Page 4 of In Hot Water (The Hot Brothers #3)

CHAPTER FOUR

DAWSON

I’ve become a fucking cliché.

It’s Friday morning, and I’m parked outside Black Gold Café, waiting for my daily dose of Isla.

I don’t know if I should be impressed or ashamed that I’ve turned into one of those guys who just happen to be at the same spot every goddamn morning.

It’s not a secret. The barista knows. I know Isla knows.

She knows I know she knows. This is Riverbend Ridge, after all.

Secrets die here faster than a raccoon on the highway.

Today, I’m not even pretending to be here for the coffee.

I’m here for Deputy Isla Merrill. I know from her Instagram that she starts her shift with a “caffeine mission” every weekday at seven.

I have time to kill, so I scroll her profile again, trying not to think about how I’m skating a thin line between suitor and stalker.

At seven on the dot, I head inside. The bell over the door is obnoxiously loud, echoing in the empty café.

I stop at the counter and order my usual—black coffee for me, half a dozen donuts, and a mocha with extra chocolate shots for my asshole brother.

Yes, I’m enjoying feeding the fucker more sugar than any human should consume.

I grab my order from the end of the counter and head for my typical seat.

I haven’t even gotten comfortable before I hear cop shoes clicking brisk and sharp across the tile.

She walks in, uniform crisp, badge gleaming, hair pulled into a high and severe ponytail. Her gaze sweeps the room, lands on me, and just like that, I feel a punch straight to the chest as my cock turns to stone. Fuck. I’m not sure these constant erections are healthy.

I tip my cup at her. “Good morning,” I call, hoping today she finally gives me the time of day.

Isla doesn’t flinch. She walks up to the counter, orders her usual, and moves to stand at the end of the counter while she waits.

I watch the set of her jaw, the way she almost-but-not-quite smiles while pretending I’m invisible.

It’s a performance, and I’m the only audience who’ll ever appreciate it.

Today I try a new play. I intercept her at the condiment bar. Fuck I’m acting like a lovesick fool. Oh well, I’ll do whatever it takes to win over my prickly little gorgeous girl.

“Morning, Deputy Merrill,” I say, flashing my best not-an-idiot smile. “How’s your week going?”

She doesn’t bother to glance at me, just tears open three sugar packets with such vengeance it makes me think I could be next. “It’s been fine, Mr. Hot.

She brushes past me, coffee in hand, and for a split second her hair grazes my arm. I catch a whiff of her shampoo—a crisp, clean scent that makes my cock even harder. She’s out the door before I can say anything. Only when the door swings closed do I realize I’m grinning like an absolute lunatic.

I’m wearing her down.

Wednesday? Even worse.

I get to the café earlier than ever, because apparently, I am a masochist who loves a little early morning pain. I’m nursing my second coffee when she walks in a little after seven. She barely nods at me before diving into her phone.

“Good morning, Isla,” I toss out, trying to sound like I’m not already naming our future children in my head.

“Morning, Hot.” She doesn’t bother to look up, thumbs flying over her screen.

I try again, desperate. “I have tickets to the?—”

“Mr. Hot.” She doesn’t even let me finish. “Don’t you have anyone else to bug?”

I can’t help it. I laugh. “Not really.”

She blinks, and for a moment I think she might say something real, but nope. Her coffee’s ready, and she’s gone, leaving me and my bruised ego to nurse.

Thursday, I change tactics.

I order her usual—a large white chocolate latte with almond milk and an extra shot—and have it in hand and ready for her when she walks in the door. Before she's able to refuse, I slide the warm cup into her hand, our fingers brushing for the briefest second. "Here's your coffee."

"Uh…" she glances down at the cup where I've made sure her name is written in perfect block letters, then back up at me, her hazel eyes widening slightly.

"Thank you, Dawson." Finally, a little progress.

She's using my first name, and the sound of it in her husky morning voice sends a jolt straight through me.

"You're welcome." She gives me a slight smile—just the barest upturn at the corner of her full lips—and turns to walk right out the door, her ponytail swinging with each determined step.

