Where’s the southern hospitality I always heard about? Maybe I need to wander farther south for that.
“I was wondering…” I pat down the unruly curls around my shoulders. “Do you happen to know the Holsten family? There are two sons—”
“The twins?” Mascara clumps in the slits of her eyes. “What of them?”
The only photo I found of them was a grainy black-and-white snapshot in the newspaper. I had to visit the local library to dig up that one, and I still don’t have a clear idea what they look like.
“Do you know where they hang out?” What I really want to ask is if they’re here in the bar tonight, but I don’t want to look stupid.
“I don’t know who you are or where you come from, but your interest in those boys is a waste of time. They ain’t friendly with outsiders.”
“I just need a few minutes—”
“No single gal wants just a few minutes with them.” She scowls at my ringless left hand and lifts her chin. “I hear Jake is off the market, but don’t go getting your hopes up about Jarret. He’ll settle down with one of our own before he marries the likes of you.”
“Marriage?”
“He won’t take kindly to you asking about them, neither.”
I can’t even wrap my mind around this conversation.
Her eyes dart to the front entryway, and a hitch cuts her breath.
I follow her line of sight and stifle my own gasp.
Good God Almighty. Cowboys do nothing for me, but the two men who just strolled in redefine my preconceived notions of rugged ranchers.
Maybe I’ve watched too many old westerns, but I expected sweat-soaked dirt rings around the collar, unwashed and overlong hair, iconic mustaches, and rotten teeth. Most of the guys in this bar fit that description. But not these two.
They’re definitely twins, but not identical. One has a narrower face, paler eyes, and a darker hairline beneath the wide brim of his hat. His almost-smile is far more personable than the almost-scowl the other one wears. He exudes charisma, which makes him the most attractive of the two.
And the most dangerous.
Finely-honed brawn bunches and contracts as they move through the bar. Sculpted biceps and pectorals, flat stomachs, and powerful thighs—they’re built the same, as if carved from a single hunk of testosterone-infused stone.
Golden complexions. Six-foot-and-several-intimidating-inches tall. Clean-shaved faces. Squared jaw lines. Broad, sloping shoulders. Well-worn denim encases well-endowed packages that draw the eye. There’s so much to take in.
Holy hell, I’m staring, and I can’t stop.
It isn’t just their hotter-than-hot surface area that compels me. There’s an air about them, a confidence, an authoritative intensity that grabs a woman by the ovaries and reduces her to her most primitive core. It’s the same instinct that drives females of any species to mate with the strongest male, to birth the fittest, most viable offspring.
Jesus. I’m not even interested in that. I’m so fucking done with men, especially the good-looking ones. Yet here I am, slurping back drool as it leaks from my gaping mouth.
I’m here for the Holsten twins, to learn about them, and hopefully, to get answers. If I wasn’t already certain I found them, the petite redhead between them would be a dead giveaway.
Conor Cassidy.
One doesn’t need to be a journalist to know her story. A simple online search on Sandbank brings up dozens of results related to the brutal attack on her six years ago. What the articles don’t mention is the Holsten family’s involvement that night.
I didn’t expect her to be in town. Last time I checked, she was still at OSU. I certainly didn’t expect to see her all cozy with the family who caused her so much pain.
The one with the darker eyes and the arm hooked around her shoulders must be Jake. Rumor has it they were the sweethearts of Sandbank, right up until the attack.
Her brother, Lorne Cassidy, went to prison for killing the wrong man, and her father moved her to Chicago. To my hometown. She doesn’t have a clue who I am or how we’re connected, and I hope to God I never have to be the person to tell her.
I drag my eyes away from the magnetic trio as they sit around a nearby high-top table. That’s when I notice that every woman in the bar is caught in their spell.
Conor stands out with her outrageous beauty and colorful sleeves of tattoos, but it’s the Holstens who coax the far-away looks beneath the feminine lashes around me. Not to mention, the irritated scowls of their male companions.
Jake and Conor share a few whispered words. Then he makes his way to the bar and orders drinks.
I glance back at the table and find the other brother, Jarret, staring right at me.
Shit. I look away and curse myself for flinching. I won’t be unnerved by him, no matter how goddamn sexy he is.