She raised herself up on her tiptoes, bringing her lips within inches of his earlobe. “Will you still be communicating in the form of grunts and growls?” The low rumble of his answer turned her knees to jelly. “Thank God.” She kissed and nipped her way down the corded column of his thick, tattooed neck. “So did you really quit your job?”
He nodded, his hands moving to cup her ass. “Yeah.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Start a line of barbecue sauces,” he answered without hesitation. “Don’t suppose you know of anyone who will help me taste test?”
“I might.” She kissed the exposed skin at the neck of his T-shirt. “She will expect payment, however.”
“I am a billionaire.” He grabbed her ass with both hands and pulled her close enough that there was no missing all of the assets he had.
“Oh, she doesn’t want cash,” she said, anticipation and lust licking every inch of her skin as Griff was no doubt about to do very soon. “Do you remember that thing you did the first time we had sex in your shower?”
She didn’t have to say anything else. Griff picked her up, and she wrapped her legs around his waist as his mouth crashed down on hers in a kiss that knocked her brain sideways and took all the air out of her lungs. Yeah, it was that good. They were halfway down the hall to his door before she had gathered her wits.
“Griff Beckett, you’re so bad.”
“Babe, you are about to find out exactly how bad I can be.”
Then he started whispering in her ear all the things he was going to do as soon as they got in the shower, and she’d never been more glad in her life that she’d skipped panties under her leggings. The less that was between them, the better. Oh hell, who was she kidding. She was about to be as naked as the time she’d agreed to a dare to streak down Main Street back home, and Kinsey couldn’t be more excited.
“I love you, Griff.”
“Kinsey, I will love you forever.”
She’d run the scenarios in her head at lightning speed, and she had absolutely no doubt that he would—that they both would.
And now we’re down to one?! If you think that means Nash has got it easy, you’d be so wrong! *cackle* Turn the page for an exclusive sneak peek of Mansplainer.
Like FREE Books?! Download one of Entangled’s bestselling books here!
Chapter One
“I’m getting married. Tomorrow. You’re all invited.”
If there was anything Nashville “Nash” Beckett could have said to make his entire family go silent for all of ten seconds, that was it.
All the Becketts gathered around the long table in one of the private dining rooms at Le Hibou, which, in opposition to its name, didn’t serve owl or French food. It did, however, have a whole owl motif going with classic Americana fare being given the names of different owls. When he’d made his announcement, for example, his cousin Griff had been digging into a double patty melt called “the whiskered screech owl,” which fit because of the beard and landed on the ironic side of things because the man spoke mostly in grunts and definitely not screeches. Also, he was the first one to go back to eating his food while everyone else at the table finished processing Nash’s announcement at the same time and all the talking started—or more like the hollering of questions. It was more of an extreme and loud inquisition.
In other words, it was a gathering of Becketts.
Finally, one voice broke through the noise.
“You are so full of shit,” his cousin Dixon said and then lifted Fiona’s left hand up and kissed it, nearly blinding the room with the light reflecting off the huge diamond on her ring finger.
“Well, actually,” Nash said as he squirted ketchup onto his “great horned owl,” aka a cheeseburger with onion straws, “I’m not. The ceremony is at Gable House.”
Everyone at the table laughed.
“Can you imagine?” his sister, Bristol, asked, using her fork to point at him from her spot at the other end of the table. “This guy? Married?”
Morgan, Griff’s little sister, shook her head. “He’d spend so much time explaining the history of marriage to her, she’d fall asleep before the proposal.”
“Or he’d mansplain how she should feel about engagement rings,” Bristol added.
Should he be offended? Maybe, but this was his family, and despite how much he might pretend, he knew the assessment was fair. Not that he’d admit it.
“Is it wrong that I just want to share knowledge and I spend enough time reading focus group reports that I have insight into the female brain?” Nash asked.
“Oh my God, Nash. I love you, but you are a dick,” his brother, Macon, blurted out and then looked down to the other end of the table and cringed. “Sorry, Mom.”
Okay, so he had a habit of overexplaining things—even when no one asked for additional information. And yes, he had gotten in the habit of anticipating others’ moods and reactions, which came in really handy in developing marketing and advertising campaigns at Beckett Cosmetics. He had to know women, the largest percentage of their customer base, although the number of men in the makeup and skin-care sector was growing, and what would appeal to them. Add to that the fact that he’d grown up as the de facto responsible one who remembered for his parents when the utility bill was due, and it was just his wheelhouse.
“You’re not even dating anyone,” Morgan said. “That’s the whole point of this ridiculous bet of yours.”
“It’s not ridiculous,” Nash, Griff, and Dixon said at the same time—and not for the first time.
The Last Man Standing had been Nash’s idea—okay, it had actually been Grandma Betty’s idea, but Griff and Dixon didn’t need to know that. A few weeks after she’d died, Grandma Betty’s housekeeper, Alexandra, told him about how Grandma had left one last Christmas present and had deliberately left the name of who it was for off it. All Alexandra knew was that it was meant for either Griff, Dixon, or Nash and that Grandma’s plan was to use it to motivate her oldest grandchildren, who were dead set on being single forever, to fall in love.
And that’s how the Last Man Standing bet came to be—without Griff or Dixon knowing the real origin. The last, oldest Beckett cousin to not be in love by Christmas—only a few months away now—would get the present, whatever it was. All they knew was that it fit inside an eight-by-twelve box that was about six inches deep and wrapped in Christmas paper with fat Santas on it. It didn’t make any noise when someone shook it and couldn’t weigh more than two pounds, max. Not that it mattered. For them, all that had been important was that it was the last present from their grandma, who’d been one of the most extraordinary people any of them had ever known. Winning wasn’t about the gift; it was about Grandma Betty.