The Wild Card: A Small Town Fake Dating Sports Romance (The Wild Westbrooks Book 3)(11)

Weight: 225 lbs

Date of birth—

Oh my god! I snap my laptop shut and chuck it under a throw cushion like it might bite me. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god! It’s worse than I thought.

He’s seven years younger than me! Seven!

That’s, like, a lot of years.

No. No way. That little flicker of curiosity that sparked to life when I crashed into Harry’s arms earlier? I snuff it right out.

Harry and me could never happen.





4





HARRY





“You’re supposed to ‘drizzle’ the caramel onto the muffins, Dad. With a light touch. Not drop it on like a dump truck.”

My father tosses me a scowly look over his shoulder. “Harry, I’m trying here…” he grumbles peevishly.

I turn to Cash. “And you? What the hell is this? This isn’t a kindergarten art project. People actually have to eat this stuff.” I bump my brother out of the way and grab the sticky fork from his hand.

With a big yawn, he slumps against the counter and drains his coffee mug down his throat. “Do it yourself, Martha Stewart.”

I assume position over the tray of fresh-baked muffins, but my cousin, Mason, screeches at me from across the room where he’s rolling out a batch of our Grammy’s ribbon-winning pie crust. “Dude, wash your hands first!”

Mason is the doctor in the family and it’s like he has this freakish ability to zero in on germs from any distance.

My palms shoot up and I backtrack over to the sink. “Right…” I give my hands a good and thorough scrub. Then I slip one of our usual pink Wildberry Bakery aprons over my sweats and tie it at the waist.

In my defense, I didn’t plan to come in here and do any actual baking today. It’s my day to drive our grandmother to her senior citizen meetup, so I’m here at the family bakery to pick her up. With Grammy’s vision diminishing quickly, this social gathering is more important than ever for her.

I’m waiting for her to finish up at the front counter, so we can hit the road, but since these guys are severely lacking in the baking skills department, I’m now in the back, hands washed and sleeves rolled up, about to turn this caramel drizzle into a work of art.

Jasper and Davis come and slump against the counter with Cash sandwiched between them. All three of my brothers toss their heads back and yawn in unison like it’s a synchronized dance.

I just shake my head and chug a long swallow from the trusty gallon-sized water bottle that I take everywhere with me. “I’ve offered you guys the recipe for my workout mix a hundred times.”

“That shit tastes worse than sewer water,” Jasper complains, making a face at my energy-boosting concoction.

I shrug. “Good to see you’re familiar with the taste of sewer water. Clearly, you don’t mind walking around like a zombie all day.” I let thin streams of caramel cascade over the tops of the muffins. Perfection!

We’re here at The Wildberry, the bakery our Grammy established almost fifty years ago. The place is already open for business this morning and, as usual, the breakfast crowd is lined up almost out the door.

Our stubborn Grammy is unwilling to hire strangers to work in her kitchen. She’s hellbent on protecting her coveted family recipes, guarding them fiercely for the next generation of Westbrooks. So my three brothers, our cousin and I have long had a pretty strict rotation to make sure the old lady doesn’t ever have to handle the morning rush alone. Mason’s four sisters work at the bakery in the afternoons.

A few months ago, Grammy reluctantly admitted that she’s been slowly losing her eye sight. Ever since then, we’ve only gotten more involved here at the bakery. Even with my hectic football schedule, I make sure to get down here a couple times a week and do my part.

Because family comes first. Family is everything. Even when it’s not easy.

“Why the hell is everybody so cranky and tired today anyway?” Dad asks, dusting flour from the front of his apron.

It’s weird seeing him in the kitchen with us. It’s weird having him here in Honey Hill, period. He used to be the biggest workaholic on the face of the Earth. But he recently took a major step back at his wealth management firm in Chicago for health reasons a few months ago. He came home to Honey Hill for Christmas and he’s been hanging around town ever since, seemingly with no plans to return to the city any time soon. I don’t know what’s up with that.

Jasper smirks, running a hand down the front of his Jasper Auto Body T-shirt. “My wife’s a bestselling steamy romance writer with an upcoming deadline. I’m her muse. Let’s just say it was a long night. Those sex scenes don’t write themselves.”

Cash frowns at him. “Lucky you. I was up with Meghan until four in the morning deciding on personalized napkins and picking custom place settings and choosing toasting glasses.”

A group of women wave at Mason through the front window. He winks at them. “Meghan’s a bridezilla?” he asks Cash. “She doesn’t strike me as the type.”

“That’s just the problem,” Cash says, folding his arms across his chest in frustration. “She’s not asking for help. She’s trying to do it all on her own, like the fucking sweetheart she is. She says she knows I’m busy with work and doesn’t want to stress me out. But seeing her stressed out is stressing me out. So now, I’m just going around trying to anticipate her every need since she won’t come and ask for anything outright.” He scratches his forehead and grunts. “Plus, I’m busting my brain trying to figure out what to get her as a wedding present. Guys, I’m losing my mind over here.”