Hard Work Read online

  “I’ll have to stay with her and make sure she doesn’t aspirate,” I say, resigning myself to a night on Skye’s uncomfortable, not-designed-to-be-slept-on couch. “So if someone can help me get her into my car, then I’ll take her home.”

  Bry quirks his brow. “You all good to drive?”

  “Since I had a feeling Skye was in the mood to let loose today, I stopped drinking a few hours ago, and even then, I’d only had two beers in four hours, plus a shit-ton of food. I’m good,” I say with a chin-lift.

  “You want to go get changed then, and we’ll wait for you,” Jamie says, proving he’s the wise one. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve crashed out in a dress shirt and slacks, but when given a choice, I’d rather be comfortable.

  “Okay. Maybe sit her up and get some water in her,” I say, looking back down at a still-snoring Skye, Jax now on the ground beside her, his leg acting as her pillow. Ronnie, April, and Faith move our way.

  “Maybe someone should get a towel and a bucket too, for the car ride,” Ez adds. “Vomit is a bitch to get out of the upholstery.”

  Fuck, I hope she doesn’t spew in my Camaro. That car is my baby; 1967, black, my most treasured possession for more than ten years. I’ve kicked many others out on their asses for less than soiling my leather seats.

  Ronnie sits on the grass next to Jax, her head resting on his shoulder. My eyes drift to Bry and Faith, who are nearly fucking with their clothes on beside them.

  “God, maybe I’m the one who’s gonna throw up,” I mutter at the disgustingly gushy sight in front of me.

  “Get a room,” I mutter, hearing Jamie and Ez chuckle.

  Jax grins. “I might just do that. Maybe we’ll use yours since you won’t be in it tonight.”

  My back goes ramrod straight, and I narrow my eyes. “You fuck in my bed, Jax, and I’ll dish the dirt to Mom.”

  “You’ve got nothing,” he says. “I’m a grown-ass man. There’s nothing Mom can do.”

  I smirk. “Oh, there are plenty of things I’m sure Mom would love to know about your colorful past.”

  He glares at me. “You’re so full of shit.”

  I shrug. “Try me.”

  “Well, this is fun and all, but we’ve got a passed-out Skye to deal with, and I’ve got a wedding night to enjoy,” Bry remarks.

  “You guys have been married for months,” Ez says.

  “Yeah,” Bry says, looking down at a soft-eyed, blissed-out Faith. “But I missed our first wedding night; there’s no fucking way I’m missing this one. Besides, we have a whole house to christen.”

  Faith laughs, burrowing in closer to her husband. “We’ve already done that.”

  “We have, babycakes, but that was before it was our house. Now we have to do it all over again.”

  Ezra rolls his eyes. “On that image, I’m gonna go. Give me your keys, Co. I’ll go sort the car out for you.”

  I pull them out of my pocket and hand them over.

  “We’ll get Skye awake and mobile,” April says softly.

  I nod and walk around the circle of brothers and their wives until I’m in front of Faith. I pull her in for a hug, truly happy for the two of them. Stepping back, I give Bry a slap on the shoulder. “Congratulations. We’ll catch up soon. It’s about time I kicked your ass at golf again,” I say with a grin because Faith is the only one who’s beaten me in years. She let it slip a few weeks ago that she would go to a driving range in Sydney and whack balls for hours whenever she was homesick. Good for her—not so good for my unbeaten record against everyone else in my family.

  Being the youngest of five, I cherish any chance to come out on top. Our regular trip to the driving range gives me that opportunity.

  Skye groans, grabbing my attention. Right, time to get my way-past-happy-drunk best friend home to bed. “Right. I’ll be back,” I say, giving a short wave over my head as I walk across the yard and up the stairs to go inside.

  Mom and Mrs. Baker—Faith’s mom and our next door neighbor—sit on stools at the kitchen island, snifters of brandy in their hands.

  “Hey, baby, everything okay?” Mom asks.

  I walk over to her, bending down to give her and Mrs. Baker kisses on their cheeks. “I’m good, but Skye’s not.”

  Mom gasps. “Is she sick?”

