Tempting (Red Lips & White Lies)

KENZIE

Can’t put my finger on what I’m in the mood for . . . Could be tacos and a margarita. A little online shopping? Maybe an orgasm . . . Yup. That’s it. Ding-ding-ding!

Orgasm is the winner.

—Kenzie’s Secret Thoughts

Coming home is a strange thing—especially after four years.

You think everything will be the same, and in a lot of ways, it is . . . but different.

Life has a sneaky way of doing that when you’re least expecting it.

Changing. Whether you want it to or not.

The last time I was in West End was the night before I moved to Washington, DC, for my ob-gyn residency. It was only four years ago, but it feels like a lifetime. The bar’s vibe is a mix between industrial and craftsman. Exposed wood beams and wide-planked reclaimed wood floors and tables are warmed by Edison bulbs strung overhead, while black metal chairs and stools scattered throughout manage to somehow balance the warmth with a cool, edgy feel that’s so perfectly fitting for the owner. The atmosphere is casually cool, and the food is delicious.

It’s been one of the town’s favorite hot spots since my cousin Maddox opened it years ago, and tonight is no exception. The place is packed, and our motley crew of friends and family take up an entire corner of the room. Not surprising, since we’ve always traveled in packs.

Where there’s one, there’s usually many, and tonight, we’re at least twenty deep. Football season is in full swing, and hockey preseason officially starts next week, meaning this will be one of the last times we get this many of the guys together at once for a little while. That’s probably why everyone seems so carefree tonight. Jokes are flying, and beer is flowing.

Everyone is enjoying themselves.

Everyone except Maddox, that is.

Carefree is rarely a word I’d use to describe my cousin.

Asshole, occasionally. Sarcastic, always. Carefree . . . not really.

He hands me a glass of water with a lemon wedge and arches one dark, bushy eyebrow like a cartoon villain. “Better make sure you don’t drink too many of these. We wouldn’t want you to loosen up and lose control tonight.”

Yup. Still a sarcastic fucker.

I know how to lose control.

“Whatever, shithead. I’m on call as of midnight tonight.” I drop my lemon into the glass, then push it down with the straw. “Booze and babies don’t mix.”

“Not unless you’re making them,” he argues with a smirk before moving further down the bar to grab an order from a woman twice his age who’s looking at him like he might be on the menu.

Apparently not everything changes.

My cousin Brynlee grabs my hand and presses it against her baby bump to feel her baby boy going to town on her ribcage. “Can’t you deliver him now?” she pouts.

“Nope. You’ve got four more weeks, Brynnie. You’re a rockstar. You’ve got this.” I dig my fist into the small of her back, alleviating some of the pressure this little man has been putting on his momma, and she drops her head and moans in relief.

“God, I love you. How about you come home with us? I’ll kick Deacon out of bed. You can have his spot.”

Like a homing beacon, her hot, hockey-coach giant of a husband hears his name and zeroes in on his wife. “You kicking me out of bed, red?”

“Depends . . . Can you do what she just did?” she challenges, and the smile splashing across Deacon’s face is filthy, which has me quickly looking away.

It’s been so damn long since someone looked at me with filthy thoughts dancing behind their eyes. At least any someones I want looking at me that way.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Coach,” Brynn giggles, and I take that as my cue to slide away before I hear something I don’t want or need to know.

My friends have no boundaries or filters.

I love them. Truly I do. Even if they put the Sex and the City ladies to shame with the way they all love to talk about their sex lives. Samantha would be proud. Maybe if I had a sex life, I wouldn’t be as over the constant talk as I am. But man . . . when you’re the only one not having hot sex—sex with a professional athlete, no less—let alone, the only one who’s never had an orgasm provided by something that doesn’t require a charging cord, it gets a little old.

Even Charlotte got laid on the old show, and I’m not as uptight as she was.

“I’d like to make a toast.” My big brother, Easton, tugs me to his side and raises his beer. “To my baby sister, Mackenzie. Congratulations on your new job, Kenz. It’s good to finally have you home.” Everyone raises their drinks high in the air and cheers. “Love you, kid.”

He drops a kiss on the top of my head like I’m one of his babies instead of his sister.

“Dude. She’s two years younger than your wife. Not sure I’d be calling her kid,” one of the guys, I think Callen, laughs, and Easton flips him off before I wiggle out of his hold.

“Maybe they’re into that,” gets called out before Lindy shakes her head and kisses Easton’s cheek. She whispers something in his ear, and he smacks her ass.

I’m surrounded by hornballs.

All of them.

But even that thought puts a smile on my face because they’re my people.

And it’s hard to put into words how much I’ve missed being with them.

My friends.

My family.

