🍒 1. The Favour from Hell
MY BEST MATE ASKED FOR ONE THING. TOO BAD IT CAME WITH LEGS, SARCASM, AND LIP GLOSS.
P R E S T O N
If hell had a face, it would be Tyler Sinclair’s smug one staring back at me across the pub table.
“Just keep an eye on her, mate. That’s all I’m asking.”
Easy words for him to say. He’s not the one being voluntold to babysit his prim, prissy, pain-in-the-arse little sister.
I lean back in my chair, pint in hand, wearing the cheeky perfected smirk plastered on my face that gets me out of trouble ninety percent of the time. Not this time, though. Tyler’s jaw is set like he’s lining up for a tackle.
“Lottie? In my apartment? You’ve lost the plot.”
He shrugs, unfazed. “She’s moving to the city. Needs somewhere safe until she finds her feet. You’re not exactly doing anything with the spare room.”
I almost choke on my beer. Not doing anything? What a offensive thing to say. “I have kept it for when you inevitably return!”
Tyler raised an eyebrow. “Dude, I’m getting married.”
“And?”
“Come on dude, it’s Lottie... I wouldn’t trust her with anyone else.”
“Mate,” I say, trying reason. “I’m the last bloke you want near your sister. I’m charming. I’m horny. I’m utilising my rotating roster of groupies every night, I’m—”
“A dickhead,” he cuts in.
“—a national treasure,” I finish smoothly, flashing the grin that made me Australia’s favourite quarterback and, according to Sports Weekly, the country’s most eligible mistake.
Tyler doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even blink. Which is when I know I’m screwed. Because if there’s one thing I hate more than losing, it’s disappointing the guy who’s had my back since I was twelve.
So when he claps me on the shoulder and says, “She moves in Monday,” I can already feel my carefully crafted bachelor life cracking down the middle.
My brain short-circuits. Monday. As in, less than a week away. As in, I’ve got five days to figure out how to scrub the evidence of my sins from every inch of that apartment.
“Ty,” I groan, dragging a hand over my face. “You’re handing me a live grenade. With legs. And sharp nails. And, for the record, a terrifying possibility of my early death. Lottie is like a zombie Chihuahua, she’s going to kill me.”
He just grins, the bastard. “You’ll live.”
“Not if she kills me in my sleep,” I mutter.
Tyler leans back in his chair, relaxed now that he’s dumped this disaster in my lap. “Just... keep her out of trouble. That’s all I’m asking.”
Trouble. Lottie Sinclairistrouble. Always has been. That prim little uniform she wore at school? Just camouflage for the sharp tongue and quick wit that could cut a bloke to ribbons.
And those too-wide eyes she bats whenever she wants something? Don’t fall for it. She’s Satan wrapped in pearls.
“What if I just buy her an apartment,” I ask, even though I know the answer.
Tyler lifts his beer, clinking it against mine like this is some kind of celebration. “She’d literally kill us both if you did that. Besides, you’re the only idiot I trust to make sure she settles into the city okay.”
Bloody hell.
I tip back the rest of my pint, already mourning the bachelor haven that used to be my apartment. My couch, my fridge, my shower... all about to be invaded by Sinclair Jr.
And I can’t stop thinking about last Christmas. About her soft mouth colliding with mine in a kiss that still makes my chest tighten and my cock twitch in equal measure.
Yeah. I’m fucked.
* * *
By Monday morning, I’m pacing my apartment like I’ve been sentenced to death row.
I’ve scrubbed the place clean — well, clean-ish. The roster of half-naked groupies and the tower of pizza boxes are gone. The sheets have been changed. The fridge is full of actual food, not just beer, takeout containers, and protein bars. Tyler would be proud.
Still, none of it feels safe enough. Because it isn’t the mess I’m worried about. It’s me.
I’m a walking hazard and come T-minus twenty minutes, I’ll be sharing my living space with the one girl in the world I promised myself was off-limits.
When the knock finally comes, it rattles straight through me.
I yank the door open, completely unprepared for the beautiful chaos that greets me.
Charlotte Sinclair.
Hair glossy, lips painted a dangerous shade of red, suitcase in one hand and that cold but polite smile locked and loaded. She looks prim, prissy, proper... and utterly, fucking lethal.
