Page 1 of Falling for Cocky Cole (Shared by the Carter Brothers #2)

IVY

E mily's fox family is lined up on the living room rug, but today they're playing supporting roles to a rainbow procession of plastic ponies.

I watch her carefully introduce each pony to the foxes before placing it in line, her small hands moving with surprising gentleness.

My focus should be entirely on this moment—it's what Grant pays me for—but my mind keeps slipping back to two nights ago, to hands that weren't gentle at all, to a voice rough with want, to Cole Carter's bedroom.

"This one is Princess Sparkleberry," Emily announces, holding up a purple pony with glitter in its mane. "She's the boss of all the other ponies, but she's nice about it."

"That's the best kind of boss," I say, smiling at her. My cheeks warm as I wonder what Emily would think if she knew where my thoughts keep drifting.

Two nights ago at the Antler, I was three drinks in and spilling my guts to Cole Carter of all people.

The bar lights caught in his amber eyes as I complained about falling for two men who were off-limits—not naming names, though I'm sure he knew I meant Grant and Caleb. His response still echoes: "I’m not your boss. And I’m definitely not your brother.

” The implication was clear: I'm not off-limits.

The way he said it, leaning close enough that I could smell his cologne, made my stomach flip.

And just like that, with those two simple sentences, everything shifted. The frustration I'd been carrying since coming home, the lingering sting of my breakup in Portland, the way Grant's rejection text had made me feel foolish—it all combusted into something reckless.

"Ivy? Can Princess Sparkleberry have some juice?" Emily's voice pulls me back to the present.

"Of course," I say, mentally kicking myself. "But remember what your dad said about pretend juice only for the toys?"

Emily nods solemnly. "I know. Real juice makes them sticky."

I give her an empty teacup from her play set, and she returns to her game. I return to my memory.

What the hell was I thinking? Going home with Cole Carter, the walking cautionary tale my mother specifically warned me about? I bury my face in my hands, feeling the heat in my cheeks. I can almost hear my mother's voice: "That boy leaves a trail of broken hearts behind him like breadcrumbs."

But even as I blame myself, I hear the low rasp of Cole's voice in my ear.

"Tell me what you want, Ivy." I feel the trace of his finger down my spine, a touch so light it made me arch toward him.

And the things he said when I asked him to talk dirty—words that should have made me blush but instead made me dig my nails into his back and beg for more.

Oh God. I was drunk, but not that drunk. I knew exactly what I was doing.

I force myself to take a deep breath. It was just a one-night stand.

No strings attached. Cole himself made that clear when he drove me back to the Antler's parking lot where my car was.

"That was fun," he'd said with that easy smile of his.

Like we'd just shared a meal instead of the most intense night of my life.

So why can't I stop thinking about him? Why do I keep replaying his confession that he's wanted me since my eighteenth birthday? "You were stunning that night," he'd said while tracing circles on my belly. "I couldn't take my eyes off you."

Was he telling the truth? The sincerity in his eyes seemed real, but this is Cole Carter we're talking about. Cocky Cole. He knows exactly what to say to get what he wants. And I was easy prey—drunk, emotionally messy, desperate for someone to want me.

But he didn't take advantage. That's the confusing part. He asked me multiple times if I was sure, gave me plenty of chances to change my mind. "I don't want you to do anything you'll regret," he'd said as he handed me the water in the living room.

That's the problem. He was being such a gentleman that I couldn't change my mind.

He even strummed his guitar for me, just as I had asked.

Maybe that's his strategy: never coerce, just tempt, making women feel like it's entirely their choice to fall into his bed.

A perfect trap—he gets what he wants and never has to feel guilty about it.

Emily's talking to her toys, explaining some complex pony politics that I should probably be paying attention to. Her voice is animated, her pigtails bobbing as she makes two ponies argue over who gets to stand next to the mama fox.

Whatever Cole's game is, I need to stop obsessing. It was just a fling, exactly what I needed after the mess with my ex and then that awkward almost-something with Grant. A palate cleanser. A rebound. Something to remind me I'm still desirable after months of feeling invisible and unwanted.

The fact that Cole hasn't called or texted once since dropping me off confirms it was nothing special to him. Just another night, another conquest to add to his list. It should sting more than it does, but I'm almost relieved. At least one of us has a clear head about what happened.

"Ivy, look!" Emily holds up a blue pony with white spots. "This one can fly because he has invisible wings."

I lean forward, properly engaged now. "Wow, invisible wings are the best kind. Where does he like to fly to?"

"To the moon, so he can see all the stars up close," she says with absolute conviction.

For a moment, Cole Carter is forgotten as I watch Emily's imagination unfold across the living room floor. Her small face is alight with belief in her own stories, and I envy her that certainty, that ability to create a world exactly as she wants it to be.

In her world, ponies can fly on invisible wings. In mine, sleeping with Cole Carter was just a momentary lapse in judgment, not the beginning of something I have no idea how to handle. At least that's what I need to keep telling myself.

