I Pucking Love You (The Copper Valley Thrusters #5) - Pippa Grant Page 0,21

hooked up.

Yeah.

I want karma points for my dick.

My overnight bag is in the trunk. Coach let me out of practice tomorrow after making me do extra sprints and shooting practice today and promise I’ll be there for every charity event he wants me to do in the next month. I’m in a suit, as requested, since we’re apparently going to a pre-ceremony reception tonight basically as soon as we check in, and I’m ignoring the bruise on my side from a puck that snuck between my pads at the game last night.

The front door opens as I’m stepping out of my car, and—shit.

It’s Muffy’s mother.

I scramble for my phone, put it to my ear, and make the one minute gesture.

My phone screams out an old Bro Code song in my ear, and I drop the damn thing.

Jesus.

Do all my sisters have to have awful timing? I fumble with it again, drop it twice, and then send the call to voicemail.

Staci can wait.

Also, for the record, I don’t usually listen to boy band songs. It’s simply an appropriate ringtone for my sister.

Muffy’s mother is marching down the steps.

Shit again.

I give up pretending I’m on the phone, retrieve it from the asphalt, and stand back up to look at her over the roof of my car.

Best to leave the beast between us. “Morning, Ms. Periwinkle. Muffy ready?”

She’s in knee-high leopard-print boots, baggy black leggings, and a ruffly orange blouse that she’s belted at her waist. She’s making pouty lips as she reaches my car and strokes the hood of my red Maserati GT convertible. “My, my, you’re certainly taking Muffy out in style today, aren’t you?”

“I—yeah.”

My phone dings six times in rapid succession, which means my sisters have re-activated our group chat text. The call from Staci—who doesn’t usually participate in the group texts—probably means I’m on a gossip page somewhere.

Awesome.

And by awesome, I don’t actually mean awesome.

“Ooh, it’s a four-seater.” She peers in the window. “I could come along.”

The last time I was around Hilda Periwinkle, she asked if she could get a selfie with me licking her face so her online friends would know that she wasn’t lying when she told them that she got busy with half the Thrusters in the off-season.

And I didn’t know if she was joking or not.

I do know that hanging out with Hilda Periwinkle will not improve my broken dick situation. And neither will any of the text messages continuing to blow up my phone. “Is Muffy ready?”

“She’s still in the shower. Why don’t you come on in? I did a boudoir shoot with my dear friend Aubrey Innsbruck, and I got the proofs this week. You could help me decide which one you like the best?”

You have to admire her confidence.

But I still don’t want to see anyone’s boudoir photos. Not Hilda’s. Not any of my sisters’. Not my mother’s.

Again with the not helping the broken dick situation.

“I—I’m sorry, Ms. Periwinkle.” I wave my phone at her in the crisp morning air. “Family situation. I need to check these—”

“Mom, leave him alone.”

I can’t see Muffy, but I can hear her. She’s—oh.

There she is.

Window. Second floor. Peering through a screen.

“I don’t like you going off on overnight dates with men I don’t know,” Hilda calls back.

“You asked if he’d show you his pee-pee at Kami’s wedding last year. You should be more worried that I’m going on an overnight date with a man who knows you. He might not bring me back.”

Hilda gasps.

“I’ll be down in a minute, Tyler. Please ignore every syllable that comes out of her mouth, and do not agree to see her new pictures.”

“I have them on my phone.” Hilda circles the hood while I pretend I’m not backing away to circle my trunk and keep the car between us. “You’ve heard of Aubrey Innsbruck, haven’t you? He’s renowned in art circles for his creative interpretations of the human body.”

I don’t know what that means, and I don’t want to either. “My sister’s twins are having tonsillectomies today and I really need to check in and see how they’re doing.”

“Both twins?”

“Yep.” No. Not at all. They had their tonsillectomies about three months apart in the spring. Also, I don’t think doctors schedule tonsillectomies on Sundays. “They’re identical.”

They’re fraternal.

And hilarious for being so small.

“I didn’t see that on Daisy’s social media.”

There are a ton of upsides to having Daisy Carter-Kincaid as a sister-in-law.

This is not one of them. “There’s a lot of stuff Daisy doesn’t post about our family on her