The ones I claimed as my own after our mom died and left Easton and me with our cousin Juliette as our legal guardian. Jules married Becket Kingston and managed to give us an enormous family who took us in and claimed us as their own. But even better, with them came Brynlee and Lindy. The closest thing I’d ever had to sisters. They introduced me to the twins, Everly and Grace, and as they say, the rest is history. My history.

These women took in a heartbroken little girl and refused to let me close myself off.

We were inseparable.

The kind of girl squad most teenage girls—hell, most grown women—dream of.

The kind that cheers the loudest for you, even if you’re not around to hear it.

Who protects your name in rooms you’re not in.

Friends who make sure—even though you’re going through your residency, hours away, working eighty-hour weeks with no time off to come home—you’re still in every text thread and on as many FaceTimes as possible. They made sure I didn’t miss a thing, even if I couldn’t be here to watch it happen in person.

Even Callen and Maddox texted and sent funny memes.

Completely inappropriate ones that made me laugh so hard I cried.

My honorary brothers.

Of course, Lindy went and married my actual brother, and now I’m stuck hearing about their sex life whenever she feels like torturing me, which is often. But I did get the cutest niece and nephew out of it, so I’ll deal.

Like I said . . . same, but different.

“You’re awful quiet over here, Mac.”

I look up through my lashes at the twins’ brother, Nixon, wondering when he got hot. I guess that’s another one of those new things. I don’t remember Nix being quite so . . . broad. He was always the quieter Sinclair sibling. The one who went away to Boston for college and came back right before I left for Washington, DC.

His younger brother Leo leans back against the bar on my other side, grinning like a goof. “So, Kenz. You seriously get to look at vaginas all day? Don’t you get sick of ’em? Don’t get me wrong, I love me some⁠—”

“Leo—” Gracie turns to her brother with fire burning in her eyes as she stops his verbal vomit. “Do not finish that sentence.”

“But—” he starts, and she yanks his earlobe like a naughty child and tugs him away, muttering something about manners.

Nixon shakes his head as he tries unsuccessfully to stifle his laugh. “You think your brother is gonna stop toasting the fact you’re home any time soon? Pretty sure this is at least the third time since you got back in town.”

“Probably not,” I admit sheepishly and glance over at Easton. Lindy’s arms are wrapped around his waist as she laughs at something someone just said. Easton’s relaxed and smiling, and it makes my heart so freaking happy. He spent a long damn time not smiling, and I’ll love my best friend forever for giving him the kind of peace she brings to his life.

When I drag my eyes back to Nix, he taps his bottle of beer to my glass with a wicked grin on his handsome face. “To you being home, Mac.”

“Thanks, Nix.” I try unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn, then cover my mouth, mortified.

“Oh, I see how it is,” he teases.

“Stop.” My cheeks burn red. “I’m on call in a few hours, and it’s a full moon. I should probably go try to catch a little sleep while I still can.” I look around, hoping no one is paying me any attention so I can make my escape without any guilt trips stopping me.

Nixon crosses well-defined arms over his chest, blocking me from everyone’s view, and I wonder when exactly they got so thick too.

I’ve known him since we were twelve, and Nixon Sinclair never used to be . . . well . . . hot.

He was always a good-looking guy. Tall, dark, and handsome, just like his dad. But kind of quiet, a little awkward, and always obsessed with hockey. You never really saw Nix with a girlfriend. He was always surrounded by the Kroydon Hills Prep’s hockey team in high school. He didn’t party much. If you needed him, you could usually find him on the ice somewhere.

But somewhere between then and now, Nixon grew into a seventh circle of Hell hot man.

When exactly did that happen, and how exactly did I miss it?

My eyes trail over his chest and down his arms, stopping on the muscles there long enough to decide the temptation is too good to resist. I squeeze one of the biceps currently testing the strength of the dark gray cotton t-shirt covering his tanned, obviously toned chest and bite down on my bottom lip, hiding my smile. “You know steroids cause erectile disfunction, right, Nix?”

“Jesus Christ, Mackenzie,” he chuckles. “I’m not taking steroids.”

When I quietly cock my head to the side, he laughs harder. “I’d get kicked out of the league.”

I drag my eyes over him one more time and shrug. “Just saying . . . it would be a shame to destroy a perfectly good body.”

“Perfect body, huh?” he counters with a sexy smile, and I force myself to ignore the way his lips tip up at one corner.

You do not flirt with your best friends’ brother.

Girl code . . . or something like that.

At least that’s the excuse I’m sticking with.

“That’s the only part you heard?” I chew my lip with a shake of my head and remind myself that he not only is my best friends’ brother but a professional hockey player too. This man is most likely a player in every possible aspect, not to mention so far beyond the tiny bit of lackluster experience I’ve got, he should be in a whole other stratosphere.

“Whatever . . .” I shake away that train of thought before it turns into an entire runaway locomotive. “If anyone asks, can you let them know I’m heading home?”

