Page 69 of Daddy's Broken Bride

I wonder if Axel and Bram have realized yet that he deliberately hides the goodies where the girls can find them.

A soft huff draws my attention to my right, where a woman in a cheap, too-tight dress has settled herself onto the stool beside me. “Whiskey sour,” she tells the bartender, with none of the breathless cheerfulness I’m used to hearing from women in casinos.

Intrigued, I shift to face her more fully. “Rough night?”

She snorts. “Rough fucking life.”

My palm positively itches to connect with her bottom, and I just manage to catch myself before lecturing her about using such crass language.

But then she turns her head, and I find myself staring down into a pair of eyes the same color as the whiskey the bartender is currently pouring for her.

And I know, then and there, I won’t be returning to Colorado alone.