Page 3 of A Wreck, You Make Me (Bad Boys of Bardstown #3)

Ten Months Ago

My name is Jupiter Jones and I’m a stalker.

Believe me when I say that wasn’t my intention.

I don’t think it’s anyone’s intention to become a stalker when they grow up.

Most of the time you fall into it. Like for example, you see a cute guy at a coffee shop and you feel an instant connection.

You’re too shy to approach him, so you watch him from afar.

You follow him back to his apartment or his work.

You notice how he interacts with people.

You notice the things he likes, things he dislikes.

You develop a strategy based on that. To make an approach.

Just so you feel confident and not like you’re going to pass out just because he’s close.

I mean, there’s no harm in that, right? Conditions apply of course, but still.

In my case, it started when I was twelve. I saw him through his bedroom window and felt an immediate connection. I’ve always been lonely in my life, an outsider, and thought he was lonely too. Lonely, isolated, all alone in his own family. I thought I could watch him for hours, for days, and I did.

I watched him through his bedroom window as often as I could.

I watched him around town. I watched him exercise in his backyard in the middle of the night.

I watched him run through the streets early in the morning.

I watched him party with his friends, be the center of attention, the guy they all thought promised a good time.

I watched him fight with his twin brother, and then spend hours kicking around a soccer ball in his backyard, all angry and restless.

And when I couldn’t watch him in person, I watched him on TV. He’s a soccer superstar, captain of the New York City FC, and I’ve watched all his games. I’ve read articles about him. I’ve watched his interviews. I’ve watched him interact with his fans.

But I didn’t do any of that to make an approach. To develop a strategy or something similar. I watched because that’s all I can do. Because the guy I’ve been watching from afar for a little over eight years is my stepbrother.

Shepard Thorne.

Although I never imagined I’d have to watch him do this: propose to his girlfriend in the middle of a charity gala where I’m serving drinks.

I’d say his girlfriend—Isadora, her name—is the most surprised at finding him down on one knee, but it’s not her, it’s me.

I’m the one that’s the most surprised. Actually, I’m the one that’s shocked .

I’m even more shocked than I had been when I’d found out about their relationship a few months ago.

I read about it on the internet; there was a video of them coming out of a dance club.

Mostly because he’s not a relationship type of guy.

According to the headlines, he’s the bad boy of soccer. He’s a quintessential playboy, a party boy. He goes through girls like water, even faster than changing clothes. He’s dated models, celebrities, even fans, and he has a type. Tall and busty with gorgeous hair, someone utterly glamorous.

So when he got together with Isadora and people called it love at first sight, I was flabbergasted.

I mean, she’s beautiful. In fact, I think she’s the most beautiful girl he’s ever dated.

She has flowing hair, pitch black and thick, and her skin has a natural tan that all girls die for.

She is half-Indian, so maybe that explains her lovely skin tone.

Not to mention, her almond-shaped eyes are so gorgeous.

But he’s dated so many gorgeous girls that I didn’t know what was different about her.

But something obviously is, because they’ve been together almost a year now. Even so, I still can’t believe this is happening.

The tray full of champagne glasses in my hand is shaking.

If I’m not careful, I’m going to drop it, and I’ll be fired on the first day of my new job.

And I need this job. I need the money. If it’s anything in this world I need the most, it’s money.

So yeah, looking away is a good idea. Actually, I should probably leave.

For a few minutes, I mean. Just to get some air.

Just to be away from the happy, congratulatory crowd. From the happy couple.

From him .

I straighten my tray and walk out of the ballroom without a second glance.

I find an empty cart in the hallway, dump my tray on it.

I pick up a champagne glass and keep walking.

I’m pretty sure drinking the champagne meant for the guests is also not allowed, but I can’t follow all the rules when my heart is breaking inside my chest.

I keep walking until I reach the exit that will take me to the back gardens and burst through the doors.

The grounds beyond are vast and dark, and I cut to the tree line flanking the grounds on both sides.

I find myself a quiet, secluded corner and there, leaning against a tree, I take a deep breath and gulp down my stolen champagne.

I empty the glass and let the sparkling liquid buzz down my throat.