  “She will be in the morning,” I reply with a laugh.

  “Oh. I hope you’re taking her to bed then.”

  My eyes bug out of my head, and a giggle escapes Mrs. Baker’s lips.

  “Goodness, I didn’t mean that.” Mom shakes her head. “Although Skye is a lovely girl. She talks a lot, but you need a woman who’ll keep you on your toes.”

  “I’ve got more than enough of those in this family alone,” I muse.

  Mom’s gaze narrows, her finger pointed my way. “You know what I mean, Co. You’re a catch. You deserve to find the same happiness as your brothers and sister.”

  I lean in and press a kiss to the top of my mother’s head. “I’m happy, Mom. I promise.”

  She reaches out and gives my arm a gentle squeeze. “I know, baby. Just keep an open mind, okay?”

  “Yeah, Mom. But Skye is my friend and partner. We’re strictly platonic.” I turn to Mrs. Baker. “Do you give Ezra this much grief?”

  “My Ezra is a good man; he just has terrible taste in women and falls too quickly. There will be a woman who’s perfect for him out there somewhere. I’m happy to wait as long as he is.”

  There’s a twinkle in Mrs. Baker’s eyes. She exchanges a look with Mom, but thankfully, neither of them says anything else. Used to their unspoken secret conversations, I know not to ask, especially if I want to get out of here anytime soon.

  I walk over to the refrigerator and open the door, pulling out a bottle of water I’d stashed in there for work tomorrow night.

  “I’m going to take Skye home and crash on her couch, just to keep an eye on her.”

  There’s a happy sigh from both the moms.

  “You’re a good boy, Cohen Patrick Cook,” Mom says.

  I close the fridge door, brow arched when I turn back to my mom. “Full-naming? Really?”

  “I love your name,” she replies.

  “And I love you, but I also know you’re a goof.”

  She throws her head back and laughs. “Always have been, always will be, son. And you know what they say.”

  “What’s that?” I reply.

  “That you marry a woman like your mom.” That sets them off, both women leaning into each other and giggling like drunk school girls.

  “And on that note, I’m going to get changed and get Skye home. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. I have to come home to get my uniform anyway.”

  Mom shoots me a soft smile. “Okay, baby. Drive safe.”

  I move to the door leading to the stairs. “Always. Bye, Mrs. Baker. Love ya, Ma.”

  “Not as much as I love you,” she replies, the same way she always does. I give them a wave then head up to my room, making short work of getting changed into a pair of sweat pants, a tee, and a hoodie. After grabbing my phone charger and toothbrush, I go back downstairs and out the front door, finding my car running and Jamie and Ezra helping a bleary-eyed, giggling Skye into the passenger seat with a bucket placed in her lap.

  Jamie shuts her in as Ezra meets me by the front wheel.

  “She’s awake and rambling and giggly as shit.” He glances over his shoulder to look at her. “She’s a cute drunk.”

  I narrow my eyes at him, a weird feeling coming over me, similar to how I felt when I saw Skye hanging off him in the backyard.

  Ez puts his hands up. “No, Co. Don’t mistake that for interest. There’s cute, and there’s cute, and Skye may be a cute drunk, but she’s far too young and far too corruptible for a man like me. Besides, I’d never cut your grass. You know that,” he growls.

  That strange tightness in my chest subsides. “I know.”

  “The look you shot me across the yard says otherwise, Co,” he says, pinning
me with his stare. “But a word of advice: that girl doesn’t scream ‘casual’ like you do. So if you make that move, make sure you’re both on the same page, yeah?”

  I nod, the right words escaping me. What am I supposed to say? I didn’t see her as anything other than just Skye until twenty minutes ago. Gorgeous? Knew that. Funny? Clocked that. An ass I’d love to tap? That’s new.

  His eyes are full of understanding when his lips quirk up. He reaches out and shoves my shoulder. “Drive safe.”

  “Always do.” I round the car and hop in, revving the motor once before checking on my dozing friend. As if sensing my gaze, she rolls her head my way.

  “Hey, Co,” she slurs. She reaches out her hand and taps the end of my nose. “You’re cute when you’re all huffy.”

