Love Triangle Six Books of Torn Desire - Willow Winters Page 0,15

stop his advance.

The frigid air creeps in as I slip off the bike and walk backward across my front yard.

“Tonight,” he says, holding my gaze.

It’s almost painful to continue my retreat, but I’m hopeful about seeing him again. Somewhere between a smile and a name, I let myself imagine a future filled with deep brown eyes and seductive dimples.

As I reach for the front door, he calls after me, “Mrs. Hartman.”

Hartman? That must be his last name.

“Yes, Mr. Hartman?” I glance over my shoulder.

“I need a first name to accompany the thoughts that will distract me all day.”

“Danni.” I open the front door and lean against the doorframe. “Yours?”

“Cole.” He buckles the helmet strap beneath his jaw.

“See you tonight, Cole Hartman.”

The motorcycle sputters with a vibrating growl, and he watches me, smiling, until I step inside and shut the door.

I rest my forehead against the wood, replaying every second of my introduction to Cole Hartman.

And I grin.

The moment has come to an end, and I know it’s just the beginning.

Chapter Four

PRESENT

I wake from a deep sleep with the sensation of someone watching me. I must’ve overworked myself dancing last night, because it takes a helluva lot of effort to lift my face from the pillow. Or maybe it was all the wine I drank. Body cramps. Pounding head. Cotton mouth. Yeah, I need coffee.

Dragging my eyes open, I groan at the sunlight exploding through my bedroom window. There’s no one in view, but the heavy breathing behind me suggests whoever is in my room isn’t trying to be stealthy about it.

I roll over and come face to face with huge brown eyes.

Standing beside my bed, my niece tucks her chin to her chest and glares at me from beneath thick lashes. After my run-in last night with Trace Savoy and the subsequent bottle of wine, I’m not equipped to deal with a four-year-old demon named Angel.

Worse is the off-tune drone of my sister’s humming in the kitchen. The interrogation awaits.

Maybe I should steal back the house key she stole from me. Or change the locks.

I narrow my eyes at Angel. Long black curls, rosy cheeks, and a dark complexion inherited from her Hispanic father, she’s the prettiest little girl I’ve ever seen. That is, when she’s not speaking.

“It’s creepy to watch people sleep,” I mumble.

She lifts a tiny shoulder, and I swear a mischievous smirk lurks behind those doll-like lips.

“Why don’t you run along and get Aunt Danni a cup of coffee?” I tuck the pillow beneath my throbbing head.

“Jesus hates you.” Angel blinks, expressionless.

“Did he tell you this himself?”

“This is God’s house.”

“Actually, it’s my house, and I work hard for the money that pays for it.”

“It’s God’s money.”

“Do you even know what that means?”

She turns toward the door and bends at the waist. “Toot this.” A farting noise sprays from her mouth, and she races from the room.

Birth control. That’s what this is. If my bighearted, grade-school-teaching sister can give birth to the spawn of the devil, God knows what I would produce. Call me selfish, but I’m not even tempted to find out. I have a ten-year IUD to make sure of it.

Of course, I need to have sex to get pregnant in the first place.

Still wearing the booty shorts from last night, I throw my legs over the side of the bed and follow the aroma of sizzling grease into the kitchen.

“You look like ass.” Bree smiles and shoves a mug of coffee at me.

“Thank you.” I sip the creamy beverage and sigh. “For the coffee, not the comment.”

“Eggs are almost done.” She turns back to the stove.

She’s not here to cook me breakfast. She wants the scoop on the date, and I’m surprised she hasn’t asked yet.

Dressed in her usual gear—baggy gym shorts, tank top, hair in a high ponytail, complete with an elastic headband—she takes her role as a soccer coach’s wife seriously. Eighteen months younger than me, she shares my height, build, facial features…everything. Only she’s darker. Darker complexion—fake bake. Darker hair—L’Oreal No.5. If she embraced her naturally pale skin and blonde hair, we’d pass as twins.

“You didn’t get the D last night.” Gray eyes—same as mine—squint at me over her shoulder.

I had two chances to get laid. Final score 0-2. Man, I suck. But she only knows about the one.

“You don’t know what happened.” I finish off the coffee with a couple of aspirin.

“You woke alone and grumpy.” She prepares two plates of eggs, bacon, and toast. “I know what didn’t happen.”

“I’m always