I slide down from the couch to sit cross-legged on the floor. "Tell me more about the moon pony," I say, and for a few blessed minutes, I forget all about Cole Carter's hands, his voice, and the way he made me feel wanted in a way no one else ever has.

My phone beeps from the coffee table, the sound slicing through my momentary peace.

I glance at the screen, and my heart does a stupid little jump.

Cole. Just seeing his name makes my fingers tingle with the memory of running them through his hair.

I pick up the phone, already hating myself for the anticipation flooding my veins.

Still thinking about it? his text reads.

A smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it.

I roll my eyes at myself more than at him.

This is exactly why my mother warned me about Cole Carter: he's flirty, charming, and knows exactly what to say to disarm a woman's defenses.

He leaves you no room to regret what you've done, even when logic tells you it was the biggest mistake of your life.

I start typing a response: "What are you talking about?" Then delete it. Playing dumb isn't my style, and Cole wouldn't buy it for a second.

I try again: "It never happened." Delete. That's even worse—acknowledging it happened by insisting it didn't.

"Funny." Delete. Too casual, like we're friends who joke around.

Maybe the best strategy is no strategy at all. I flip my phone face down on the couch cushion so quickly that Emily looks up from her pony convention.

"Who is it?" she asks, curiosity lighting her big blue eyes—the same shade as her father's, but so much more readable.

"Just a friend," I say, the lie slipping out easily. Too easily. But how do I explain to a five-year-old that I slept with her uncle and now don't know how to face him? I don't know how to explain it to myself.

The truth is, I don't know what Cole is to me.

He's supposed to be my mistake, my wrong choice, my what-happens-in-the-Antler-stays-in-the-Antler moment.

But he made me feel more wanted in one night than my ex did in our entire year together.

With my ex, sex had become routine, expected, a box to check off.

With Cole, it felt like he was discovering me, like every inch of my skin was territory he'd dreamed of exploring.

Emily returns to explaining something important about pony politics to her fox family, and I pick up my phone again, the screen lighting up with Cole's message. Still thinking about it? Damn. I can almost see the smirk on his face when he typed the line. I can’t ignore it.

I sigh as I type: "I had a great time, but please don't text me again."

My thumb hovers over the send button. The message sounds harsh, reminiscent of the text Grant sent me after our kiss: It was completely inappropriate of me, and I promise it will never happen again. It still stings.

At least I'm acknowledging I enjoyed my night with Cole. That's more than Grant gave me.

I stare at the draft, hesitating. Is Cole really as bad as his reputation suggests?

He himself told me at the Antler that the girls in town never gave him a chance to prove himself.

They came in with their guard up, expecting him to break their hearts.

So he played the role they assigned him—someone who wouldn’t get serious, someone who wouldn’t settle down.

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I reached across the table to hold his hand instead. Now I wonder if there was truth in his words. If maybe everyone in town—me included—has been unfair to him all these years.

Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to give him a chance? To see him again, let him touch me again, make me feel that mix of vulnerability and power that I've never experienced with anyone else?

Stop it, I tell myself firmly. Cole Carter is the playboy of Silvercreek.

The guy who broke Lindsey's cousin's heart so thoroughly she transferred colleges to get away from the memories.

The man who, according to town legend, once dated three girls from the same class in his high school senior year without any of them knowing about the others.

Am I seriously considering seeing Cole again? Melting under his touch? Letting him scale the walls I've built around my heart? I have no doubt he could do it easily—he's already found cracks I carelessly revealed.

But I can't afford that, not in Silvercreek. This town is my haven, my retreat from the failure Portland became. I came back to regroup, not to become the subject of coffee shop gossip. Not to be another notch on Cole Carter's bedpost or another cautionary tale mothers tell their daughters.

I hit send before I can change my mind, then toss my phone onto the coffee table like it just bit me. The small thud makes Emily look up again.

"Is your friend mad at you?" she asks with that unnerving perceptiveness children sometimes have.

"No, honey," I say, shifting to sit beside her on the rug. "Just grown-up stuff. Nothing important."

Nothing important. If I say it enough, maybe I'll believe it. Maybe I'll stop replaying the way Cole looked at me in the dim light of his bedroom, like I was something precious he'd been searching for. Maybe I'll stop wondering if I just made the right choice or the safe one.

"Can you be the mama pony?" Emily asks, holding out a pink plastic horse. "She needs to tell all the baby ponies it's time for their nap."

I take the toy, grateful for the distraction. "Of course," I say, making my voice gentle as I move the mama pony among the smaller ones. "Time for sleep, little ponies. You've had a big day of adventures."

As I play, I resist the urge to glance at my phone, to see if those three gray dots might appear, to see if Cole might fight for me, just a little. It's better this way, I tell myself. Cleaner. Safer.

But safe has never made my heart race the way it did when Cole Carter whispered my name.