  My brows lift. “Huffy, huh?”

  “Yup,” she says, accentuating the P with a pop of her full lips. “Where we going?”

  “I’m taking you home.”

  Her smile turns wicked. “Oh, yeah. You think you got a shot with me?” She waggles her brows—or tries to—before erupting into a fit of giggles.

  Warning. Warning. Enter conversation with caution.

  I chuckle and shake my head before shifting the car into reverse, hooking my arm behind her seat and pulling out of the driveway.

  Not even five minutes later, a soft snore sounds from the seat beside me, and I know without looking that she’s out for the count again.

  I stop at an intersection and glance sideways to see her eyes closed and her mouth open, a tendril of hair having fallen across her face.

  Without thinking, I reach out and run it back behind her ear, smiling when she leans into my hand.

  It’s not until the next morning when I wake up on Skye’s couch that I realize I might be in trouble.

  A whole damn lot of it, because my cock doesn’t care if it’s a whole pile of complication cuddling up to me. He’s not one to differentiate when the particular spanner in the works is blonde, hot, and gorgeous with a body that would bring the strongest-willed man to his knees.

  Maybe trouble isn’t the right word for my predicament because I have absolutely no room to shift away. Skye’s about to feel everything God endowed me with.

  Houston, we might have a problem because somehow—and soon—things are about to get very awkward.

  Skye

  Having woken up with a dull ache in my head around four in the morning, I’d been surprised to find a conked out Cohen on my couch.

  I remember him driving me home, but I’d passed out before getting inside my apartment.

  The last thing I expected was for him to stay the night to keep an eye on me. Admittedly, I did get pretty drunk. After about drink five, I was happy and relaxed, and drinks six and seven went down like water.

  I’d quietly made my way into the bathroom, found some Advil, and had a super-quick shower to wash unknown grass stains off of my knees. Putting on an old Chicago Bears T-shirt I’d swiped from Marco, I’d moved back through the open-plan living/dining/kitchen of my two-bed flat.

  I’d made it to my bedroom doorway before thinking a good host would cover her guest with a blanket. With that in mind, I’d turned back around and quietly padded across the living room to my blanket box seat under the front window. With my big chunky handknit wool blanket in hand, I’d moved in front of the couch, looked my partner up and down in all his sleeping glory—how can he be hotter when he’s asleep?—and gently placed the blanket over him. I‘d been about to walk away when he’d groaned and rolled over to face me. “You all good?”

  “Yeah, Co. Go back to sleep.”

  He’d reached out, and his big hand had wrapped around my bare leg. I’d frozen, but he hadn’t, the barely-there squeeze and brush of his fingers over the back of my knee, sending a shiver through me—the good kind.

  “You’re cold.”

  “It’s okay. I’m going to hop back into bed. I’ll warm up.”

  “Come ’ere,” he’d drawled sleepily, lifting the blanket and holding his arms out for me.

  I’d hesitated for a moment. But when a sexy, sleepy man you trust tells you to lie down and snuggle into him, you don’t say no.

  That brings me to this morning, dozing while plastered against the man I’ve wanted to jump since the day I met him. We’re partners though, and since we work in the same firehouse as two of my brothers, I shut down any ideas I may have had about getting Cohen Cook naked.

  Now, though? I’m a red-blooded woman wearing only a tee and sleep shorts, pressed chest-to-crotch against an irresistible man. A particular part of his already-awake anatomy has been rolling against me for the past few minutes, as if out of instinct.

  I lie still, willing my hips to not grind against him like a pole I want to slide down. Not that I’m averse to the idea… I just rather my men be awake and willing, not asleep, and maybe not conscious of what he’s doing and who he’s doing it against.

  Female blue balls—or blue bean—is an inevitable predicament, and it’s one I’ve had for a good twelve months when it comes to Cohen.

  In the beginning, it was easy to put the importance of fitting in to my new firehouse ahead of my physical attraction to the man, but as time has worn on, I’ve found that it has become more and more difficult to deny the dirty thoughts and filthy dreams I have on a regular basis about my partner.

