by Grant, Pippa
“Babe,” Grady says.
“I said what I said. That parrot needs remedial training.”
“But three thousand Shipwreck points means she’ll get the trophy even if she poisons everyone at the Pirate Festival.”
“Worth it.”
“Rawk! You wet the bed and your mother reads Chuck Tingle! Rawk!”
I ignore the bird and take my shot, but just as my stick’s about to connect with the cue ball, Max speaks up. “Manners, you mangy bird.”
And I scratch.
I freaking scratch.
Cooper starts to hoot, but then—
“Rawk! Sorry, King Growly Bear, ruler of all the land. Rawk!”
The entire bar goes silent, and all of us turn to stare.
Half of us gawk at the bird.
The other half of us—me included—gawk at Max.
“What did he just call you?” I ask.
Max doesn’t look at me. He’s having a stare-down with the bird, who’s sitting on a pirate boat steering wheel mounted to the wall.
Also?
His cheeks are going ruddy under the thick stubble he’s been growing out this week, and the bar’s soft lighting can’t hide it.
“Long Beak Silver.” Grady steps between them. “Go swab the deck.”
“Rawk! Asshole.”
The parrot fluffs his bright feathers, then takes off from the wheel and flies to the perch set up just for him over the door.
Vinnie reaches over and opens it, and he departs into the night.
I look back at Max. Our eyes meet for a split second before he drops his gaze to his stein.
My heart flutters.
I don’t know why it flutters, but it freaking flutters. I feel thirteen again, wearing braces, my biggest worry that my acne medicine won’t work in time for my skin to be clear before the very first dance of my life where the boy I was crushing on would probably be there.
Long Beak Silver hasn’t ever called anyone king of anything before. And King Growly Bear?
I call Max growly bear.
Pretty sure no one else does.
Did I accidentally teach Long Beak Silver to say that?
Or did he?
“Asshole parrot,” Grady mutters, snapping my attention back to the game. “Cooper. Your turn.”
Cooper props his hip on the table, slides his stick behind him, and takes aim at the cue ball. “Four in the corner pocket.”
I shake my head, which is still living in Max-land. “Do I even have to remind you that you just tried to make it illegal for me to put my boobs on the table, and now you’re sitting on it?”
“We don’t both have boobs, but we both have butts. You can sit on the table too. That’s fair.”
“That is not—”
“Agreed,” Grady interrupts. “You both have butts. That house rule can stand.”
I point to my eyes, then use my fingers to point at Cooper. “Don’t try anything else cute. I’ve got my eye on you.”
“Did you know he could play pool?” Robinson mutters to someone behind me.
I say someone because I can’t afford the distraction of acknowledging who that someone is.
Not if I want to win.
Cooper won our final game last winter before leaving for spring training. I owe him payback.
“Yes,” Max answers Robinson. “That’s why none of us play him when we’re out.”
Cooper taps the cue ball, shooting from behind, and it rolls smoothly across the table, cracks against the four, which ricochets off the side of the table and sails directly into the corner pocket.
“Is Tillie Jean any good?” Robinson whispers.
I look back at him. “You wanna play me next?”
His eyes go comically wide, and you can practically see him debating with himself if he wants to lose to me, or if he can live with himself—and Cooper—if he beats me.
“I can take losing,” I tell him.
Max smirks. “I’ll play you.”
“Three in the side pocket,” Cooper says, saving me from answering Max.
I wonder if Max knows any trick shots. Or if he cheats. If he’d insist on playing again if he lost, or if I’d be the one demanding a rematch.
If I’d let him win.
What would I bet Max Cole if we were playing pool?
Probably my underwear.
And if we were anywhere else, and I were related to anyone else, he might take that bet.
The balls crack together on the table, and I jolt back to reality as Cooper puts the three ball in the side pocket.
He grins at me over the table. “Should I go easy on you?”
“Never.”
“Remember, you asked for it.”
“Famous last words, Stinky Booty.”
I’m eating my own words, watching as he sinks the two, six, five, and seven balls as well, ignoring my attempts to distract him or make up new house rules until he has one solid ball and the eight ball left.
He squats next to the table, examining the layout. It’s not looking good for him—I have five balls clearly between him and his precious one that he needs to sink without hitting any of my balls first, plus, he’s in a better position to sink the eight ball and lose outright—but I don’t ever, ever count Cooper out.
“You ever play?” Brooks asks Grady.
Our big brother shakes his head. “Not against the two of them.”
“I won’t think less of you if you call it a pass and walk away,” I tell Cooper.
He snorts.
It’s so predictable that I smile bigger.
“Off the top, around the corner pocket, one in the side,” he announces.
“One-armed and blindfolded?” I ask.
His eyes meet mine, and he starts to grin. “If I hit that shot, you’re doing my laundry for the next month.”
“And if you miss, you’ll pose with Long Beak Silver for next year’s Pirate Festival flyers.”
“Done.”
“In Pop’s costume. Stinky Thorny Rock pirate hat and all.”
“Hells, yeah. Robinson! Bring me that blindfold.”