And then I close my stinging eyes—I wish I could say it’s from the alcohol, but it’s my tears—and tell myself I’m being ridiculous.

So what if he proposed? So what if he’s going to get married?

I always knew it was going to happen one day.

Well, I didn’t actively think about it, but it makes sense.

Plus, I’m acting like I expected I’d be the one to marry him.

Just the thought is so ridiculous that I want to laugh. And then I want to cry.

First, I’m not at all his type. I’m a redhead with skin that burns too easily. Oh, and is riddled with freckles. I’m not busty or curvy by any stretch of the imagination. My sense of glamour is limited to shorts and a t-shirt with dusty sneakers that I’ve owned since freshman year of high school.

But more importantly, he’s my stepbrother .

His asshole abusive father is married to my mother who still hates me.

They’re just as much married today as they were a little over eight years ago when I snuck out to the Thorne house to tell them about it.

And no, I didn’t tell them that night, or ever, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

So I’m being crazy right now. I’m being absolutely insane and delusional and?—

“You sure you should be drinking that?”

My eyes pop open and for a few seconds, all I can do is stare. At the man in front of me. Then I let out a shriek. It’s short and high-pitched. Not because I don’t know who it is. I shriek and drop my champagne glass—fucking shit —because I know exactly who’s there.

He’s gotten rid of his suit jacket and his bow tie.

He’s also opened the top two buttons of his shirt and folded his sleeves up to his elbows as if both he and his hands needed to breathe, and they couldn’t.

Not with all the trappings, not in the ballroom.

But his chest swelling like a big wave makes me think he can now that he is here.

“I dropped my glass,” I blurt out stupidly.

Becaus e what the fuck ?

What is he doing out here? What is he doing, talking to me?

He glances down to the glass, or rather the broken pieces of it scattered on the grass between us. Then, looking up, “Yeah, you did.”

God, his voice.

It’s one of my favorite things about him. All deep like a well and rough like the sand. And arrogant. So very arrogant. It’s like he knows something you don’t. Some secret that you’ll never be privy to.

I look up as well and say more asinine things. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No?”

“No.” I shake my head, my eyes still wide and shocked. “My boss is going to fire me.”

“Over a broken glass?”

“Yes. It’s my third strike.”

He keeps staring at me, his eyes pitch black in the darkness, but I know their real color is dark brown, rich and velvety. “What were your other two strikes?”

“Red hair,” I tell him.

“What?”

Then like a crazy person, I point to my curls.

Even though I have my hair tied up in a ponytail, it must be super messy by now, all big and frizzy after hours of going back and forth between the kitchen and the ballroom.

That’s the thing about my hair. No amount of product can ever tame my curls.

I try, but everything fails after an hour or two.

I hate it. I hate my hair.

I hate that this is the first thing I comment on while talking to him—am I really talking to him though, or is this a dream?

—for the first time in eight freaking years.

And now his eyes are up there, taking in my most dreaded feature.

Well, not my most dreaded, because that title belongs to my freckles, but still, my crazy hair is definitely up there.

But now that I’ve brought it up, I need to finish the story. “Well, uh, my boss thinks redheads are crazy.” Finally, his eyes come back to mine and I continue, “Something about his first wife. She was a redhead too.”

“Are you?” he murmurs.

“Am I what?

“Crazy.”

“No.” Then, half a second later, “Maybe.”

He hums before jerking his chin at me. “What’s your second strike?”

I swallow, fidgeting on my feet. “Saying no.”

That gives him pause. As in, he was in the process of thrusting his hands down into his pockets and shifting on his feet, as if settling in for a long conversation.

But my reply made him freeze. It also made him narrow his eyes.

Only fractionally, but I catch it. Of course I do.

I’ve had years of practice in catching small, hidden things about him.

Like the real color of his dark eyes and how his dark hair, which also appears pitch black, has hidden strands of brown in it.

“What?” he asks softly then.

“It’s not important,” I tell him, tucking my curls behind my ear.

He watches me for a beat. Then he finishes what he was about to do: slides his hands into his pockets and widens his stance. “You said no to him.”

“No.”

“For what, a date?”