“Yes.” I looked down at my clothes. “Although both my mother and my daughter have made it clear that I’m not dressed for the occasion. You think I look okay?”

“Definitely.” She hesitated. “If the occasion was a PGA tournament.”

I groaned. “Mariah said I looked like Fred Yaldoo.”

Cheyenne laughed, her eyes lighting up. “From the car dealership?”

“Yeah. Is she right?”

Rather than answer, she put her fingers over her mouth and tried unsuccessfully to stop giggling. “I better not answer that.”

“Goddammit, fine. I’ll change. But what am I supposed to put on?”

“A different shirt? Like a dress shirt or something? And maybe not the khakis.”

“Dress pants?”

“Maybe. Or dark jeans. Depends on the shirt you pick.”

“This makes me glad I wear a uniform every day.” I checked the time on my phone. “Shit. I’m running late already. Can you just come up and pick something out of my closet?”

She laughed again. “Sure. If you trust me.”

“I trust you.” Setting my keys on the counter again, I led the way out of the kitchen and up the stairs, wondering belatedly if this was wise, bringing Cheyenne up to my bedroom. I’d had a hard enough time keeping my thoughts appropriate in the kitchen.

Moving down the upstairs hall, we passed Mariah’s room—which had been my brother Greg’s back in the day—where my mother was trying to convince her to put on a different shirt, one without an ice cream stain on it.

Pushing my door all the way open, I snapped on the overhead light and gestured toward the closet. “Dress shirts hanging in there, along with good pants. Jeans in the dresser, second drawer down.” Then I dropped onto the bed, leaning back on my hands. “Good luck. Fashion is really not my thing.”

She stood at the door for a moment, almost like she was afraid to come in. Her eyes darted around—from the closet to the dresser to the walls to the bed. “I’ve never been up here before. It’s so clean.”

“House rules.”

Entering the room with a few tentative steps, she sniffed. “It even smells good. Griffin’s room always smelled horrible.”

I laughed. “Mine probably smelled just as bad as a teenager. My mother was always in here fumigating it.”

Grinning, she went over to the closet and riffled through my shirts, the plastic hangers making noise as she slid them along the wooden bar. “How about this one?”

I glanced over and saw her holding up a button-up dress shirt in a navy and royal blue checkered pattern. “Okay.”

“The colors will match your eyes.” She shut the closet door and handed me the shirt, still on the hanger. “You have such great eyes.”

I looked up at her, and a compliment stuck in my throat—I like your eyes too. They were big and brown, with little flecks of gold in them, framed by thick black lashes. And she had a way of looking at you that made you feel like you were the only person in the room. But all I said as I took the shirt was, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” She gave me a tiny smile before she turned toward my dresser and pulled open the second drawer. “Jeans would be best with that. Your darkest denim.”

“I think I have some dark denim in there.”

Bending over, she sorted through a stack of jeans. I watched her, letting my eyes wander over her curves. As I had in the kitchen, I felt a rush of arousal. But this time, I didn’t look away. Instead I found myself wondering what she’d do if I reached out and put my hands on her hips. Pulled her onto my lap. Buried my face in her neck. Put my hands beneath her sweater. Cheyenne had the kind of body you could spend hours exploring—you could get lost and never want to be found.

Before I could stop it, the thickening surge in my pants grew into a full-blown erection, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to stand up without an obvious bulge in my khakis. Sometimes—but only sometimes—being well-endowed was not an asset.

“Here we go. These are perfect.” Cheyenne straightened up and tossed a folded pair of jeans on the bed.

“Thanks,” I said, leaning forward so my elbows rested on my knees, shielding my crotch.

She eyed my feet. “The shoes are good. Do you have a dark brown leather belt?”

“I’m wearing it.”

“Can I see it?”

“No.”

Slightly taken aback, she tried again. “I’m sure it’s fine. I just want to see it and make sure.”

“Well, you can’t.”

She rolled her eyes. “Cole, come on.”

“No.”

“You’re being silly. Why can’t I see the belt?” Laughing, she grabbed my arm and tried to pull me onto my feet, but I yanked it back so hard, I jerked her right off her feet.

“Oh!” she cried as her body crashed into mine, the force of it sending me over backward. She wound up sprawled on top of me, and instinct took over—I flipped her onto her back and pinned her wrists to the mattress, my cock bulging against her thigh. There was no way to hide what she was doing to me.

Our eyes met. “Oh,” she said again, softer this time.

I almost lost my mind and fucking kissed her.

Instead, I jumped off the bed and backed up against my dresser. “So. How’s the belt?”

She sat up, and her eyes went wide. “Um, it’s big.”

I nearly grinned. “It’s what?”

Then she panicked, her cheeks turning scarlet. “I mean, it’s perfect. The belt. The belt is perfect. For your outfit.” She scrambled off the bed and bolted for the first door she saw, yanking it open. “I’ll just get Mariah and head out.”

But it was the closet door she’d gone for, which she realized when she tried to exit through a row of hanging shirts.

“Other way,” I said, pointing her toward the hallway.

“Right,” she said, making a beeline out of the room without looking at me. “Okay, have a good night. Bye.”

When she was gone, I shut the door behind her and leaned back against it, running a hand over my jaw and trying not to laugh.

Fuck. No more inviting Cheyenne Dempsey up to my room.

Years ago, clear back in high school, Griffin had made his three best friends—me, Enzo Moretti, and Beckett Weaver—promise we’d keep our hands off his little sister. He’d probably forgotten all about it, but I hadn’t. And I’d always been a man of my word, but damn.

Damn.

As I changed my clothes with the irresistible scent of Cheyenne’s perfume lingering in the air, and the memory of what her body had felt like beneath mine, I couldn’t help wondering if there was a statute of limitations on a promise like that.

I mean . . . those eyes. Those curves. Those lips.

Just . . . damn.

Two

Cheyenne

“I’m positive,” I whispered frantically to Blair in the kitchen. “I felt it. Then I looked right at it. I said, ‘Um, it’s big.’ Then I tried to escape through his closet.” Cringing, I shook my head. “It was so embarrassing!”