No Promises: Willow Creek, #3

By Andrea Jenelle

A winter holidays, best friend's brother, small town romance.

 

He's her best friend's brother and they've been flirting for five years. As much as Emma wants to climb Trevor Hayes like a tree, he's the last thing she needs in her life. She's building a life in Willow Creek so she can stay under the radar. She's in hiding, and she doesn't need the town's hottest law enforcement officer snooping around. When her past catches up with her, he won't let her say no to his protection. She's determined to resist him until they get stranded together in the season's first freak blizzard.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrea Jenelle
• Release date: Nov 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9781962123235

Book preview

No Promises

Andrea Jenelle

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Willow Creek Publishing

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Copyright © 2022 by Andrea Jenelle

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. This includes the use of any portion or excerpt for artificial intelligence training or platforms. For permission requests, contact Willow Creek Publishing.

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Book Cover by S. Brillhart

Illustration by M. DaSilva

2nd edition 2024

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Trigger and Content Warnings

Suspenseful plot that includes mention of an emotionally abusive ex, PTSD, heroine who is under surveillance and needs protection from people in her past, hero who was orphaned as a teenager and had to assume the role of parent for his younger sister. This book also contains five very explicit intimate scenes and several instances of what could be considered foul language throughout.

Dear Reader:

No matter what you've done, or how much you think you jacked it all up, you deserve a brighter tomorrow.

Contents

1.Chapter 1

2.Chapter 2

3.Chapter 3

4.Chapter 4

5.Chapter 5

6.Chapter 6

7.Chapter 7

8.Chapter 8

9.Chapter 9

10.Chapter 10

11.Chapter 11

12.Chapter 12

13.Chapter 13

14.Chapter 14

15.Chapter 15

16.Chapter 16

17.Chapter 17

18.Chapter 18

19.Chapter 19

20.Chapter 20

21.Chapter 21

22.Chapter 22

23.Chapter 23

24.Chapter 24

25.Chapter 25

Playlist

Acknowledgments

Meet the Author

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Chapter 1

December

Emma

Someone spiked the punch. It’s fizzing in my veins like wildfire, daring me to do something I can’t take back. Daring me to shove my way to the front of the line instead of lingering at the end. I strongly suspect Jim Bunyan was the culprit. He’s over the moon ornery and I know for a fact he has a still in his barn for personal consumption only. (All the guys in this town swear that it really is like a shot of pure lightning, so it required a personal taste test. I did make him give me the apple pie one, though, because I don’t like straight Everclear. It’s what I had in my flask that fateful night five years ago when Taren, Emma and I formed our unbreakable bond. Although Trevor calls it our unholy alliance and I don’t think he’s kidding.) I know Jim’s probably sitting in a corner somewhere laughing his ass off and watching how it affects everyone who goes near the crystal bowl.

I heard someone comparing one sip of the punch to having a fire hose directed at you on full power. Such a concentrated impact it knocks you flat on your ass with no warning. Which is why I feel a little woozy on my feet and I am finally screwing together the courage to approach my crush.

There’s a giant Colorado Blue Spruce in the corner that’s at least ten feet tall. It’s festooned with a million tiny white lights, and it casts a soft glowing circle over the crowd. The whirling couples are my childhood Nutcracker dreams come to life. Some aspiring matchmaker hung mistletoe from every single archway, and there are boughs of pungent pine wrapped in garlands around the rafters. I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a Hallmark movie set featuring a hard-hearted, hardnosed city girl who finds herself charmed by a small-town hero.

The guy I’d cast as my hero is standing in the shadows at the edge of the dance floor, just beyond the pool of light that’s hovering like a nimbus over the rest of the crowd.

Liquid courage is making me feel reckless, and Trevor Hayes has been watching me like a hawk all night. His very noticeable preoccupation makes me wonder if Mr.- Grumpy- Pants- I -Can’t -Be -Bothered -Because- I’m-Holding- Up- This- Wall is going to finally ask me to dance. Probably not. God forbid he’s the one to ever make himself open to rejection like that. So making a move is up to me. Maybe this Christmas punch that’s coursing through me like elixir and giving me lady big balls means I’ll finally find out whether those stone chiseled lips smile in the middle of a kiss. If this were Almack’s, or one of the glittering confectionary ballrooms dominated by the Bridgerton siblings, I’d be the defiant debutante intrigued by the distant duke. I’m usually the prey, not the hunter, and the irony of the entire situation doesn’t escape me.

I saunter toward him, my red satin strapless faux wrap dress with the full vavavoom skirt swishing against my knees. He watches me approach with a wary gaze. It makes me feel like a tiny beetle smashed under the glass plate of a microscope. Even from this far away, his scent teases me. It drowns out the overwhelming sticky sap scent of the pine blanketing every available surface. It’s cinnamon and cardamom and the slightest hint of paprika. I wonder if that’s why I don’t want to stay away – because he smells like my kitchen, and I want to distill his essence and bottle him up so I can put him into a recipe. Not like Hansel and Gretel witch-in-the- woods-with-a-candy-cabin I want to cook you in my oven and scrape your bones clean creepy. More like you’re scrumptious and I want to lick every inch of your skin and bury my nose behind your ear and smell your pheromones forever creepy.

