Wild Man 2 by Kristen Ashley

Author:Kristen Ashley
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: katie
Published: 0101-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

You’re with Me

Nearly two weeks later…

I parked behind Brock’s brand new, huge, dark blue GMC, turned off the ignition, exited my car and headed to the trunk, shivering the minute my body left my warm vehicle and hit the arctic air.

It was Denver. Tomorrow, it could be sixty degrees even in December. But that night it was freezing and the air felt like snow, not to mention the forecast said we were going to get a dump.

Good for the mountains and ski resorts, bad for Tessa O’Hara.

I loved snow, playing in it, looking at it, making hot cocoa and reading a book while it was falling outside.

Driving through it… not so much.

I opened the trunk and grabbed the handles of the plethora of parcels in the back, carefully arranging the bags in my grip, bags made awkward due to the copious rolls of Christmas wrap poking out.

I had a weakness for Christmas wrap. In fact, I had a weakness for any kind of wrap

including bows and ribbons. I gave into this weakness often so I had an entire closet at my house dedicated to wrapping paper and all its accoutrement.

No joke.

Juggling bags while avoiding poking myself with rolls of paper, I slammed the trunk using my elbow and headed to Brock’s patio.

When my eyes went there, my brows drew together.

There was a Harley outside the gate. It wasn’t Brock’s. It was a Dyna Glide. And anyway, when not in use, Brock kept his Fat Boy on the patio under a sturdy, custom-made cover.

Hmm. It appeared Brock had company.

Still juggling bags, I maneuvered myself through the high, wood patio gate then through the storm door and front door.

Before I could call a word of greeting, I heard Brock say low, “Tess.”

I knew instantly he wasn’t greeting me. It was a warning to halt conversation.

Oh man.

“Hey!” I called, shut the door and walked into the living room, eyes to the right.

Then I saw them. A Hispanic man and a Native American man on the stools in front of

Brock’s bar, Brock standing in the kitchen behind the bar.

My first thought, seeing as I was female and these thoughts usually took precedence above all others, was these guys were hot. Not hot, per say, if you were talking the average sense of the word. Hot in the Brock sense of the word which was to say mouth-watering, off-the-scales hot.

My second thought was they not only shared hotness quotients with Brock, but both of

them in different ways also had the wild man, dangerous man aura.

For some reason, Brock was communing with his brethren and the serious vibe pulsing in the room said it wasn’t over beers, war stories and nostalgically reminiscing about the bitches they’d tagged.

This was something else.

“Hey babe,” Brock rumbled. “This is Hector Chavez and Vance Crowe, friends of mine.”

“Hey guys,” I greeted.

To this I got a, “Yo,” from Vance Crowe, the Native American man but the Hispanic man

just gave me a chin lift.

Definitely Brock Brethren.

I hefted the bags up over the

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