Her eyes flick over me, unimpressed, before she exhales through her nose. “This is temporary. Strictly temporary.”
I lean against the doorframe, grin in place. “Relax, Sinclair. I’m not exactly thrilled either.”
She arches a brow, gliding past me into the lounge pausing with her nose lifted as if she’s inspecting for used condoms or some shit. “You think I want to live with you? Trust me, if Tyler hadn’t begged, I’d have taken a shoebox apartment with mouldy walls and a leaky tap.”
She sets her suitcase down with a thud, then smooths her sweater, the movements almost robotic. Every move is polished, too clinical— except for the way her jaw tightens.
“It’s clean,” she notes, scanning the place once more. “That’s... surprising.”
I scoff. “Please. I’m not an animal,” I shoot back. Looking offended all while knowing if she’d come an hour earlier the bags of rubbish would still be lined up for attendance at the front door.
Her lips twitch, just enough for me to know she’s biting back something sharper. She straightens her shoulders, lifting her chin like she’s reminding herself why she’s here.
And God do I love that little break in her composure. The golden girl that never lets anyone under her skin, is pissed at me. I’m ecstatic... well my cock seems to be.
Fucksake.
“For Tyler,” she mutters under her breath, almost too soft for me to catch. Then louder, “I’ll stay out of your way. Just... don’t make this harder than it has to be. Two months and I’ll be out of your hair.”
She doesn’t look at me when she says it. Which is a shame, because if she had, she’d see exactly how hard it already is.
“Two months?” I echo, shutting the door behind her. “Christ, that’s like asking me to survive an entire football season without beer, sex, or oxygen.”
Her head whips around, eyes narrowing. “You’ll live.”
“Not if you keep walking around here looking like that.”
Her nostrils flare. My grin widens.
Lottie drags her suitcase toward the spare room, the wheels clunking over the hardwood.
“Ground rules,” she announces. “No parading half-naked women through the flat. No leaving sweaty gym socks in the kitchen sink. And no—” she pauses, eyeing me like she already knows I’m about to make this hell, “—no icky Prez pick-up lines on me.”
I bark out a laugh. “Sweetheart, I don’t need pickup lines. I score.”
She actually groans. “See? This is exactly what I meant.”
I lean against the wall, watching her tug open the spare room. She’d been here once before, when Tyler had moved in, she’d accompanied him for the weekend.
“Relax, Sinclair. I’ve got no interest in you.”
Her brows lift, sharp as a blade. “Good. Keep it that way.”
The problem is, it’s a lie. A filthy, dangerous lie. Because every inch of me remembers last Christmas. Her lips, warm and soft, pressed against mine for the briefest, most reckless second. Even if she doesn’t remember it...
And every time she opens that sharp plump mouth of hers, all I want to do is shut it with mine.
So goes to close the door in my face and then pauses, all Sinclair pride shining in hazel eyes. “Oh, I need your bank details, I’ll transfer you rent money.”
I shake my head immediately. “Nope.”
Her eyes narrow, suspicious. “Excuse me?”
“Not happening.”
She crosses her arms, chin tilted just enough to remind me she’s Tyler’s sister and therefore genetically engineered to be a pain in my arse. “I’m not living here for free.”
I push off the wall, smirk sliding into place. “Didn’t say you would. You can pay me in food instead.”
Her eyes narrow to slits. “Food.”
“Yep.” I nod solemnly. “My fridge hasn’t seen anything green since I was drafted, and the last time I tried to use the oven, the fire brigade rocked up like it was New Year’s Eve. Traumatic for everyone involved.”
She stares at me like she’s genuinely debating murder. “So let me get this straight. You won’t take my rent, but you’ll happily accept me slaving away in the kitchen?”
“Exactly.” My grin widens. “See? Already working as a team.”
Her lips twitch—tiny, involuntary, like she’s seconds from laughing but would rather die than let me see it. She schools her face into neutral, mutters something under her breath that definitely isn’t flattering, and slams the door shut in my face.
I stay there in the hall, pulse thundering, grinning like an idiot.
Two months.
Yeah, I’m fucked.