  Getting drunk last night was not something I’d planned, and my hazy memory of coming on to the only single—non-workmate—member of the Cook/Baker male collective was not something I set out to do. That’s not to say I’m disappointed at the current position I now find myself in because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that Cohen is not immune to the fact that a) I’m a female, b) I’m not all that bad-looking, and c) there’s this weird ‘work well clothed, and would work well naked too’ vibe between us.

  It’s not that I’m a floozy looking for the next dick to jump, and Cohen just happens to be a hard and—at least, physically speaking—willing participant. I trust the guy in every way. Most importantly, I trust him not to let feelings get in the way of a good orgasm—or three.

  There’s mutual respect between us and a deep friendship I know neither one of us would ever want to screw up by… well, screwing.

  A soft groan escapes Cohen’s mouth, then his entire body goes still, then ramrod straight. “What the—oh, fuck,” he says, sounding wide awake. I push up with my hand and look down, expecting half-open, sleepy eyes, not the look of absolute horror and regret on his face.

  My head jerks back. “Co, what’s wro—”

  He jumps up and rolls over the back of my couch, landing with a loud hard thump on the floor.

  “Ow, fuck,” he moans. I shift to my knees, poking my head over to look down at him.

  “Are you okay?”

  He stares up at me, his eyes widening in another ‘what the fuck have I done’ expression that would be funny as hell if he hadn’t just attempted to vault over my couch to get away from me.

  “Are you?” he asks, moving into a sitting position. Running his hand through his sleep-mussed hair, he shakes his head and stares at my seen-better-days rug. “I’m sorry if I did anything, I mean… shit. I don’t even know what happened.”

  I try to stop myself but fail dismally, a snort escaping my lips, soon followed by a gurgling snicker, then an all-out laugh.

  My laughter subsides. Cohen stands over me, a frown deeper than Lake Michigan marring his brow.

  “You find this funny? Your brothers are going to eat me for breakfast.”

  I would rather you eat me first. It appears my rule-keeping work partner is back; the cuddly, rutting, and turned-on version of said man is long gone—much to my body’s disappointment.

  “Casanova, you’re acting like you woke up after a bad one-night-stand and you’d rather gnaw your arm off than consider the fact you were—up until a few minutes ago—a seemingly willing participant.”

  His brows go sky-high. “How? What? Did we…?”
>
  That sets me off giggling again.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch him taking a seat on the edge of my coffee table and leaning his forearms on his outstretched legs. “Brat, I’m not finding this as funny as you are. Shit. I wasn’t even the drunk one last night.”

  Okay, time to put this confusion of his to bed. Especially since it seems very unlikely my actual mattress will be getting any action anytime soon.

  I swing my legs over the side of the couch and sit up, pushing the blanket away and scooting forward, so my bent knees are framed inside his.

  “Right. As funny as this little freak-out of yours is, I’m going to put you out of your misery.”

  He lifts his head to meet my gaze.

  “No, you were not the drunk one. No, my brothers are not going to hurt, maim, or kill you. No, we did not have sex, which must be such a relief for you, but it was also not me who stopped you from going back to bed at three a.m. because you were sleepy and sexy and wanted to freaking snuggle!” I’m rather loud by the end.

  Cohen’s eyes widen, his head jerking back, his mouth dropping open. “I—”

  I narrow my gaze, my breathing heavy as I lean forward and point my index finger right in his face. “If you dare say you’re sorry again, Cohen Patrick Cook, so help me God, that huge battering ram between your legs will be all ram…” I’m making absolutely no sense. But I’m too proud to back off now. “… and no batter.”

  His eyes flash, his annoyingly perfect lips twitching. “You do know that makes absolutely no fucking sense, right?”

  “You should know me well enough by now not to argue with me when I’m on a roll.”

  He nods, but the moment he grins, I lose it and launch myself at him. I’m not quite sure what I was hoping to achieve, but his hands shoot up, his fingers wrapping around my wrists. It’s like I’m suspended in mid-air, time standing still as I stand over Cohen. He sits there, holding my arms up between us, his head tipped back, his eyes burning into mine as I glare into his. My chest heaves, his nostrils flare… then something snaps.