He's standing behind a row of folding chairs that’s a clear boundary between here-is-merriment and here-there-be-dragons. His back is against one of the support beams, like he’s holding up the whole ceiling, his arms crossed over his massive chest. The distance between his feet planted on the gray wooden planks echoes the width of his shoulders. His hazel eyes are dark green, reflecting the twinkling lights, boring into me like a burning lance. They don’t move from my face, but I know they swept over every inch of my body when I arrived. I caught him before he heaved a mighty sigh and ran his hand over his face. His actions tell me I’m too good to be true, that I’m the dessert sitting in the window he’s determined to stay away from – even if he’s tempted as hell.

He’s wearing a green sweater that isn’t exactly a concession to the ugly sweater contest, even though it’s emblazoned with a puffy Christmas tree complete with blinking lights. Nothing looks hideous on him. He just looks adorable and slightly awkward, a spot-on version of Colin Firth from Bridget Jones Diary, strolling forward with both hands in his pockets. The green makes his eyes gleam even deeper, and the dark sunset strands of hair laying against the scooped collar are temptation incarnate. I want to wrap them around my knuckles and twist. I want to yank him down to me and make him bend so I can mold my lips to his. So I’ll finally know if he finds me just as irresistible. His sleeves are pushed to the elbow, and I place my hand on one of his forearms. The taut, corded muscle flexes beneath my touch.

Dance? I ask.

I don’t dance, he replies emphatically.

Why don’t you dance, Trevor? I’ve noticed his aversion to the dancefloor when he reluctantly agrees to follow us to Margarita Monday as our self-appointed babysitter and designated driver.

Because according to Taren, I have two left feet.

You spend Margarita Mondays sitting at the table and watching us - all brooding and imposing. Is that why?

That’s one of the reasons.

Well I’m not buying it, I tug on his hand. We can just sway, no fancy footwork required.

You’ll regret it.

Why am I going to regret it?

Two left feet. Your toes are going to be swearing a blue streak at me.

I’ll take the risk.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you, he grumbles. I can almost see the reverberations from the deep, grumpy bass of his voice.

If I didn’t know you better, I’d accuse you of pouting. I tease.

He sighs, like I’m the biggest pest in the world. Even though I seem to exasperate him, he finally lets me tug his arm free, and when my grip wraps around his wrist, his fingers tangle with mine, swallowing them.

We step into the throng of twirling couples, and his hands are warm and heavy against my lower back. He urges me closer, and our bodies align, perfectly parallel. Perfectly parallel because they could traverse infinity side by side, and never cross. His expression is inscrutable as he looks down at me, and I want to know what he’s thinking. I need to know if my touch makes him want to leap out of his skin, if I’m having the same effect on him he’s having on me.

We start swaying to Zooey Deschanel’s resonant voice. When she tells her audience they’re all she wants for Christmas, I want to shout please give me what I want. As if he can sense he has the power to make my dreams come true, Trevor pulls me even closer. Now his legs are brushing against mine, his hands a solid weight on my hips. He subtly slides them up and down my sides. The calloused pads of his fingers rustle against the satin boning of the dress, and the scent of cardamom, sweet and spicy, fills the narrow space between us.

We haven’t moved from this one spot. We’re not really dancing. We’re just shuffling and swaying back and forth, closer than we’ve ever been. I think he’s telling the truth about his two left feet. He’s not sweeping me across the wooden floor of the barn and dazzling me with his footwork or lifting me over his head or dipping me low. He’ll never be Patrick Swayze or Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire. Or even a guy who enthusiastically does the jitterbug or eagerly agrees to go to swing dance lessons. He’d rather watch the tractor square dance at the county fair instead of cutting a rug himself. It doesn’t matter. Even though it’s not fancy or awe-inspiring, I can feel the quiet strength in his frame. I can feel the suppressed desire throbbing between us. It’s hovering just beneath the surface – insidious and undeniable.

He’s jostled from behind, and we’re suddenly standing directly beneath a bunch of mistletoe suspended from the ceiling with ribbon. It looks exactly like a Victorian kissing ball.

I know what he’s going to do before he does it. His eyes drop to my lips, and I pucker them invitingly. One of his hands slowly brushes up my side and then anchors in my curls.

I said I wasn’t going to do this, but rules are rules, and I’m tired of fighting it, he murmurs low enough I can barely hear him. His lips feather against mine, like he’s tiptoeing into the surf, bracing himself for a wave that will knock him off his feet.

I want to be the wave knocking him into the sand so he’s completely off kilter and spinning. So he completely loses control of himself and the situation. I want him as greedy and vulnerable as I am. I anchor my arms around his neck and grab the little curl of hair at his nape he ruthlessly tries to tame. I’ve wanted to fist my hand in that curl for five years, because I think it’s who he really is. It tells me that he’s anything but calm beneath his stoic exterior. It tells me he wants to jump into the fire. That’s he’s more than the rules-exist-for-a-reason part time deputy and once-upon-a-time surrogate parent to his younger sister. I slide my tongue along the seam of his lips. And then I nip the bow in the bottom one that’s been driving me crazy. I’m goading him into letting go.

