Page 10 of Over & Out (Redbeard Cove #3)

Chris

I work hard not to slam the front door, feeling both enraged and like an absolute fool for going along with this.

It took me a minute to find my shoes and coat because Cindi had neatly stashed them for me.

While searching for them, I heard the muffled sounds of a heated argument going on behind Hopper’s door, presumably between Tru and the man himself.

Now, on the front step of this massive, gorgeous beach house, I can hear the rest of them on the side deck.

They’re laughing, the sound carrying easily to the front, thanks to the trees on that side of the property.

I even catch a glimpse as I reach the edge of the drive.

They look like one big, happy family.

It wouldn’t be the first time I was on the outside looking in. Not by a long shot. That part isn’t Hopper’s fault, just salt on an old wound. But the fact that I’m leaving sure is his fault.

Stupid, entitled asshole. I don’t care who he is. As I move and they leave my line of sight, I’m very tempted to kick the rosebush I’m passing. But I won’t injure innocent roses over an asinine man. I’d probably hurt myself anyway, which would be an oh-so-graceful finish.

“Hey!” a male voice calls just as I reach my car.

Adrenaline flares in my gut. I don’t have to turn around to know it’s Hopper. I’m surprised he didn’t send one of his lackeys after me.

“Chris!”

He’s still shouting, which means I don’t think he’s bothered to leave his doorway. He must be used to people falling all over themselves to do his bidding.

I ignore him, reaching for my keys.

“Can you hear me?”

“The whole neighborhood can hear you!” I call. Not that there’s anyone within hearing distance. The crowd on the balcony has gone silent, though, likely listening. I’m embarrassed, but whatever. Let them listen.

“Don’t get in the car!” he calls.

Ugh, he makes me incandescent with rage. “Not my boss. Don’t get to tell me what to do!”

My fingers shake as I try to jam the key into the lock of my ancient hatchback. Not because of him, of course. It’s cold out here and my fingers are numb, that’s all.

“For fuck’s sake!” I hear him utter. Then I hear the crunch of gravel, along with hissing and yelping and muted curses.

The keys fall from my grip, and I guess that’s the last straw, because I whip around, fists clenched.

I see now why he’s making all those weird sounds. He’s barefoot, doing this ridiculous dance across the sharp gravel pathway. It gives me the tiniest jolt of happiness.

“Please wait,” he says between ooh s and aah s.

“Aw, did that please hurt?” I reach down and swipe up the keys.

“No, but this fucking gravel does. What is this, broken glass?”

“Hope so.”

When he reaches the drive, he dashes the rest of the distance to me, his thick hair flopping against his forehead. Good lord, are his pecs bouncing under that soft, torn t-shirt? He looks like a Roman god. With the personality of a Roman…dog.

To my shock, he doesn’t actually stop running. He throws himself at the side of my car with an audible thud. The thing rocks as he knocks himself against it. I’m so alarmed, I drop my keys.

I reach down and grab them. But when I stand up, he’s unexpectedly close.

So close I can feel the heat radiating off him.

My skin prickles. I can see the thickness of his lashes, the fullness of his lips.

I catch my mouth opening just slightly as I stare at them.

Those icy blue eyes drag down, his gaze dropping to my mouth.

Probably because I had to clamp down on my tongue before it came right out and licked my lips.

I snap my mouth shut, trying to find the words to tell him to move.

But he speaks first. “Don’t get in the car.” His voice is slightly hoarse.

I’m too close. That’s why he’s lowered his voice.

I take a step back. “I can’t,” I say tightly. “There’s a meathead blocking my door.”

One of Hopper’s full dark eyebrows drifts up, along with those fucking lips on the same side. “A meathead? Really?”

“Yes, really.” I have the strangest urge to tell him he looks ridiculous all beefed up like this.

The Duke was never this jacked, and he was gorgeous.

But I draw the line at body-shaming. Plus, who am I kidding?

Hopper Donnach looks stupidly delicious.

Perfect as the Duke and perfect now. The last thing I need is for him to know how familiar I am with his form.

“Would you scram?” I ask. I’m done with anything resembling pleasantries.

“Scram?” Hopper actually laughs then, folding his arms. His biceps pop, and I hate my eyes for dropping to them.

I hate his even more for following and smirking when he sees what I’ve done.

I grit my teeth. “Yes, scram.”

“You know,” Hopper says, as if he’s about to ponder something extremely important and fascinating. “You talk like my grandpa.”

