Clusterf*@k (Life Sucks Book 4) Read online

  Her friend’s expression was smug, and she waved her fingers in goodbye as she tugged a narrow-eyed Finn away.

  “Let’s get you back to your shop,” Chance murmured, “get your shit done so I can have you to myself.”

  “My stuff isn’t shit.”

  He froze, mouth tipping up at the corners as she glared at him. His fingers squeezed hers. “Let’s get your stuff done.”

  Now it was her turn to smile.

  To squeeze his fingers.

  To rise on tiptoe and slant her mouth across his.

  And for the record, her kiss had tongue. A school-appropriate amount of tongue.

  But still tongue, and enough of it that when she rocked back onto her heels, saw that Chance looked slightly dazed, she knew her expression was smug. Especially when she said, “Let’s get my shit done and go home.”

  Silence.

  One beat of long, taut silence.

  And then Chance started laughing.

  Best sound ever.

  “Like this?” Chance asked, just over an hour later.

  She grinned. “Is it killing you to be wrapped in pink yarn?”

  He shot her a look, repeated, “Like this?”

  It was killing him. Maybe not as much as the purple laced with slender threads of gold had, when she’d had him be her measuring tool. But it was torturing him in a way that promised he’d get retribution later.

  And she had a feeling that she’d like his retribution, given the heat in his green eyes.

  She spread his hands a little farther apart then started wrapping the yarn around it. “I used to do this for my mom.”

  Those green eyes hit hers. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” she whispered.

  “It must have been hard to lose them both.”

  “I miss them a lot,” she said by way of agreement, “but I had Rob and Carmella”—Rob’s former wife, who’d passed just over three years before—“and Carmella’s family is great. They looked out for me and Rob. After she died, they took it hard. Obviously,” she added, because who wouldn’t take the death of their daughter hard?

  “A lot of loss in a short amount of time.”

  “Yeah,” she whispered again.

  “Strong even in the face of a storm,” he murmured, his voice a soft rasp in the quiet of the shop. “That storm blew through, and you still found a way to be happy and successful.”

  She blinked. “Chance.”

  “Cloudless,” he murmured.

  She blinked again, realized he was giving her the explanation he hadn’t before. “Chance.”

  “Won’t ever forgive myself for hurting you,” he said softly, his long, tan fingers wrapped in pink yarn.

  Another blink.

  And then she lost it.

  Tears slipping out of the corners of her eyes, a sob hitching her breathing.

  He lost the yarn, tugged her into his arms, pressing her against all those strong lines of his chest, his warm body surrounding her as tears cascaded down her face. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” His voice was gravel. His hold tight. “I’m so sorry—”

  She finally got herself together enough to suck in a breath. “Stop,” she whispered. “Stop,” she said a little more clearly. “I’m not upset about that.” Another inhale to get her breathing under control. “I’m not,” she repeated when his face remained grave. “I’m not upset at all.”

  His brow lifted.

  She had the insane urge to laugh.

  So, she did.

  And then she shook her head, got herself together, and stopped the tears, the laughter. She cupped Chance’s face in her palms. “I’m not upset,” she said. “I’m a crier, which I’m guessing you get by now, but by being a crier, I mean I’m a crier under any circumstance, but most especially when a man I really like gives me sweet words without reservation, and calls me Cloudless, and says I’m strong. Which I get”—she pushed some of her hair out of her face—“is sort of eliminated by the fact that I started crying because of it. But”—a shrug—“I’m a crier. I cry when I’m happy and sad and in between. I cry at Shark Week shows and SPCA commercials. I cried when Soph brought me some yarn back from Turkey when she was filming that movie. And I’ll definitely cry when a sweet man tells me something wonderful.”

  “Mist,” he rasped.

  She sniffed. “Fair warning, I’ll probably also cry when you say my name like that.”

  He nudged her palms off his face, cupped her jaw in turn, thumb sweeping up to wipe her tears away, and then he stared at her for so long, his eyes fathomless and completely unreadable, his expression almost hard, that a pit began opening in her stomach.

  Then everything went soft.

  Emerald went molten.

  His mouth curved.

  And he said, “I guess I’m going to have to buy stock in Kleenex because I’m not done telling you all the wonderful things you are.”

  Misty froze.

  His words hit.

  And she started crying again.

  Chance tugged her close for the second time in as many minutes, muttered, “Definitely investing in Kleenex.”

  Laughter blended with tears.

  But Chance’s arms never loosened.

  14

  Diamonds

  Chance

  “I’ll see you soon,” he murmured, sitting on the edge of Misty’s bed three days later.

  He’d intended to stay in Stoneybrook for a bit longer, wanting to find an apartment or house to rent, plus a space for his office, but he’d ended up spending every minute with Misty. And then every night—after that first one where he’d passed out on the couch—in her bed.

  It had been awesome.

  He hadn’t wanted to be away from her, so he’d spent his time helping out in her shop. Well, not really helping too much, if he was honest. Yarn, as it turned out, wasn’t exactly his thing.

  But he’d offered his hands for her to wrap the balls when needed (though it turned out she actually had a tool for that, so it hadn’t been too often, just at the end of the day, when it was just the two of them and they were talking about everything and nothing).

