A long weekend of eating good food, shopping for quirky antiques, and touring weather-beaten, shingled windmills and lighthouses between working on my tan was all I wanted.
Not sharing a gorgeous beach house with Xavier Fox, arrogant asshole extraordinaire.
I stay planted on the weathered wood deck, breathing in the smog-free air that mixes with remnants of grill smoke. My stomach growls, audible only to me thanks to the nearby crashing waves.
“How long are you staying?” I step inside.
He’s already seated at the reclaimed oak dining table, chewing a tender piece of grilled whitefish.
He swallows. “Until Monday.”
Me too.
My shoulders slump. This isn’t vacation. I didn’t rearrange my appointment and obligations and solicit Skylar to cover my showings just to spend a weekend buried in uncomfortable tension next to the one man who makes my blood boil and my core heat at the same time.
I slink past him, hoisting my bag up and over my shoulder.
“Where are you going?” He rests his fork.
“To find a ride back to the city.”
Easier said than done. I don’t know where the Jitney is or if it’s already left Montauk, but I’ll figure it out.
“You just got here.” He shakes his head. “You hate me that much, do you?”
“I don’t hate anyone, Xavier. Don’t flatter yourself.” I’ve learned to forgive him over the years, but I’ve never forgotten. “I’ve better things to do with my time than sit around hating you.”
Yeah, like knocking you out of the top 1% of listing agents in the city.
He stole that title from me along with ten of my highest profile clients over the past couple years.
“Stay here.” He leans back in his chair, dabbing his full lips with a cloth napkin. A hint of a five o’clock shadow shades his hollowed cheekbones. “This house is big enough for the two of us. You stay out of my way. I’ll stay out of yours.”
This house is not big enough for the both of us. The entire borough of Manhattan isn’t big enough for the both of us.
Publishing November 9, 2015 in the POSSESS Alpha Romance Anthology!
ARROGANT BASTARD
DESCRIPTION
The last time my father beat me to a bloody pulp was the night he walked in on me banging his woman in his bed.
To be fair, she seduced me. And to be honest, I liked it. But to CPS, I was a victim.
They shipped me to Utah where my estranged mother lived with her husband and two sister-wives. And that’s when I met her. My innocent, wholesome, perfect step-sister. Well, one of many. But Waverly stood out because just like me, we’d been fighting a losing battle our entire lives.
Falling for her was a mistake, but shit, it’s not like I ever made good decisions.
Fuck being “family.” I must have Waverly Miller, and I won’t stop until she’s mine.
LETTER FROM THE AUTHOR
Dear Readers,
Although this book deals with modern polygamy (think Big Love or Sister Wives) and mentions certain polygamous subsets of the Mormon religion, it is intended to be read purely for entertainment. None of the opinions or details mentioned in this book, in regards to any mentioned religious groups, are meant to be offensive, attacking, or controversial. This is, after all, a work of fiction.
So sit back, relax, and step foot inside the modern polygamous world I’ve created. ;-)
xoxo,
Winter
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUE - JENSEN
ONE - JENSEN
TWO - WAVERLY
THREE - JENSEN
FOUR - WAVERLY
FIVE - JENSEN
SIX - WAVERLY
SEVEN - JENSEN
EIGHT - WAVERLY
NINE - JENSEN
TEN - WAVERLY
ELEVEN - JENSEN
TWELVE - WAVERLY
THIRTEEN - JENSEN
FOURTEEN - WAVERLY
FIFTEEN - JENSEN
SIXTEEN - WAVERLY
SEVENTEEN - JENSON
EIGHTEEN - WAVERLY
NINETEEN - JENSEN
TWENTY - WAVERLY
TWENTY-ONE - JENSEN
TWENTY-TWO - WAVERLY
TWENTY-THREE - JENSEN
TWENTY-FOUR - JENSEN
TWENTY-FIVE - WAVERLY
TWENTY-SIX - JENSEN
TWENTY-SEVEN - WAVERLY
TWENTY-EIGHT - JENSEN
TWENTY-NINE - WAVERLY
THIRTY - JENSEN
THIRTY-ONE - WAVERLY
THIRTY-TWO - JENSEN
EPILOGUE - WAVERLY
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
COMING SOON
PROLOGUE
JENSEN
Two days ago
“Jensen.” His voice embodied the throaty, animalistic warning of a lion about to annihilate his prey.
Juliette, my father’s woman, scrambled beneath me, pushing me off her as a look of fear in her eyes clashed with the orgasmic flush that colored her cheeks. We’d imagined this scenario a hundred times before, but talking about it was different than playing it out in real life. It was a lot funnier in our minds, probably because he was such an asshole. Maybe I deserved some of it, but she sure as fuck didn’t.
And if fucking me made her feel better about her pathetic little puppy-on-a-leash life, than who was I to judge? She was hot as sin and scarcely old enough to be my mother. I had no problem plunging myself inside her on a weekly basis.
Juliette had been moaning my name for the last thirty minutes, but now all she could scream was, “No, no, no, no!”
I didn’t realize I was within an inch of my life until my father’s fingers curled around my neck. I couldn’t breathe. He slammed my back against the wall. I was naked. I didn’t remember being pulled off the bed, but all of a sudden I was on the other side of the room, face-to-face with the man who’d brought me into this world. He was two seconds from ripping my balls off and shoving them down my throat.
How long had he been watching us?
“You arrogant little bastard!” he seethed, his nostrils flaring as venomous spit accompanied his words.
I couldn’t breathe, but damn if my lips didn’t twist into a smile. He called me “little.” I towered over that son of a bitch, and he knew it. Plus, according to Juliette, height wasn’t the only way in which I outsized my father.
He clenched his hand harder around my throat, pressing against my windpipe as I gasped for air. Within seconds the room began to darken, and Juliette’s hysterical shrieks echoed off the walls.
“Josiah, stop! You’re going to kill him!”
CHAPTER 1
JENSEN
The social worker’s state-owned Suburban pulls to a gentle stop, waking me from my Codeine-induced, six-hour nap. I wipe the drool from my mouth and glance out the window. My eyes are still black and blue and they hurt when I squint, but I’ve learned over the years to ignore the pain; eventually, it goes away.
“We’re here, Jensen.” Her voice is annoyingly soft and sweet like cotton candy. Judging by all the photos on her work desk, she is one of those Mother Teresa types, only she’s married and she and her husband have adopted a whole orphanage-worth of system children. Brad and Angelina would be proud. Guess they didn’t have room for me. “Is that your mother?”
Standing on the front steps of a picturesque yellow colonial is a woman who resembles my mother. She’s wearing jeans and a blue sweater, and her hair is long and pulled back. It’s still the same shade of shit-brown I vaguely remember.