“You walking?” he asks as he pulls out his wallet and drops a handful of bills on the bar.

“We live four streets away from here, Nix. It’s not like I was going to drive.” It’s also not like Kroydon Hills is known for its high crime rate. Walking was a no-brainer.

When my residency ended, I had no intention of moving back into the building the girls and I all lived in after college. Not because it wasn’t a great place to live. The condos are beautiful with big open floor plans, nice bathrooms, and state of the art kitchens. One I’ll probably never use, but that’s beside the point. Of course, my family owns the damn building. Half my cousins live there. And the few tenants I’m not related to are related to the twins, like Callen, Nixon, and Leo. And every single one of them is nosey as hell. This town makes Gossip Girl look like Sesame Street in comparison. Gossip might as well be its main export after professional athletes.

I guess I’ve gotten used to having my own space, and a little bit of privacy goes a long way. Especially since I work insane hours. It’s not like babies are born on schedules, and I’m padding my resume with as much experience as possible. I’ve been toying with the idea of applying for a fellowship, and the hours look great on an application.

When I come home, I don’t want to worry about who I run into and what they’ll say. And my friends are everywhere. I’ve already come home twice to Callen raiding my fridge and woke up once to Maddox having a cup of coffee in my kitchen. Lucky for him, he brought me one too, so I let him live instead of practicing my scalpel skills on him like a fresh cadaver.

And . . . it’s barely been two weeks since I moved back in.

I’ve already reached out to a realtor to see if I can find a little house to rent for now until I’m ready to buy something more permanent.

Nixon follows me through the bar, then tugs on my elbow to stop near his brother. The Sinclair genes are strong, and Leo and Nixon are both so similar. But where Nix is tall, dark, and handsome, Leo looks more like the twins with surfer-boy good looks, even if they’re on the body of one of the fastest guys in professional hockey. “Hey, man, I’m walking Mac home. Catch up later.”

Leo nods and goes back to the women he was talking to.

“I can walk four blocks alone, Nixon,” I protest as he opens the door of West End and waits for me to walk through.

“Just because you can doesn’t mean you should,” he argues, and I resist the eye roll that’s coming. “I don’t remember you being this stubborn, Mac.”

“Yeah well, I don’t remember you being this bossy, Nix.” A weird little zing of electricity passes between us as I brush by him and almost fall flat on my face. I catch myself as I trip over the metal door frame. Stupid heels. They make my legs and ass look incredible in this dress, but they pinch the shit out of my toes.

Guess I’m paying the price now.

Nixon’s hands reach out and right me, making sure I don’t fall.

Yup. There’s that little zing again.

What the hell is up with that?

He doesn’t drop his hands right away as the front door swings shut behind us, and a throat clears in front of us.

One that sends an unwelcome awareness down my spine.

“Dr. Hayes,” the unwelcome voice cuts into the building tension.

Nixon must sense my unease because instead of letting go, he tugs me closer to him, and I watch Dr. Dick’s eyes track the movement.

“Dr. Richardson,” I answer professionally. Not that I have a choice. He’s the head of Obstetrics and Gynecology at Kroydon Hills Hospital. And since the practice I now work for delivers most of their babies there, I’ll be dealing with this man often.

Dr. Dick, as I overheard a few nurses refer to him quietly last week, stands in front of us in pressed khakis and a polo, easily in his mid-forties and kind of hot in an all-American sort of way, but also kind of creepy in a pushy, uncomfortable, might not take no for an answer, sort of way too. Dr. Dick asked me out during my very first day of rounds at the hospital, and I politely declined. I have no desire to date one of my bosses, let alone someone whose ego proceeds him.

He hasn’t quite accepted my no, thank-you though.

I’ve ignored his overt flirting, refusing to acknowledge it.

That’s not how I want to start my career.

There’s something about him I can’t quite place my finger on.

He towers over me, but next to Nixon, he looks small. And he’s absolutely sizing Nixon up when his eyes get caught on the big hand wrapped around my waist, resting tightly on my hip.

Yeah . . . I want to tell him it’s distracting the hell out of me too.

“I wasn’t aware you were seeing someone, Mackenzie.”

Okay, so my go-to answer right now should probably be, why the hell would you be aware? We’re not friends, and I don’t talk about my personal life . . . or lack thereof.

Like. Ever.

Becket Kingston, the closest thing I’ll ever have to a father, is a very high-profile Senator, so I learned early on to keep my private life just that . . . private. I don’t bother with social media. I don’t talk about my family or my famous friends outside my circle. And this man is not my friend.

Not that any of that actually matters because I’m not seeing Nixon Sinclair.

Hell . . . I haven’t been seeing someone since high school.

But as Nixon’s grip tightens on my hip, I’m not sure anyone told him that.