  He’d learned how to run the register and sign people up for classes.

  He’d hauled boxes around her storeroom.

  But mostly, he’d pretended to work on his computer while sitting on a stool at her counter and spending the majority of his time watching her.

  Committing her to memory.

  The way her blond hair shone in the sunlight pouring through the windows in the morning. The freckles on her nose. How her eyes changed color depending on what she wore and what time of day it was.

  Learning the small things.

  Like how she had different smiles—one for customers, one for friends, one for customers who were friends, and one for…him.

  Bar none, his was the best.

  Probably because she’d been giving it to him a lot lately. Probably because she was giving it to him right then.

  Because he’d learned.

  He’d kept them up late the night before, worn her straight out. Her fault, since she’d disappeared into her closet after dinner and emerged wearing some sexy as shit contraption that was black and lace and revealed more than it hid—and that was about as much as he’d taken in before he’d pounced on her.

  She’d been limp and flushed, her eyes barely open, mouth swollen, limbs sprawled on the mattress, and more asleep than awake by the time he finished with her.

  So, it went without saying that he’d woken up before her.

  Despite being pretty damned tired himself.

  He’d slipped out of bed, left a note on the pillow next to hers, and had returned with coffee and cinnamon rolls.

  The scent of the former roused her.

  The latter had gotten him his smile.

  She was easy to please, and fuck, was he looking forward to continuing to do it, and if things kept flowing the way they had between them, then he was looking forward to doing it for the rest of his
life.

  Now, she was still sleepy.

  But she was full of coffee and cinnamon roll and didn’t have to hit her granola bar basket.

  Though, he couldn’t lie. The granola bars in that wicker container were delicious, made in town by one of her friends, Frankie, who apparently owned a health food shop on Stoneybrook’s main street, just two blocks from Tangled.

  Still, the cinnamon rolls—decidedly not healthy—had the bars beat.

  “Thanks for breakfast,” she murmured, arching her back and stretching her arms over her head in a way that wasn’t intentionally sexy, but sure as shit was anyway. Especially when she was naked beneath that sheet and her breasts were only inches from exposure.

  And if he caught a glimpse of them…

  Well, he would be late getting on the road and investigating the lead that had come up for a case he was working—an oxycontin ring a small PD had contracted with him to investigate. He’d worked with the DEA and FBI on closing such rings, and now his specialty had become aiding small-town police departments or sheriff’s offices to get a handle on distribution. Heroin and fentanyl and oxy were fucking with communities, especially those without the resources that bigger cities had.

  He went under. He gathered information and evidence. He turned that over to the detectives.

  They closed the case.

  Often to fanfare that left his involvement out.

  Which suited him fine.

  He did what he did because he was good at it, because it was important, because it helped people. Cruising under the media’s radar was just an added bonus.

  “You’re welcome,” he said, tearing his gaze away from her tempting body, the nipples just barely contained beneath the sheet. “Hope you really do love those cinnamon rolls, because they may have been the best thing I’ve ever eaten, so we’ll be getting them often.”

  Her expression went mischievous. “You like them even more than the pulled pork sandwiches I made you last night?” she asked archly.

  Those pulled pork sandwiches with homemade coleslaw had him contemplating diamond rings, they were so good.

  “No fucking way.”

  She grinned. “Smart answer.”

  “I can be smart occasionally.”

  Her face softened then went contrite. “I think a lot more than occasionally. I’m sorry I said you were stupid the other day. I—”

  “I know, Cloudless. Don’t think of it for another second, okay?”

  She nibbled on her bottom lip. Then nodded. “Okay, baby.” Holding the sheet to her chest, she sat up and cuddled close to his side, changing the subject, “Will you be able to talk this time?” Misty asked. “Or should I just plan to see you when you get back?”

  God, she was sweet.

  He smoothed back her sleep-mussed hair. “I should be able to talk. You call or text when you have time”—he’d given her his number the moment things were settled between them—“and if I don’t pick up, I’ll call or text back as soon as I can.” He gently loosened a tangle in her hair. “Plus, this isn’t undercover. I’ll be in a hotel at night and should have plenty of time to talk then, if you want to hear from me.”

  Tiger’s eyes on his. “I want to hear from you.”

  No games. No prevaricating. Just putting it out there.

  Fuck, he wanted to kiss her.

  He wanted to strip that sheet away.

  But…work. Get the job done, chase down the lead, come back to Misty, and spend many hours in bed giving her orgasms. Mentally, he nodded to himself.

  Good plan.

  He pressed a kiss to her forehead, started to stand. “I’ll be in contact as much as I can.”

  “Okay.”

  Feet turning toward the door, he forced himself to keep moving.

  Ten feet. Five. Two. On the threshold.

  “Chance?”

  He didn’t turn from the door. “Yeah?”

  “Kiss me one more time before you go?”

  He could do that.

  Spinning, preparing himself for a chaste press of her lips to his, he froze when she tossed the sheet to the side, exposing that naked body he was addicted to. His cock twitched. His hands clenched into fists.

  And then he was moving.

  Back to the bed.