Well, that didn't turn out as expected. Fuck. I need to up my game. Maybe I am the idiot my brothers think I am.

Since it appears my girl makes her coffee at home on weekends, I decide to sleep in on Saturday, hoping to catch up on the sleep I’ve been missing.

Between staying up half the night dreaming about Isla and getting up early to meet her at the coffee shop, I’m running on half my usual amount of sleep, and the exhaustion is starting to catch up with me.

Saturday afternoon, I do the brotherly thing and show up at Beckett’s house for our sacred weekly ritual of watching college football and brotherly bonding, mostly just yelling at the TV screen.

Beckett’s place used to stay military-level clean with everything in its spot.

Then he adopted a pot-bellied pig named Beans and a Dachshund named Pork.

He greets me at the door in faded jeans and a black RRFD t-shirt. I roll my eyes when I see his socks have fucking flames on them. His hair is so perfectly gelled; I’m glad I no longer have to share a fucking bathroom with him.

“About time,” he says by way of hello before stepping back for me to follow him inside.

“You said three,” I shoot back, following him in.

He stares at my empty hands with a raised eyebrow. “You were supposed to bring the beer this week.”

"I figured you owe me since I brought you coffee and donuts all goddamn week." Beckett rolls his eyes, reaches into the stainless-steel refrigerator I helped him install not long ago, and grabs two sweating cans of Coors.

He tosses one to me. "You brought me donuts and coffee because you wanted an excuse to stalk Isla Merrill while pretending to be a thoughtful brother."

"I hate Riverbend Ridge's fucking grapevine," I mutter under my breath as we sink into his leather couch, the kind that makes embarrassing sounds when you shift your weight. The TV flickers to life just in time for the ref's whistle at kickoff. "Where’re the terrible two?"

"They're out playing in the backyard." Beckett points at the large doggie door we installed in the drywall along the back of his living room, its rubber flap swinging slightly in the draft.

Pork and Beans make their entrance mid–first quarter. I hear the click-click of the doggie door seconds before they come bounding over to the sofa.

Pork heads straight for me, his stubby legs scrambling up my jeans before he plants his twelve pounds of wiener dog directly on my crotch.

His tail whips back and forth like a metronome.

Beans takes one look with those beady pig eyes and charges, all thirty pounds of bristly determination.

It's a full-on brawl. Pork's needle-sharp teeth are bared in a snarl that would be terrifying if he weren't the size of a loaf of bread, while Beans’ snout tunnels under my thigh as he tries to uproot his competition.

My lap becomes ground zero, and my balls are in serious jeopardy as hooves and paws dig in for leverage.

Through it all, Beckett just watches from his side of the couch, one eyebrow raised, beer tilted at that perfect "not my problem" angle.

“Your pig is violating my civil rights,” I complain, trying to remove Beans’ face from my lap.

“He missed you,” Beckett says without missing a beat.

“Well, everyone knows I’m his favorite uncle.”

“More like his idiot uncle,” Beckett mutters under his breath as I flip him off.

Eventually, I give up and let them both pile on. Pork sprawls on top of Beans, miniature king on a bristly throne. It isn’t comfortable, but I’m not about to start a mutiny and get Beckett or the pig mad at me.

So we watch the game, trade insults, and put away two bags of chips and a six-pack. The dog grumbles, the pig snores, and I let the chaos roll over me.

Half-time hits. Beckett’s arguing with the ref on TV, I’m scratching Pork’s belly and letting my thoughts wander. They don’t wander far.

Isla Merrill. The way she wrinkles her nose before she says something brutal, the way she owns every inch of space she walks through.

It should be infuriating, her ice-cold shoulder, but it just makes me more determined to win her over.

I want her. No, I need her more than I’ve ever needed anything in my life.

“Goddamnit. You’ve turned into a pussy-whipped asshole just like Atlas and Ian.” He shakes his head.

He isn’t wrong. The first time I laid eyes on Isla Merrill, I knew I was done for.

My heart practically punched through my ribs.