I turn to watch Robinson dash over to the dart board, but instead, I catch Max looking at my ass.
And he doesn’t realize I’m watching him watch me, so I roll my hips.
His brown eyes go the color of midnight, and his Adam’s apple bobs, which makes my skin tingle and my nipples tighten.
As if he can feel my body’s response, he lifts his eyes, catches me catching him, and steps back, right into Aunt Glory, who’s carrying a full tray of beer.
Was carrying a full tray of beer, I should say.
The pint glasses mostly bounce as Aunt Glory wobbles and loses her balance, beer spraying everywhere, the people around us scattering to get out of the way of the blast zone.
Max spins and grabs Aunt Glory, who’s tumbling into him. “Fuck. Shit. Sorry. Sorry.”
“Party foul,” Vinnie calls.
“Drinks on Max,” someone else yells.
“Free drinks! Free drinks!”
“Calm your tits, Albert.” Cooper’s leapt up onto the edge of the pool table. “You didn’t pay for drinks when you crashed the whole liquor shelf three years ago.”
“Didn’t replace the shelf either,” Grady adds.
“Oooh, snap,” Vinnie crows. “They’ve got you there.”
I squat and start grabbing the larger pieces of broken beer mugs off the floor while everyone debates if Max has to pay for a round of drinks. “Ignore them,” I tell him. “They make up house rules as much as Cooper does.”
He shoots me a look that I can’t interpret.
It could be thank you for helping.
Or it could be I wasn’t looking at your ass.
Or possibly it’s I’m a grown fucking man with a bank account the size of a mountain and I can pay for making your aunt drop a keg’s worth of beer on the floor. Shut up and let me be a growly bear.
And there’s not a single option that d
oesn’t make me want to grab him by the collar and haul him out the back door.
Possibly to tell him to quit being so grouchy.
But more likely because I want to kiss him.
Are my eyes going dark?
Considering I can’t quite catch my breath or look away from him and my mouth is suddenly dry and a familiar ache is pooling between my legs, I’d bet yes.
Yes, my pupils are probably dilating and oh, crap, I’m licking my lips.
I’m licking my lips and holding eye contact with Max over spilled beer and broken pint glasses and I want to haul him up by his collar and shove him against the wall and kiss him until I can’t breathe.
Bad idea, a voice that sounds like Long Beak Silver whispers deep inside my brain.
One corner of Max’s lips tilts up, and my uterus faints dead away in a swoon. “Fucking town,” he mutters before he drops his gaze to the ground and gets back to grabbing larger pieces of broken glass to set on Aunt Glory’s tray.
I gulp hard and do the same.
Not the part about muttering about the fucking town.
I love this town.
But the part about picking up.
Luca and Henri and Sloane squat and help us while Aunt Glory’s server appears with a mop, and Sloane is shooting me looks the whole time.
Yeah.
She knows.
I couldn’t stop this crush on Max any more than I could stop a cannonball.
It’s not five minutes before it’s like the beer was never spilled at all.
Cooper misses his trick shot, but he still beats me in the game. Sloane leaps in and challenges Trevor to a game before I have to decline a rematch from my brother, and I realize Max is gone.
Brooks and Mackenzie have headed out. So have Darren and Tanesha. Half the locals.
Grady and Annika are slipping on coats too.
Cooper flings an arm around me. “Need me to buy you a consolation prize, TJ?”
“I let you have that one to build up your confidence.”
“You’re a giver.”
“I am.”
We both crack up.
“Thanks for the entertainment. Again.” Annika stops and hugs us both. Cooper and Grady do their man-hug before Grady smothers me in a hug too.
“If Cooper’s being an ass and keeping you from what you want, let me know,” Grady whispers. “I’ll keep him distracted.”
I love my brothers. Both of them. “Shut up. Winners before sinners.”
He snorts in laughter. “Now you’re being ridiculous.”
“Go on, go home with your wife to your goat.”
“Just saying, TJ. Regrets are hard and opportunities are rare.” He ruffles my hair and turns to pull Annika away from Cooper, who’s trying to steal her for a dance on the non-existent dance floor.
“Rematch, Cooper?” Robinson flashes three darts at us.
“You’re on, dude.”
And here it is.
My opportunity to sneak out into the night.
Head home.
See if Max’s lights are on.
Do something bad.
Or possibly really, really good.
Is this what I’ve been waiting for the universe to deliver?
Or am I misreading everything merely because I want to?
Either way, I know what I want to do.
And tonight, I’m doing it.
19
Max
Anxiety has been a part of my life since before I knew the word for it. But tonight’s anxiety is a different kind of anxious.
I’m counting my steps by four. Doing four sets. Turning ninety degrees. Counting four sets of four until I turn again as I pace around the statue and fountain—dry for the winter—in the center of this little garden behind the shops on Blackbeard Avenue.
I think the pizza place is close by. Maybe the inn. I don’t know.
I just know I can’t stay in the bar, and I don’t want to go back to my place.
I don’t want to be alone, but I don’t want to be with my teammates.
One. Two. Three. Four.
One. Two. Three. Four.
“Rawk! If you’re gonna jump, just jump, motherfucker! Rawk!”