  Scooping her up into his arms.

  Slanting his mouth over hers. Not chastely.

  Rolling to his back so all her glorious curves were pressed to his.

  She didn’t hesitate, just met him kiss for kiss, and when they needed air, he broke away from her mouth and focused his attention on her breasts. They were hanging in his face, so freaking close to his lips, his teeth, his tongue, so how could he not?

  Her moans might be his favorite sound in the world.

  “Chance,” she breathed, her fingers digging into his hair when he suckled her deeply, her hips bucking against him.

  Okay, maybe her moans were second to the sound of his name on her lips.

  She released him when he switched breasts, reaching between them to undo the button of his jeans, yank down the zipper. He lifted his hips enough so that she could push them down, still sucking on her nipple, caressing her other breast.

  Her wet pussy brushed his cock.

  Once. Twice.

  He released her breast, snagged her hips, and coaxed her down.

  “You told me you like to be on top—” He groaned when all that tight, wet heat surrounded him.

  “I told you,” she panted, slowly grinding down on him, “that it’s easier for me to—ah—” She bottomed out. “It’s easier for me to come on top,” she finished, her eyes sliding closed. “That’s it. That’s—” She broke off again, hips jerking as she started moving, a groan tumbling off her tongue.

  “Then make it easy, Cloudless.”

  Her eyes met his.

  She smiled.

  Then she took herself into oblivion.

  And he was happy to just cruise over after her.

  15

  Baseball Bats

  Misty

  “You’re amazing!” Soph said as they sat on hers and Rob’s back deck.

  They’d just spent two weeks on the beach, and yet Soph had spent the better part of their dinner staring out at the waves.

  Her sister-in-law loved the ocean.

  And Misty couldn’t blame her. It was gorgeous, especially the soft sand and gentle waves that were party to Stoneybrook’s stretch of ocean.

  “You like it?” she asked.

  Soph held up the blanket Misty hadn’t been able to stop herself from knitting—a pretty purple ombre that matched a sweater her brother had conned Misty out of coughing up (even though she’d been planning on keeping it for herself). The sweater looked a million times better on Soph than it would have on Misty, and truthfully, Soph loved it more than Misty ever could.

  Namely because Misty’s closet was plumb full of sweaters, and she didn’t appreciate her work as much as Soph did.

  Case in point, Soph was wearing it that evening.

  So, Mist got an up close and personal view of how good of a job she did matching the ombre.

  Spoiler alert: she did an excellent job.

  “I love it!” Soph said, setting the blanket on the table and sweeping Misty up into a hug. “Thank you so much.”

  This was why she loved Soph for Rob.

  Why she loved Soph, straight up.

  She was a Hollywood actor, one of the most well-known A-listers in the world. And she was genuinely excited about a blanket. Misty knew she made good blankets. They were well-crafted with quality materials—like everything in her shop—but Soph could probably get a twenty-four-carat gold blanket for free (though that would be both heavy and not very cuddly). Hell, if such a blanket existed, some well-meaning product manager had probably already sent one to Soph’s agent.

  Yet despite all that—the free stuff, the movie sets, the over-the-top fans, and paparazzi—Soph was normal.

  “This is the first baby gift we’ve gotten,�
� she squealed in Misty’s ear. “Oh my God. Why does it feel so real now?” Her eyes were wide when she dropped her arms and stepped back. “Holy fuck. I’m going to be a mom.” She turned to Rob. “We’re going to be parents. How are we going to be parents? I don’t know anything about being a mom. What if I fuck up?” She grabbed the blanket, held it to her chest like it was her pacifier. And maybe, in a way, it was. “Oh shit. We’re going to fuck up. I’m going to fuck up.”

  Rob wrapped Soph in his arms, tucked her face into his chest, his head dropping, lips to her ears, murmuring something Misty couldn’t hear.

  Not that she was going to put herself in a position to eavesdrop.

  Instead, she quietly gathered the glasses and plates from dinner, brought them into the kitchen, and washed up. Then she slipped out the front door and got into her car.

  It had been four days since Chance had gone on his job, and they’d talked every night, texted throughout the days. Apparently, the lead had been fruitful, so he’d stayed longer than planned before handing off the case to the detectives he’d worked with, giving his statement.

  Thus, she hadn’t heard from him for most of that day.

  He was supposed to text her when he was heading back to Stoneybrook, though.

  But he hadn’t done that yet and considering he was about six hours away, she wasn’t sure if she’d see him that evening.

  Pouty lip time.

  Sighing, she carefully—carefully!—backed out of the driveway, but instead of driving home and sitting on her couch missing Chance, she decided to stop by Tangled. She needed to place a large order the following day, which meant she had to do her favorite thing…not.

  Inventory.

  Sigh.

  But she might as well get started on it. Better to distract herself with the mundane rather than pouting at home because she wanted Chance to be there.

  Plus, she had a new audiobook she’d happily dive into for a couple of hours.

  So, she parked in front of the shop—not bothering to worry about leaving the spots open for her customers like she normally did by parking in the alley out back. Downtown Stoneybrook was quiet at this late hour—late being almost nine o’clock—and the streets had rolled up nearly an hour before.