glances back up at me. “Is there something you wanted to add?”
I tap on the paper. “There’s no falling in love.”
He pauses, his lips parting as he gives me a fascinated look. “Do you think that’s even a remote possibility? You, a pre-law student, falling for me, the douchebag hockey player?”
“I never called you a douchebag to your face, and yes, I’d like to have it down. It’s the number one rule.” My voice is firm. “And write down no more baby or babe or sweetheart. Never again. It makes me crazy.”
He chews on the pen. “Boy, you’re really racking up the rules, but I have to have a cute nickname for you.” He gives me a look. “I reserve the right to come up with a nickname later.” I hesitate, and he guffaws. “Seriously, you’re second-guessing this over a nickname? What are you afraid of?”
“Fine. And this girl-of-the-month thing stops at the end of four weeks—strict, no extensions.”
“Girls beg for extensions.”
I narrow my eyes. “Not this one, bud.”
“Y’all working out a sex agreement thing in there?” Eric calls out, his gaze on the TV. “My safe word is coconuts. Use it if you want.”
“No,” we both say at the same time, and then we look at each other and laugh.
A few minutes later, he wraps up his writing and pushes the notebook over to me. I’m reading it when I raise my finger as a brilliant idea hits. “I’ll take Miss Ryan as my nickname.”
He grins broadly. “You like that? It’s very lawyery sounding.”
“It’s better than babe.”
“Oh, Miss Ryan, I’m so going to enjoy this,” he says softly, drawing out my name, and my body sizzles.
“Or Sugar. Whatever. Nicknames aren’t important.”
“I love nicknames. If fact, I’m going to write down that you have to call me Z. We have to maintain a facade, especially when we’re supposed to be fucking our brains out.” His eyes drift over me. “Right?”
“You’re infuriating.” But there’s no heat in my voice. I like him. Shit, shit, shit.
He just smiles and pushes the paper over to me once again. I run my eyes over his quickly scrawled handwriting, noticing it matches the writing on the note he left at my door.
Our little contract doesn’t look official at all, but I sign it with a flourish, and he does as well. He asks for my number and I give it to him just as one of the doors in the back of the house opens, perhaps a bedroom, and another guy stalks into the kitchen shirtless and wearing a pair of unzipped jeans and nothing else. “Z, I found another pile of cat throw-up in my closet—”
His voice comes to an abrupt halt as our gazes meet, his a soft grey with dark brows slashing over them. Of course, he’s Z’s brother, but I see the differences between them. His features are missing that classical, hot Greek god thing Z has going on. He isn’t as tall or as broad as Z either, but he’s handsome in his own way, built with solid shoulders, a trim waist, and an obvious six-pack.
Their gene pool is amazing.
A cat comes out of nowhere, darts at the Z lookalike, hisses, and then dashes off to a back room.
The longer he stares, the more he whitens, and I squirm. “Who are you?” he asks.
Z frowns and moves closer to me. “A friend.”
Eric moseys back in from the den. “Dude, this is Sugar and she brought us pie, man. PIE. And all because she dumped on Z last night.” He starts singing, “She’s my cherry pie…” and dances into the kitchen.
At least he likes me.
But still, what’s up with this guy? I frown, checking the hem of my sweater to make sure it’s not showing too much skin. It’s not, and when I glance back up, Z’s face is tight, and he and his brother seem to be having a deep conversation with their eyes.
He sticks out his hand, still frowning. “Reece, Z’s brother.”
I take it, but the handshake is brief and hurried. I nod. “Hi.”
The temperature in the room chills and just like that, the visit is over. Z takes my elbow, steering me toward the door, ushering me out.
Okay.
“We’ll talk more soon,” he says as I make my way down the steps of the porch.
He follows me along the sidewalk to my truck. Ten years old with faded paint and a small crack in the windshield, it’s got a dent in the side where someone hit me in the