The parrot flies from one corner post of the iron fence lining the garden on two sides to another, then to the buildings bracketing the other two sides, pacing with me.
I stop and glare at it. “What’s that, Long Beak Silver? Timmy fell down the well?”
He tilts his head and goes silent.
“Your father was a studmuffin and your mother smells of Kangapoo.” I don’t know. I’m making it up. I just want the damn bird to quit with the cussing. He’s annoying the fuck out of me.
And don’t at me about my language. I don’t fuck in front of the kids, okay?
“Rawk! Kangapoo gives your down under a shine! Rawk!”
So the bird’s seen the commercials for the shampoo Luca shills.
Awesome.
I shake my head and start walking again. One. Two. Three. Four.
“Max?”
“Jesus.”
“No, just Tillie Jean.” She tilts her head just like the damn parrot did a minute ago, not outright flirting, not leaving either. Tonight, she remembered her coat on the way out of the bar. I almost ask why she’s out alone, then remember we’re in Shipwreck. It’s not the same as wandering city streets alone near midnight.
Still, my pulse rachets up to game on the line levels, and I can’t find my breathing rhythm to get it under control.
She takes two steps into the garden, lit only by a weak spotlight in the corner. “Are you okay?”
I thrust my hands through my hair. “Yeah.”
“Are you sure?”
No, I’m not sure. She’s temptation in this happy package of curvy hips, perfect breasts, full lips, bright blue eyes, and the confidence that comes with belonging, though it’s not something she takes for granted or hasn’t worked to accept. She’s also completely off-limits because she’s my teammate’s sister, not nearly as annoying since she quit flirting with me, which is annoying all by itself, but not as annoying as wanting to kiss her and knowing I can’t.
Scratch that.
I can.
But I shouldn’t.
And the line between can and shouldn’t is the same line between fitting on the team that’s the closest thing to family I’ve ever had, and being all alone, on my own, with nothing but the cold, hard comfort of victory and money to keep me company.
Eighteen-year-old me thought victory and money would be enough.
I want to go back to that kid, hug him, tell him he was a fucking rock star for getting as far as he had already more or less on his own, and that he should make a few friends instead.
But I also wouldn’t listen if fifty-year-old me suddenly appeared and told me the same thing about myself today.
Just fuck.
One. Two. Three. Four.
One. Two. Three. Four.
“Max.”
“Why do you have to be too damn pretty?”
“I ask myself that every morning, and I still don’t have an answer.”
I jerk my gaze to her.
She smiles, and it’s like staring at Cooper.
All the way from her blue-eyed, cheerful smile right down to her cheeky answer.
Except she’s nothing like Cooper.
She’s Tillie Jean.
And she’s fucking perfect just as she is.
I blow out a hard breath, and it hangs in the air, a white puff of visible irritation in the night.
“We should screw around,” she says.
My dick leaps to attention, but the rest of me breaks out in a sweat. “No.”
“Why not?”
Jesus. “Because.”
“I’m a grown-ass woman who knows better than to think one night of fun means we have to get married, and you seem like you could go for blowing off some steam. Worst case? It’s awful for both of us and we never want to do it
again.”
“That would be best case.”
She smiles again, which is not helping the blood flow to the brain. “I mean, best case would be that we didn’t want to do this at all.”
“I don’t want to do this.”
“You kissed me. You threw snowballs at me. You tried to kiss me again. You pranked me back. Max Cole, your problem isn’t that you don’t want to do this. Your problem is that you don’t want to want this, but you can’t help yourself.”
She’s right.
Fuck me with a rusty spoon. She’s right. “You’re off-limits.”
“That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”
“No, it’s not.” She’s north and I’m a compass. The steel to my magnet. And for every step I order myself to take away from her, this invisible connection carries me two steps closer instead. “You’re family and happiness and belonging. You’re where you’re supposed to be. Doing what you’re supposed to do. I’m just passing through. Not here to disrupt anything or break anything. You’re off-limits.”
“I’m not a fragile flower, Max.” She’s not cross. Not yelling. Not sarcastic.
Not Tillie Jean.
She’s swaying her hips back and forth to music I can’t hear over the sound of her soft, hypnotic, Siren’s voice. “You can’t break me.”
“I break everything.”
“What, like three pint glasses? Half the town’s descended from pirates. We get drunk and break glasses all the time. Sometimes we break plates. Once we broke a whole parade float, but that was a freak accident.”
“People. I break people.”
“Who?” She plants her palms on my chest and peers up at me. She’s not short, but I still have at least six inches on her.
And no, that wasn’t a dick joke.
Fuck, I wish it was.
“Who have you broken, Max?”
“Me.”
Her eyes flare wide.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I didn’t mean to say that out loud.
“Na,” I add. “Meena. Some chick I met at—”
Tillie Jean’s finger lands on my lips, and I cut myself off with a sharp breath.
“Let’s play a game,” she whispers. “We’re going to pretend we just bumped into each other in a park in the city, and I’m not related to anyone you know, and you’re not famous in sports circles, and we’re just two people who think the other is attractive.”
