I raise my chin to give him better access. “And now?”
“Now, it’s perfect.” Leaning down, he plants a slow kiss on my mouth, teasing my lips open with his tongue. I press my hands against his bare chest to keep my balance. The heat from his skin is warm, making me want to melt into him.
Arms snaking around my waist, Levi picks me up then carries me to the counter. I laugh when he shoves aside a few more boxes to make room for my butt.
“Seriously? How do you have so much stuff?” I ask with a smile while looking at all the clutter.
“Hey. Not all of that is mine.” Lifting his chin, he points to a small shoebox with my name scrawled across it in Sharpie. “My mom was cleaning out some stuff and asked me to give this to you.”
“What is it?”
He shrugs. “I dunno.”
Curiously, I reach for the box and open it to find a few old baseball cards, Levi’s favorite blankie from when he was a baby, and a pregnancy test.
“What the hell?” My gaze shoots to Levi to see his brows pinched in confusion.
Clearing his throat, he mutters, “Is that…?”
“Why would your mom think I’m pregnant?”
“I dunno? She said something about you glowing the other day, but let’s be honest, she’s probably just praying we’ll wind up pregnant and make her a grandma or something. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”
And that’s what jinxes it. I rewind the last month, doing the math in my head before the blood drains from my face.
“Hey, Levi?”
“Yeah?”
“What day is it?”
Pulling out his phone from the front of his jeans, he checks the date then sets it on the counter beside my thigh. “The fifteenth. Why?”
I bite my lip and do the math a second time. When I’m positive I’ve done it correctly, I mutter, “Because I think your mom might be on to something.”
“Seriously?”
I nod.
A grin threatens to tear his face in two as he grabs my chin and nudges it up to make sure he has my full attention. “Hell, yes, Charlie Bannon. We’re gonna make some cute little shits.”
With a laugh, tears gather in my eyes. “You’re not mad?”
“Why the hell would I be mad? It’s you and me, babe. We’ve known this forever. And the way I look at it, now you’re stuck with me.”
I pull him into another hug before whispering, “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The End
Interested in more of the Cocky World?
Want to keep up with all of the new releases in Vi Keeland and Penelope Ward's Cocky Hero Club world? Make sure you sign up for the official Cocky Hero Club newsletter for all the latest on our upcoming books:
https://www.subscribepage.com/CockyHeroClub
Check out other books in the Cocky Hero Club series: http://www.cockyheroclub.com
Interested in reading Indie and Rhett’s story?
Turn the page for the first chapter, or click here to download now.
Rhett
Chapter One
The blade cuts across the packing tape like butter as I open yet another cardboard box. I’m currently sitting on the cold kitchen tile in my new apartment, attempting to organize my belongings. The labor is tedious, and my right ass cheek is starting to go numb from being in the same position for way too long.
Groaning, I stand to stretch my legs and give my lower back a break then scan my tiny new apartment that’s a few blocks from Central Park. It isn’t much to look at. The walls are white, the cabinets are brown, and the counters are chipped, but it suits my needs just fine. Despite the image I portray with my crisp Armani suits and shined Neiman Marcus loafers, I’m not a man of things. Hell, if it were up to me, I’d happily wear a pair of my favorite jeans and a T-shirt all the time. But that doesn’t cut it in the business world. It’s all about your image. And I display mine with absolute precision.
I had hoped to get a run in this evening, but I don’t think it’s going to happen. Not with all the stuff I still need to take care of before tomorrow. Unopened boxes are stacked four high and three deep in the corner, but the thought of opening them exhausts me even further.
Instead, I grab the stack of mail on the counter and begin to sort through the copious amount of junk. It amazes me that the majority of important documents seem to get lost whenever I move, but my subscription to Men’s Health always seems to find me. I scoff as I pick through the thick stack of coupons then roll my eyes when I get to the seven welcome packets from the post office.
Ridiculous.
A piece of mail grabs my attention during my perusal. It’s addressed to an Indie Peterson in apartment 407, which is right across the hall from me.
I huff out a breath.
Looks like I’ll be meeting the neighbors this evening.
My front door hinges squeak obnoxiously as I open it. The sound reminds me to get some WD-40 at the store tomorrow. After stepping across the hallway and over to my neighbor’s apartment, I glance down and chuckle to myself. A welcome mat with “welcome” written in fancy gold cursive sits beneath my Nikes. I’m wearing a ratty old T-shirt, worn jeans with a hole in the knee, and a pair of running shoes. An old baseball hat covers my messy, dark hair, and I adjust it before knocking.
Then I wait.
And wait.
After an uncomfortable amount of time passes, I rock back on my heels, preparing to disappear back into my own apartment as if this never happened.
I’m two steps from my neighbor’s door when it opens a few inches. Casually, I turn back.
“May I help you?” a groggy voice croaks from the other side. Ashy blonde hair, porcelain skin, a white tank top, tiny sleep shorts, and legs that go for miles. Or at least that’s what I think I see. It’s hard to tell. My mind tries to piece together the masterpiece in front of me like a painter who was only given two of the three primary colors.
I clear my throat. “Hi. I’m your new neighbor.” I point my thumb over my shoulder to the door directly behind me. “It looks like I’ve received a bit of your mail by accident.” Lifting the white envelope in my hand, I show her the letter.
I’m still speaking through the tiny crack in the door, but I understand her hesitancy. Stranger danger and all that shit.
She looks me up and down before deeming me safe. Or safe enough, anyway. When she opens the door, I’m given the full image of the gorgeous woman across the hall. It’s as if I just stepped into the Met and am seeing true beauty in its rarest form. It hits me like a sucker punch in the gut. Seems my night just got a hell of a lot more interesting.
“Hi, I’m Indie.” My neighbor reaches out her hand, and I take it in mine. My palm practically swallows hers as I shake it twice. Her skin is like silk. There’s no other way to describe it. I’m reluctant to let her go, but holding on would land me right back in the not-safe zone, so I release my grip.
“Then it seems I’m in the right place. The letter is addressed to Indie Peterson. You have a really unique name,” I note, as my lips tilt into a crooked smile.