. The expression he was giving me then, hurt and confused, was why I’d continued to endure.

  “You were right, Joseph, this isn’t working. You deserve to be with someone who has the time for you. I can’t give you that.” When did this go from him dumping me to me dumping him? I sigh. “I’m going to go.” Not waiting for him to answer, I leave and don’t look back. I’m a coward, I’m soft. If I look back, I’ll cave. So I don’t. It’s hard, but I don’t.

  Chapter 1

  Amsterdam. Wow, I could hardly believe I was doing this. I had my e-reader in my hands but wasn’t really reading the words on the screen. My mind was whirling with the possibilities. I was on a plane, getting ready to leave for Amsterdam for a couple of weeks—or more, I hadn’t decided yet. This was my first time to Europe, and being that as long as I had my computer with me I can work wherever I am, it may just have been the start of my journey. Maybe I’d hop a train and make my way across Europe. Being 28, single, and without a child to care for, the world was open to me to explore. So the truth was that I was on the no-plan plan. All I knew was that I needed to get away and I needed to have this experience.

  “Miss, I think you’re in my seat.”

  “Huh?” I glanced up and met the stare of a tall, dark-haired man with the most stunning gray eyes that I’ve ever seen. I found myself staring up at him, not speaking, no doubt looking like a complete tool.

  He motioned towards the seat I was sitting in. “34B. My seat. You’re in it.”

  “Ummm.” Pulled from my frozen state, with a frown creasing my brow, I dug into my handbag and produced my ticket. Printed on it was 34A. “Ahhh, shit. Yeah. Sorry.” He didn’t respond, but stuffed his carry-on in the overhead as I unbuckled and shifted myself into the window seat where I should have been, all the while feeling like an idiot. How hard is it to read a plane ticket? Too hard for me, apparently. Once buckled back in, I directed my eyes back to the e-reader, but my mind was quickly redirected to the faint, enticing scent of his cologne. He’d applied just enough to make me want to lean into him and indulge in the scent—I refrained, but oh god, it was hard.

  “No worries. I just like to stretch my legs, and the window seat doesn’t really allow for it.”

  Glancing up from the e-reader, I looked over to see him smiling at me, two soft dimples emerging at his cheeks. He really had a sweet, sexy look to him. I could only imagine the amount of women that fell over themselves to be with him. He encompassed all the physical features I write my heroes to have: tall, sexy smile, interesting eyes that drew you in, and just muscular enough to make you yearn to run your fingers along the lines of muscle that no doubt were under the tight grey t-shirt he was wearing. Yes, this man sitting beside me was everything women dream of having in their men—physically, anyhow. The jury was still out on his personality.

  “What are you reading?” he glanced over at my e-reader and I quickly shut it off. The last thing I wanted was this stranger knowing I liked reading BDSM smut. The book I was currently reading was titled, “Chained Up, Bad Girl.”

  “Nothing. Just…” I tucked the reader in the back pocket of the seat in front of me. “Nothing important.”

  His grin widened as he settled into the seat, lacing his fingers in front of him. “Can I take a guess?”

  “No. I preferred you didn’t.” I looked out the window pretending to be interested in what was going on outside.

  “See, that just tells me I’m right.”

  I groaned out load, turned my head to face him as I rolled my eyes and then returned to pretending to look out as the plane left the gate and began taxiing down the runway.

  “Was it Fifty Shades?”

  Apparently, he wasn’t interested in being ignored. I turned my head and looked at him again, and his smile hadn’t faded. I was coming to realize that he intended for me to be his onboard entertainment for the flight. “Excuse me?” I allowed my eyes to do another scan of him. I supposed I could do much worse than this man beside me for entertainment.

  “The book. Was it Fifty Shades?” he prompted.

  I couldn’t help it, I laughed. “No, as a matter of fact, it wasn’t.”

  He huffed.

  “What was that about?”

  He cocked a brow up at me, his smile returning. “What about?”

  “You, like, huffed at me. Like you didn’t believe me.”

  He didn’t have a chance to answer, as the flight attendant’s voice sounded over the speakers informing us of the emergency procedures. In fact, it wasn’t until four hours later when we were being served some very questionable mashed potatoes and mystery meat that we were told was roast beef (but I had my doubts) that he spoke again.

  “I’m Mitchell, by the way.”

  He’d been so quiet since the takeoff I actually yelped at hearing him speak to me now. I hadn’t pulled the e-reader out again, opting to watch the in-flight movie instead. “Monica.”

  “And what do you do, Monica?”

