Dr.
Strangebeard
Winston
Brothers Book 5
by
Penny Reid
Genre:
Contemporary Romance
Hunches,
horse races, and heartbreak
Ten
years after Simone Payton broke his heart, all Roscoe Winston wants
is a doughnut. He’d also like to forget her entirely, but that’s
never going to happen. Roscoe Winston remembers everything—every
look, every word, every single unrequited second—and the last thing
he needs is another memory of Simone.
Unfortunately,
after one chance encounter, Simone keeps popping up everywhere he
happens to be . . .
Ten
years after Roscoe Winston dropped out of her life, all Simone Payton
wants is to exploit him. She’d also like some answers from her
former best friend about why he ghosted her, but if she never gets
those answers, that’s a-okay. Simone let go of the past a long time
ago. Seriously, she has. She totally, totally has. She is definitely
not still thinking about Roscoe.
Nope. She’s more than happy to forget he exists.
Dr.
Strange Beard is a full-length romantic comedy novel, can
be read as a stand-alone, and
is the fifth book in the USA TODAY bestselling Winston Brothers
series.
“Why are you
here?”
Simone twisted
toward me, resting the side of her head against the back window of
the truck’s cab. “Are you asking me why am I in Green Valley? Or
are you asking me why I’m here, now, in Hawk’s Field? Because we
already covered the latter and, honestly, I don’t want to discuss
the former.”
I lifted an
eyebrow at her slippery response. “No. We did not cover the
latter.”
It seemed to me
like she didn’t wish to discuss anything of substance except how
much she hated the idea of falling in love.
“Yes, we did
cover it.” Her eyes were on my raised eyebrow and her lips pressed
together, like she was combating a grin.
“No. We didn’t.
I asked, ‘What are you doing out here, Simone?’ And you said—”
I paused here to lift my voice and imitate hers, Yankee accent and
all, “‘Oh, well, you know. Shelly and Beau mentioned that you
like to camp one night a week.’”
“Roscoe.” She
laughed, hitting me lightly on the shoulder with the back of her
hand. “I do not sound like that.”
I caught her
wrist so she couldn’t hit me again, she was a double hitter. “So
then I asked, ‘You were looking for me?’ And you said, ‘Yes.’
And then you asked a hundred questions in order to change the
subject—”
“I was not
trying to change the subject,” she hollered.
The uneasiness
and charged atmosphere from moments prior had dissipated, and I
breathed in a full breath, rolling my eyes with a great deal of
exaggeration. “As I was saying, in order to change the subject and
distract me from the fact that you never answered my original
question.”
“I’m
sorry”—she put on a mask of confusion, the effect mostly ruined
by the cute and mischievous smile she was attempting to iron from her
features— “what was the original question?”
I wasn’t going
to ask again, but I didn’t need to. As she’d alluded earlier,
there were other ways to get answers out of her, tried and true
methods.
My eyes dropped
to her neck. A tick of meaningful silence passed, during which I
questioned myself and the wisdom of what I was doing—teasing her,
threatening to tickle her, which would necessitate putting my hands
on her, disregarding the levelheaded precautions I’d put in place
to maintain the essential barrier between us in order to avoid making
new memories I couldn’t control—but I actively decided to ignore
wisdom and good sense.
Just for a
minute.
Just for a
moment.
Just to be with
her again, like this.
Simone gasped,
breaking the silence and yanking her hand away.
“You wouldn’t
dare.”
I grinned, my
eyes still on her neck, where she was most ticklish.
She covered each
side of her throat with her hands, a preemptive defense strategy, but
she was giggling.
Lifting my
eyebrows, I tilted my head to the side and braced my hands on either
side of me, preparing to launch myself if necessary. “Answer the
question.”
Now she was
laughing again, watching me, as though waiting to see if I did dare.
I pushed myself
up and she squealed, her hands bracing against my chest. I easily
captured her wrists with one hand, wrapped my other arm around her
torso, and brought her back down on the bed. Straddling her thighs
and sitting on her knees, I lifted her arms over her head while she
focused her defensive efforts on tucking her chin to her chest.
Between gasping
laughter, she said, “I should have worn a turtleneck.”
“Poor planning,
princess.” I laughed, trying to get my fingers under her chin, and
had to work to keep my seat because she was now bucking her hips and
trying to bend her knees, proving herself to be stronger than I’d
assumed.
No matter.
Pulling her arms to the right, I maneuvered her on her side and found
the sweet skin at the back of her neck.
Simone bucked
again, but this time it was a reflexive response, because I’d found
her spot. She shrieked as I tickled her.
“Oh my God, I
can’t breathe.”
I stopped.
“Answer the question.”
She panted and
gasped, shaking her head, and giving me a big, teasing grin. “Never!”
Squinting in
suspicion, I studied her twisted form. She wasn’t struggling, her
wrists in my hands were slack, her body was both relaxed and clearly
bracing for another attack, like she anticipated it, like she wanted
it, like she was having a good time and wanted it to last.
Despite the
chill, I was getting hot under the collar. My eyes moved over her
prone form, traveling from her beaming smile to her neck, the swell
of her breasts, the indent of her waist, the generous curve of her
backside. The urge to do something—to her, with her, inside
her—seized my lungs and nerves and muscles, a blazing flare of
carnal want shot down my spine.
Yeah, I’d
definitely lost control of this new memory.
Breathing out at
the dizzying instinct, I moved completely off her body. I released
her wrists—releasing her—as I averted my eyes and backed away to
gather my wits. She sat up, reaching for me. I twisted away. The bed
of the truck was too crowded, so I turned to jump down. Before I
could, she caught me by the arm.
“Hey.” Her
grip was tight and she tugged. “What’s wrong?”
I shook my head,
tossing my thumb over my shoulder. “Just remembered something.”
“Roscoe—”
Pulling my arm
from her fingers, I hopped over the edge of the truck and walked
toward the tent. I reached the first post, I walked beyond it, my
direction aimless.
I suspected it
wasn’t like this for most folks, but this sporadically cruel and
often inconvenient time travel to my past was all I knew. Therefore,
I dealt with it the only way I knew how.
I retreated.
Penny
Reid is the Wall Street Journal and USA Today Best Selling Author of
the Winston Brothers, Knitting in the City, Rugby, and Hypothesis
series. She used to spend her days writing federal grant proposals as
a biomedical researcher, but now she just writes books. She’s also
a full time mom to three diminutive adults, wife, daughter, knitter,
crocheter, sewer, general crafter, and thought ninja.
Please
feel free to drop her a line. She'd be happy to hijack your thoughts!
You can find her on her blog or email her: pennreid at gmail dot com
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