“Um … do you know what you’d like to drink?” Lucy’s head was down, her focus entirely on the pen and paper she was clinging on to for dear life. Her golden hair fell loose around her shoulders while a thick braid swept along her hairline like a crown. Even in simple jeans and a black shirt, she looked like a goddess.
“Can I get a root beer, Luce?”
“Sure can, Dyl.” She peeked up just enough to give the kid a kind smile.
Like the greedy motherfucker Jack was, he wanted some of that smile, too. “What do you recommend?” He kept his gaze on her, leaning back in his seat and draping an arm across the back of the booth.
“To drink?” Finally, she peered up at him.
“Yes, beautiful. To drink. What do you like …? What’s your favorite?” Ignoring Dylan’s snort, Jack’s eyes went to her pretty pink cheeks.
Lucy’s brow furrowed at the question. “Uh. Um. The iced tea, I guess.”
“Then that’s what I’ll have.” He shot her his most panty-melting smile, delighting as her cheeks darkened.
The fact that she got so flustered around him should be enough of a warning to leave her alone. But he couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
“You’re into Lucy?” Dylan asked as Jack unashamedly watched her walk away.
When he finally glanced back at his nephew, he saw a familiar wide grin stretching across the kid’s face.
Just like Cody.
Dropping his elbows onto the steel tabletop, he leaned in close. Dylan did the same. “Why? Do you think she’s into me?”
Not only did Dylan answer no far too quickly, but the kid also went on to laugh his arse off. Right in Jack’s face. And he didn’t stop. He even tipped his head back and laughed harder and louder until Jack was sure he saw tears in the boy’s eyes.
Jesus. Kids are fucking cruel.
Once Cat and Cody’s devil child had finished, Jack did not hide his frown. Or was it a scowl?
“Why the hell not?”
Dylan’s caramel-colored gaze went from Jack to Lucy, and back to him. “You’re old.”
“Am not,” Jack protested, with all the maturity of the preteen sitting across from him.
“Yeah. You are.”
“How old exactly do you think I am?” he asked incredulously. Thirty-seven was not old.
Dylan shrugged, the movement causing some of his messy brown hair to flop onto his forehead. “Forty-five.”
Jack’s mouth dropped open. The bloody cheek. Before he had a chance to correct his nephew, though, Lucy was back and placing their drinks in front of them before pulling out her notepad again.
“How old do you think Uncle Jack is, Luce?”
Are you freaking kidding me?
No dessert for Dylan.
Isobel was born and raised in London. While she’s a city girl at heart, she loves daydreaming about running away to a charming small town—though she’s not entirely sure her husband and son would share her enthusiasm for the move. When she’s not writing small-town romantic comedies or growing unhealthily attached to the characters in her books, you can find her reading, chasing after her very active toddler, or attempting to channel her inner domestic goddess in the kitchen (with varying degrees of success).



























I think the colors showcase the title and cover model very nicely.
ReplyDelete