  “I do?” I knew what he meant, but wanted a second to decide if I really wanted to tell him I write erotica for a living or not.

  “Your job. What do you do for money?” He shovelled a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth and waited.

  Screw it. It’s not like I was ever going to see this guy again. And it certainly wasn’t like I was shy about telling people. Lots of authors prefer to keep the fact they write erotica to themselves, I’m not one of those people. If people judged me over my occupation then that’s their problem, not mine, and I really didn’t need to be associating with that type of negativity anyhow.

  “I write erotic romance novels.”

  He swallowed and leaned back into his seat, his interest in the food gone and his grey eyes drinking me in with much more interest than he’d displayed up until that point. “You don’t say. So you not only read the kinky stuff, but you write it, too.” A woman across the aisle from us turned her head and stared a moment before going back to her paperback novel.

  “Shhh. Could you keep it down a little?”

  “Embarrassed?”

  “No. I just…” I raked my fingers through my chestnut-brown hair and sighed, leaning into him and lowering my voice. “Some people don’t understand and tend to judge me based on my work. That’s all.”

  “And why do you care? You enjoy what you do?”

  “Yes, of course I do. And I don’t care. Normally. Normally, I don’t.” I shrugged.

  “You don’t like that people judge you when they don’t even know you.”

  “Pretty much.” Done with my dinner, I sank back into the seat. “People are so quick to make a decision about you without taking the time to really find out whether or not it’s true.”

  “Believe it or not, I know exactly how you feel.”

  I gave him a hard stare. I doubted it.

  ~*~ TT ~*~

  Mitchell Cook. Walking into the front lobby of the hotel, dragging my two suitcases behind me, I couldn’t get my mind off of him. A part of me had hoped that he’d want to see me again, but he hadn’t so much as hinted at it. It was disheartening, to say the least. Surely someone like him was in a relationship. Of course he was, a man as sexy and charismatic as him, there’s no way he wasn’t involved. The only way he wouldn’t be involved would be if he was some sort of player and wasn’t interested in being involved. Either way, he was a no-go. Not that it mattered anymore, anyhow. My chances of ever seeing Mitchell Cook were slim to none.

  I was so caught up in my own thoughts that I didn’t notice the four steps quickly approaching. I mean, seriously, who puts steps in the middle of a lobby anyhow? The toe of my shoe banged the marble step, and I went tumbling forwards with a yelp, the suitcase going with me.

  “Oh heavens! Are you hurt?” A male voice with a slight French accent asked, the person I assumed to belong to the shiny black dress shoes that were in my line of sight.

  “Only my pride.” I mumbled, accepting his outstretched hand.


  Once I was to my feet, he released my hand and motioned towards my suitcase. “Let me assist you with your luggage, Miss.” Not waiting for a response and to my relief, the bellhop relieved me of my luggage. “Welcome to The Royal Paramount. Registration is to the left.”

  “Thank you.” I headed to the registration desk, pulling my passport and wallet from my handbag.

  Within ten minutes, I was checked in and entering my room to be extremely disappointed. The lobby gave off the aura of classy, high-end hotel. “$350.00 a night, for this?” Crinkling my nose, I scanned the tiny room that reminded me of a Motel 8 room. There was barely enough room for the dresser holding the small television, the double-sized bed and a night side table, and it was in severe need of a renovation.

  And what’s that smell? Walking into the bathroom, I attempted to find the source of the odor. I couldn’t find it. This is what I get for prepaying, I guess. Knowing I was forced to stay and there not being a whole hell of a lot I could do about it, I wandered back into the room and went to the window. The view is why I paid so much, that much was clear as I looked out onto the street to see the beauty of the canal below. Night was just beginning to take over, and the canal was beginning to illuminate the light shimmering off the water like little diamonds. My gaze shifted to the direction of the red light district, which was my goal, if I could get myself to be brazen enough to wander that way.

  First thing was first: finding out if I could get what I wanted. All of the internet sites I’d come across seemed rather vague over what was offered along the lines of male escorts to women. Apparently, it wasn’t a big market. That much made sense—it wasn’t that hard for a woman to go to a bar and get laid. But getting laid wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, even though I hadn’t had sex in five months. Yup, you heard right; I’d been in a relationship, but no sex for five months. It had gotten to the point that the thought of sex with him repelled me. I think I’d made up every excuse I could think of, and I’d even googled some when I ran out. Yes, that relationship had long run its course, and maybe I was a bit of an asshole for letting it continue, but it was all in the past.