Page 18 of Bracing The Storm

I scan the text on the banners.

Marry me, Patrick!

Let me lick?—

Heat instantly rushes to my face as the graphic details make me cringe.

Urgh. Nope!

I’m not even going to acknowledge I read that one. It needs to melt right off my brain because I have this weird feeling that if I let the image linger a little too long it will be forever etched into my brain.

“This isn’t a little gathering. It’s a madhouse,” I mutter as I look from the women to Patrick who’s just regarding me, amused, then back to the women.

For the life of me, I cannot make sense of what I’m seeing.

It looks like a scene from a typical eighties music video, minus the ghastly clothes and bad perm. If I didn’t know any better I’d say these were his fans. But that can’t be the case because it would imply Patrick is something like a celebrity. He doesn’t look like a celebrity, or does he?

Celebrities are very professional, put-together people who know how to market themselves and make people love them. Patrick Walsh definitely has the looks but he’s probably the opposite of every single point on my “definition of a celebrity”.

I shoot him a sideways glance, eyeing him up and down. His dark hair is a disheveled mop that looks like he just got out of thebusty brunette’s bed and is ready to dive in for a second helping. The strong muscles in his broad shoulders and chest strain his shirt with every movement, which makes me think there’s probably a six-pack hidden under there. I certainly wouldn’t mind unbuttoning it to find out.

He’s sexy, all right.

Okay, make that smoking hot.

But a celebrity?

I snort and mumble, “Not in this lifetime.”

“What’s not in this lifetime?” His deep grumble jerks me out of my thoughts, and I jump.

“What?”

He smirks. “I think you were talking to yourself, mumbling something like ‘not in this lifetime’.”

I must have spoken out loud. Now he probably thinks I’m one of those weird people who talk to themselves, which isn’t really weird at all. Everyone does that every now and then, right?

Right?

But just to be sure he won’t try to trick me out of my inheritance by claiming I’m suffering from some mental illness, I say, “In-ear speakers.” I point at my ear and turn away quickly, fumbling with my hair so he can’t see there’s nothing there. “Can you not sneak up on me like that or tune into my conversations? They’re private.” Because my voice sounds a little thin and strangled, I glare at him for good measure so he gets just how much I dislike him.

“I wasn’t sneaking up on you or tuning into your conversations withyourself. I’ve been here for a good five minutes and thought you were talking tome. We literally just spoke,remember?” His gaze pierces into me inquisitively and something sparkles in there. He’s probably making a mental note to ask his lawyer about the mental illness angle.

Oh, hell no! I’m not giving him solid grounds for getting rid of me.

Before I can think of a comeback Patrick smirks. “If you call this sneaking up on you, I’ll make sure to book an appointment a day in advance before we cross paths. I’ll need your phone number for that.”

I narrow my eyes on him. He thinks he’ssofunny. It’s probably what he writes on his Tinder dating profile.Tall. Great, dark hair. A body that’s stepped out of your wildest dreams. Humor.If you tell yourself stuff like that all the time, you’re bound to start believing it.

It’s called affirmations.

Or all the female attention must have messed with his brain.

Okay, I admit the looks part is spot on, bordering on modest. But whatever he put on there about his personality, if anything at all, must be a lie.

I shoot a glare at the women on the driveway and something starts to nag at me. I bet they have only seen his Tinder side. Once they encounter the Grump, they’ll be running for the hills and taking their billboards or whatever those are with them.

“No need to get my number. Just send out a smoke signal. You look like you’re familiar with that, what with being the Neanderthal you are.” I grimace at my choice of words. Nope. Didn’t quite come across the way I wanted. It sounds a bit petty and insulting. I don’t usually go around insulting people, but there’s something about this guy that brings out the worst in me. I point at the commotion to change the subject. “So, care to tell me what this is all about?”

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