Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73174 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73174 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
The neighbor had only recently moved in, and with my schedule, I hadn’t gotten a chance to introduce myself. It was about item number six thousand on my long list of things to do.
I took a moment to settle onto one of my lounge chairs outside by the pool. The sun had just dipped below the ridge of pine trees. I had six minutes before my Zoom meeting began, and then I’d be heading back out down the mountain toward Denver for a wrap-up dinner with Landry and my last big client.
I had a moment to pull out my phone. I searched Google for Storm Rosling’s name, my chest tightening as I braced myself for what I might see.
“Fuck me,” I muttered, frowning at my phone.
The first headline said it all.
Police Called to the Scene at Denver Pub: Storm Rosling Removed From the Premises.
The headline was from last night. I’d seen plenty of others like it in the past, and Storm’s reputation as a loose cannon seemed to be increasing with his level of fame, not going away.
I clicked on the link to his Instagram page and a whole host of photos and videos popped up—all of which were marketing nightmares, too.
My eyes scanned the most recent photo.
Storm Rosling was attractive, without a doubt.
Very attractive.
I’d always gravitated toward slender guys in suits, guys who were more reserved, who probably had gone to Harvard or Yale, and who were more like… well, more like me.
Storm was not that.
He looked every bit like a football player. His most recent Instagram photo was of him shirtless by a swanky pool at a resort, surrounded by women who looked like models. The man must have been six foot one of pure muscle, and his hair was dark and longer on top but cut neatly on the sides. He had a few tattoos across his back, but from the front, it was all clean skin. Judging by the comments, a lot of his female fans were “thirsty” for him and loved the combination of his grey-blue eyes with his dark hair.
Stormy Eyes, they called him. Usually with a lot of sweat-drop and heart-eyes emojis next to it.
It felt like Storm was smiling out at me, even from the small pictures. His smile always had a hint of mischief behind it, which was right in line with all the wild shit he had done in the public eye.
Storm Rosling called people out publicly. He got in verbal fights with anyone who talked badly about one of his friends or teammates. He threw parties that got noise complaints, again and again. There had been multiple times that he nearly got thrown out of the pro football league, but he was so popular—and so good at what he did—that he’d always skirted by.
I scrolled down to another photo and zoomed in.
Guilt pooled in me as my cock started to harden. I didn’t like the guy, but he was pure eye candy.
One of his recent videos was of him, alone, lying down onto soft grass and very obviously trying to showcase his abs.
He pointed the camera down as he stroked a hand over his chest and down to his stomach, letting the frame stop just above the thick elastic waistband of his boxer-briefs. He then panned the camera up again to his face—lightly smiling, with that mischievous smile—and ran a hand through the shaggy top of his hair.
Really, really fucking hot.
My heart skipped a beat when I saw the background of the video. It was clearly taken in a backyard, and the caption read: My shiny new home. Can’t wait to start renovations.
The fence was the same as the one in my backyard.
Stained in a beautiful cherrywood color, with the same pattern of trees above it.
I backed out to his main Instagram page and scrolled a little further down, confirming my worst suspicions. There were multiple photos that had the exact same little black-and-white fluffy dog who had shown up in my yard every day this week.
Oreo’s having herself a pool day, one of them was captioned, where the little dog was on a neon green inflatable pool raft on the water.
“Fuck me,” I muttered out loud to no one.
Storm Rosling wasn’t just my marketing nightmare.
He was my new neighbor.
2
STORM
“Storm,” Zeke said to me as I walked into the tattoo studio. “Never thought I’d see you around here again after our last session.”
I grinned at him and gave him a fist bump and a hug. “I swear I won’t cry this time. The last one hurt like hell, but this one will be easy. I hope.”
“What are you looking for?”
“If you’ve got the time, just this,” I said, holding out the small printed-out line art of the Denver Ferals claw symbol. “For the back of my right shoulder.”
“Always have time for you,” Zeke said, already reaching over to his supplies to begin tracing the art. “How are you, man?”