Now I’m close to grinding my teeth together. But I resist. I can’t afford dental work. “Who?” I ask coolly. “Lucifer Senior…Senior?”

Hopper’s brows drop. “Good one.”

“Move!” I say, mad I flubbed that one. “I’m not going to ask you again.”

He’s not laughing anymore. His eyes have shifted downward, eyebrows furrowed.

I’m so surprised, I look down. My hands are shaking.

But before I can jerk them away, Hopper’s hands rise up.

With the care of someone handling a spooked animal, he extracts the keys from my trembling hand.

That briefest touch of his much-bigger fingers across my palm has my breath catching.

He doesn’t give me shit about my old car not having a fob.

He doesn’t say anything at all. He just inserts the key into the door and moves aside to open it for me, before holding the keys out to me.

I grab them, stuffing them into my blazer pocket, embarrassed and more than a little flushed with the sudden gentleness he just showed me. “It’s not nerves,” I say. “I’m not scared of you.”

“Good.” He stares at me, eyebrows still bunched as if he’s actually concerned.

He’s probably used to women fainting at the mere sight of him.

Through the lining of my blazer, I press my hand to my stomach.

Even through the layers of fabric, I can feel the texture under there.

The knots and bumps. The reminder that nothing— nothing —can hurt me more than the pain I’ve already endured.

“Are you okay?” he asks with surprising tenderness.

“Perfect!” I say. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to leave.”

Hopper examines me a moment longer.

I’m about to get in, to leave this asshole behind and chalk all of this up to a bizarre and hilarious story I’ll tell one day. But I pause. Because Hopper Donnach hasn’t moved. And this defiant, insatiably curious part of me can’t be contained.

I meet his eyes. “What exactly were you going to say to me?”

Hopper clears his throat. “I didn’t really have a plan. ”

I don’t know why I feel let down by this. Like I’m not actually worth fighting for. But why would I be? I’m a complete stranger to him. A potential fangirl. Okay, probably pretty clearly not that.

But then his lips curl up on one side, and I’m furious at myself for watching it like a movie.

“Well,” he says, “I guess that’s not really true. I planned on begging you to stay.”

This conversation is so surreal I can’t help but let out a little laugh. “Right. Hopper Donnach was going to beg me—a random woman who chewed his face off at a diner—to work for him.”

Hopper studies me a moment. Then he says, “You think I wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t what?”

“Beg.”

For a moment, my breath stops, my pulse fluttering.

Even though he’s not as close to me as he was a moment ago, he feels somehow closer.

Heat rushes through me, centering lower than I’d like.

But I can’t stop the wild truth from echoing through me.

The Duke just said that to me. Me. My heart beats so hard I swear I can hear it.

Even though I should really, really get in the car, the words slip out before I can stop them. “Would you?”

“You think I’m too proud?” Hopper asks, his voice that lower, raspier version again.

“Too full of yourself is more like it.” I think the words sound weak.

But Hopper Donnach drops to his knees.

For a moment I don’t really believe what I’m seeing. I think he tripped, maybe .

“Hey!” I say. “What the hell are you doing?”

But his hands move up, and for a heart-stopping moment, I think he’s going to wrap them around my thighs. The flutter the possibility sends between my legs almost makes my knees give out. But he keeps going until his hands are steepled under that perfect jawline.

“I’m showing you,” he says, “how little pride I have left.”

Some part of me recognizes that this statement makes me feel almost sorry for him.

But it’s a gag, that’s all. An act. He’s an actor.

Plus, I’m still not quite sure I’m not in some weird fever dream.

He’s so close, it would be so easy to thread my fingers through that thick, dark hair. For him to lean forward and…

Oh my God.

“I really want you to stay,” Hopper says.

“You don’t even like me,” I croak, trying to get my thundering heartbeat under control. It’s sending blood to all the wrong places.

“You don’t like me more,” Hopper says. “But I’m asking you to stay, because Tru thinks you’re amazing, and she’s always right.

She knows what’s good for me, and I’m not—I won’t treat you like shit.

I promise. So I think—” Hopper drops his hands, then raises them again.

“I think despite our…conflicting personalities, you’ll be a good fit.

” He shifts, then winces. “For me. And for you.”

That doesn’t make sense. But it’s clear he’s not going to move until I say something. And as much as I enjoy the view, this is ridiculous.

“You can get up,” I say.

“Thank Christ.” He staggers to his feet, not bothering to insist I agree first. Little pebbles are stuck to his knees. “So does that mean it’s a yes?”