Somebody’s Ex (The Jackson Brothers, Book 2)
She’s got a thing for bad boys. He’s the furthest thing from a bad boy. And maybe that’s exactly what she needs.
Randi Andersen loves them tall, dark, sexy, handsome. And bad. But bad boys invariably make for bad relationships. She’s tired of being somebody’s ex, ex-girlfriend, ex-lover, or ex-wife. Now, if she could just fall in love with a nice guy.
David Jackson has lived under the crushing weight of responsibility for holding his family together since his brother’s death three years ago. Randi is too sexy to resist, but the last thing he needs now is a relationship. Too much is at stake with his family falling apart.
Can they each forgive their own past mistakes in order to take the leap of faith that love demands?
Buy Now
Somebody’s Ex Audiobook
What Readers Are Saying:
Excerpt
Somebody’s Ex
© 2013 Jasmine Haynes
Randi shoved at the truck door with both hands. It groaned but didn’t budge. The damn thing was getting harder to open every day. She threw her shoulder into it and practically fell out of the truck, the door flying wide. Saving herself by slamming her sandal on the concrete, she jerked her head up at the shriek of tires on the roadway just in time to see a three-quarter-ton pickup bearing down on her.
Amidst the sound of squealing tires, her life flashed before her eyes like the old cliché. The knee-holes in Mick’s jeans on their wedding day in that cheesy Nevada chapel. Her divorce papers with Mick’s illegible scrawl. Her mom’s fish balls sprinkled with curry powder. That day her pops stopped talking to her when she was thirteen, the day that lasted almost a year.
Her last thought before she died: I really am a loser.
Her body must have been flattened beyond pain because she didn’t feel a thing except warm sunshine heating the top of her head and the pungent aroma of burnt rubber in her nostrils.
“Lady, are you insane opening your door like that?”
No, I’m dead.
But wait, the angry drawl didn’t sound like the angel Gabriel. Or was it Peter who was supposed to meet you at the Pearly Gates? And hey, what about the tunnel of light?
Randi opened her eyes to an enormous truck bumper staring her in the face. Brilliant sunlight bouncing off the chrome blinded her. Her neck hurt from the awkward angle at which she held her head, looking back at that terrifyingly close grill. Her little truck was a mere ant compared to the monster pickup only a few inches from her rear bumper.
Hands on his hips, booted feet spread wide, and his chin jutted forward so he could stare her down, Randi decided the man was too pissed to be an angel.
He’d asked if she was insane. She had to admit that statement was a darn sight better than what Mick would have said. Are you a fucking idiot?
One foot in the truck, the other out, she was suddenly aware of the awkward spread of her legs, and the three popped snaps on her jean skirt. Only two remained holding it together.
Holy Moly! If he came any closer, he’d see her thong.
She hastily snapped the buttons on her skirt. Hopping out too quickly, she stumbled, catching herself with a hand on the top of the door.
“My door was stuck.”
One side of his mouth curled. A snarl, not a smile. “So you figured you’d just stick it out so someone could rip it off? Not to mention ripping off the top half of your body.”
He perused her top half with fiery eyes. His sunglasses swung from the fingers of his clenched fist, and the sun made his gaze burn. With her five-inch platforms, he was only an inch or so taller than her, but he seemed to tower. And glower.
He took a giant step closer.
Royal started to growl.
Randi shuffled forward and slammed the door hard. Of course, that brought her less than two feet from him, so close she could now see his eyes were the color of a Hawaiian black sand beach. Glitteringly dark with silvery flecks.
He arched a brow.
“It doesn’t like to shut,” she explained, in case he thought she’d slammed it out of pique. “The dog doesn’t bite, but I’ve never been threatened before, so I’m not sure how she’ll react.”
“This is not threatening. This is mildly pissed off.”
“Mildly?” Half joke, half fear. Her breathing had returned to normal, but her heart pulsed a beat too quickly.
“If I was really pissed, I wouldn’t have stopped. Or gone around.”
He looked up the hill at the blind spot, communicating his thought that going around her open door might have resulted in a head-on with someone coming the other way.
When she didn’t comment, freak out, or even apologize, he tipped his head. “Were you threatening to sic your dog on me?”
“If I was, I wouldn’t have closed the door.” She made a placating little moue. “I’m sorry about the door. I couldn’t open it. Then it just...” She spread her hands. “It just popped.” Like the snaps on her skirt.
Instead of answering, his gaze dropped to her skirt, and she realized she hadn’t properly snapped all her snaps. She reached down, but then his gaze rose to her breasts which were now a little too close to falling out of her low-cut spandex top.
The man was ogling her. And she liked it. She hadn’t been ogled in a long time. A look at him revealed buff thighs, chiseled abs, nicely shaped chest muscles and brown hair streaked with several shades of blond, probably from days spent working out in the sun.
“You’re leering at me,” he said. “I feel like a cheap piece of meat.” He still glowered, but the hint of a smile curved his lips. He put on his sunglasses before she could detect an answering glimmer in those intriguing eyes.
“Not cheap. Very expensive.” Her voice came out deep, husky, and way too seductive. Damn. There went her mouth again, spouting off before her brain had time to catch up. Her pops, and Mick, really hated her tendency to babble.
But Holy Moly, she’d just flirted with a man who’d almost creamed her and her truck. Not to mention squishing the dog. Of course, it wasn’t the guy’s fault. But, well, he could get the wrong impression about her with a comment like that.
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
She sure as hell had, David hoped. He’d lost his irritation the minute she’d bent down to button her skirt.
