Goddamn it. Why am I suddenly feeling protective of her?
"You need food," I say. As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I realize how caveman-like they do sound. You. Eat. Food. Now.
Addy turns to look at me, and I can see her raise her eyebrow over the frame of her giant sunglasses. "Is this what our parents hired you for? To tell me what to do?"
Shit, it's been five years of giving orders in the military. She should be glad I didn't use my yelling voice. "Maybe if you took care of yourself a little better, they wouldn't have to hire someone to tell you to eat."
"The Marines sure didn't make you less of a jackass, did they?"
Her question makes me laugh, and I look out of the corner of my eye, only to see her try to hide her smile. "That would be a negative," I say, as I pull the car into the parking lot of a diner. "Besides, if they had, you'd only be disappointed."
Addy snorts, but she follows me out of the car, pushing open the passenger side door before I can pull open the handle.
"You could wait two seconds and I'd open it for you," I tell her.
She huffs as she pushes the door closed behind her. "Because I can't open my own car door?"
"You haven't learned any manners in the last five years, have you?" I ask. She has her back against the car, and I stand in front of her, blocking her from moving. I'm so close to her we're almost touching. She tilts her head up to look at me, her sunglasses obscuring her eyes, and the fact that they're on her face irritates me to no end. I reach out and slide them onto the top of her head so I can look at her.
Addy huffs like she's annoyed with me, except her pupils are large and her eyes are wide as she gazes at me, her lips parting as she inhales sharply. The sound makes me hard. My cock presses up against the zipper of my jeans, and I think about sliding my hands underneath that curvy ass of hers and placing her smack dab on the hood of the car and fucking her right here and now.
What the hell is wrong with me? Twenty damn minutes with her and I can't think straight. This is definitely not the seventeen-year-old girl I left behind in Nashville. This Addison is all grown up. Something's got to be seriously messed up with the fact that screwing her is all I can think about.
"You're one to talk about manners," she says, her voice trembling. "Ordering me around like I'm some kind of employee."
"I haven't even begun to order you around, sweet cheeks," I say. I clear my throat to try to hide the arousal that's evident in my tone, but the innuendo in the words is as plain as day. The fact is, I didn't want this fucking job, but after three months of trying to work in an office after getting out of the military, I'm shit out of luck. Apparently I was not adjusting well to a corporate environment. Now that I've see Addy in person, I'm not sure this was the best plan ever. A perpetual case of blue balls is not my idea of a good time.
Addy's cheeks flush pink, but I can't tell if it's because she's embarrassed or turned on. Either way, I feel smug when I see her reaction. "I'd love to see you try," she says.
"Is that a request?" I ask. The way her lips part slightly in response makes me think it sure as hell is, and I have to tell myself to step away from her before I really do something I regret. I can't even begin to imagine how the Colonel's head would fucking explode if I so much as laid a finger on Addy.
Of course, that might be even more incentive to behave inappropriately with the stepsister I haven't seen in five years, I think as I follow her inside the diner, watching her hips sway as she sashays on those heels.
SEVEN YEARS AGO
"He's troubled," my mother says, as she applies another coat of mascara to her lashes. She's half-bent over the vanity in her room, wearing a dress that's cut down her lower back, barely covering her rear, garish and more appropriate for a twenty-year-old than for her. Sometimes I think that my launch to stardom just gave her a reason to relive her youth. That's been doubly true since she met the Colonel.
At least the Colonel is somewhat responsible, better than the sperm donors that fathered my sister and I. Fathered is hardly the right word. They haven't been involved with us since they did the deed and left my mother. The Colonel might be okay. He's stiff as a board and doesn't smile much. And he makes everyone call him the Colonel, even though he's not in the Army anymore. So those are reasons to dislike him.
On the other hand, he does occupy my mother's time, gives her a distraction from micro-managing my life and career. So that's definitely a reason to love him.
But my mother and I aren't talking about the Colonel. We're discussing the Colonel's son Hendrix, who is tattooed and angry and the most gorgeous boy I've ever laid eyes on. "What do you mean, he's troubled?"
My mother gives me a long look, and for a second, I'm afraid she can read my mind, that she can see the very inappropriate thoughts I've had about Hendrix, that she can somehow sense the rush I get when I hear his name. I try to sound casual, nonchalant when I ask about him, try to give no indication of my curiosity.
My mother waves her hand dismissively and sighs. "You saw him, Addison," she says. "Tattoos and…well, anyway, you saw him."
Yes, I did see him. Hendrix Cole looks like trouble with a capital T.