Evidently, this tendency to fall head over ass at first sight runs in our family.

Not long ago, my younger brother, Atlas, spotted Eloise Martin when he gave a talk for career day at her school, and he practically tripped over his own tongue.

It didn’t take him long to get under her skin.

Then Ian ran into Eloise's roommate, Sage Higgins, and tumbled for her so hard I thought we'd need to scrape him off the pavement.

Evidently, the universe decided it was my time to fall head over heels, like a man stepping off a cliff who suddenly realizes gravity is not just a suggestion but an absolute law that's about to introduce his face to the ground below at terminal velocity.

Beckett takes a sip of his beer before continuing. “I can’t believe you’re acting like a fucking stalker over some woman you just met.”

“Just wait until it’s your turn,” I warn my asshole older brother.

“Not fucking happening.” We’ll just see about that.

Monday is when everything finally snaps like a rubber band that's been stretched too far.

I'm running on two hours of sleep, my eyes gritty and burning, with a rock-hard cock that's been my constant companion for days, and a special kind of frustration churning in my gut that can only be caused by a woman who has no clue how much I need her.

The bell above the coffee shop door jingles, and there she is in her crisp tan uniform, gun belt gleaming under the fluorescent lights. She shows up a few minutes to seven. Earlier than ever. I don't bother with opening lines or my usual easy smile.

“Okay, what am I doing wrong?” Fuck. I’m desperate. After spending Sunday brunch watching Ian and Atlas all lovey-dovey with their women while my woman won’t give me the time of day, frustration has finally driven me over the edge.

She sighs, a deep and dramatic groan, then sits across from me for the first time ever. Her coffee thunks down on the table.

“Mr. Hot.”

“Dawson.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine. Dawson. You don’t know when to quit.”

“True,” I admit, nodding. “I won’t ever quit.”

She leans in, hazel eyes full of fire. “What do you actually want?” I can see a little flash of interest in her stunning hazel eyes before she’s able to mask it. Finally, a sign I’m not fighting a losing battle.

I open my mouth, but the first answer that comes to mind is so over-the-top even I have to swallow it.

All I manage is, “I just want to get to know you. You knocked me on my ass the first time I laid eyes on you. Then you cuffed me and stole my goddamn heart.” Pathetic much?

Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound. It’s time to lay my cards on the table.

“Your heart?” Suspicion replaces the interest in her hazel eyes as I press on.

“That’s right, and now I plan to steal your heart in return.”

"Sorry, Dawson." Her rejection is locked and loaded, delivered with the practiced efficiency of someone who doesn’t take any shit.

"But I don't date criminals." The up tilt at the corner of her full, pouty lips betrays her.

The tiny crack in her professional armor sends a jolt of electricity straight through my chest. Her hazel eyes, flecked with gold in the morning light streaming through the coffee shop windows, hold mine for a beat longer than necessary.

Now, it’s time to convince her that I don't just want to date her—I want to marry her, wake up to that stern face softened by sleep, hear her laugh without restraint.

But first, I have to find a way past the deputy's badge and the walls she's built around herself, just to convince her to give me the time of day.

“I paid my ticket, and the judge let me off with a warning not to show up in her court again,” I tell her, watching the wheels spin. “And I promise my life of crime is over. Next time you cuff me, it’ll be in the bedroom.” That gets her. Her mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out.

She stares at me, and for a second, I’m sure she’ll shoot me down. Then I get the shock of my life.

"You aren't going to give up until I go on a date with you, are you?

" Her voice has that official deputy tone, but there's a new softness around the edges.

My heart does a full gymnastic routine in my chest, and I grip the edge of the table to keep from fist-pumping the air like an idiot who just won the lottery.

"Not likely," I manage, trying to sound cool while my pulse hammers in my ears.

"I'll go out on one date with you." Her hazel eyes lock onto mine, those gold flecks catching the light like tiny sparks. The corner of her mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close enough to send electricity down my spine. "If I can pick the restaurant."

Hell fucking yes. When she turns to walk away, I fist-bump the air.