With a nearly imperceptible groan, he pulls me even closer. I can feel his very impressive package rising between us, and even though we’re in the middle of a dance floor surrounded by people, I want to turn around and grind the curve of my ass against his hard length. More, I moan into the kiss.

He doesn’t acknowledge he heard me, he just drops his grip on my hair and encircles my wrist. Suddenly we’re weaving through the couples, and everyone and everything but us is a spooling blur on fast forward, slipping away. My heart is in my throat. Or maybe at the bottom of my stomach. He tugs me outside and around the corner of the building.

He pushes me into the side of the barn. I’ll probably have splinters, but I don’t care. He can remove them. That’s the price we’ll both pay. His hands bracket my waist, and they’re so big, his thumb and his forefinger are only centimeters away from the tips of my breasts. My nipples swell and harden against the red satin, and I know he sees it, because his eyes are gleaming in the dimly lit yard like old-fashioned, flickering gaslights. He splays one hand against the wood, bracing it over me.

He slowly drags his knuckles across me, and I moan again. He yanks the front of the strapless dress, and it becomes a rumpled mess around my waist. I hear something rip and I don’t care. Whatever it is, it can be fixed. And if it can’t, that’s okay too, because I wore this dress specifically for this man. I wore it to drive him crazy, and it worked. I didn’t need a bra because of the boning in the bodice, and my bare breasts shake a little as I take a deep breath.

Is this what you wanted me to do when you wore this dress, Emma? he growls out, his voice slipping over me like the slide of skin over sun-warmed sheets. He strokes me with his thumbs, and then tweaks each nipple, hard. He leans forward, his teeth nip the side of my neck, just above my pulse. His warm palm coasts over my bared torso, circling my breasts. My hands are loose at my sides, and I fist them in the back of his shirt.

Need your mouth, I plead.

I’m here to oblige, he responds, a velvet rumble against my skin.

He swallows me, the suction of his mouth ramping up my arousal until it feels like I’m drowning, and nothing exists outside the glorious pressure building inside me. A delicious dance of flame fills my veins and pools there in a slow, scintillating drip of wax that’s making my hands burn to touch him. His teeth scrape against my nipple, and his tongue lightly swirls around it, a phantom caress. His tongue coasts over it again and again. The rough texture of it swallows me and holds me captive against the roof of his mouth. He massages the other one with his thumb and forefinger until the throb is a sweet ache I feel in every inch of my body, curling in my stomach and tingling in my core. When he lets go to grip my hips again, I glance down. My nipples are beaded and hard and glistening from his kiss.

The hand that was tweaking me seconds ago creeps underneath my voluminous skirt. It glides over the pebbled skin of my inner thigh, and his knuckles glide purposefully, masterfully over my center. My body bows in reaction and his hands on me are the only thing stopping me from sinking to the ground in awe and hunger. I’m helpless to stop my surrender. His wet heat around my breast, his tongue swirling across it like he’s counting the licks to the middle of the tootsie pop, his knuckles barely pressing against my clitoris, a subtle push so I’m standing on the edge, in danger of tumbling over the cliff at any second.

I knew it would be like this. Fireworks, I whisper.

He strokes me over the cotton of my panties. His eyes are glittering and hard, so dark in the bladed shadows of his face above me they’re obsidian. I’m the sole object of his intense focus, and his expression is feral and lupine when the material becomes almost transparent. I want to make you come, Emma. I want to hear you sobbing my name, knowing my touch and my mouth fucked you against a barn and made you see stars.

What about you? I breathily murmur. I grip the curve of him beneath his jeans. I want to see you and touch you. I stroke my hand over him behind the denim. You’re basically inaccessible. Why can’t you be one of those guys who thinks kilts are appropriate party attire?

He huffs out a laugh. Would you tie a ribbon around it? He wickedly asks, dropping his forehead against mine. I shiver at the image he paints, the hint of filthy teasing in his tone, and because he hasn’t let up touching me. He slips his hand underneath the now diaphanous barrier of my panties. His knuckles circle the bundle of nerves at the top of my vulva, swirling wetness through the folds of my labia, skating over the hood of my clit, and stroking it in an endless tease.

I shiver again. So close, I mumble.

Come for me, Emma. Give me something to dream about while I fist my cock tonight.

His command is a match to the sparks inside me and I feel my orgasm shudder through me. The fireworks shimmer through me and my legs can barely hold me up. I’d be a puddle on the hard ground if his body wasn’t anchoring me. My head is hanging, and his hand is still snagged beneath my panties, my arousal coating his fingers.

What about you? I ask again.

This is all I’m going to allow myself to have. he replies with steely determination.

My head jerks up, and even though I’m wrung out by the intensity of the orgasm he just gave me, I’m angry. Why? We both deserve to see this through.

Because I’m leaving Willow Creek and I want a clean start.

What do you mean, you’re leaving? Of course he’s leaving. Just a few minutes ago it felt like I could finally make sense of the chaos inside me when he’s near. Now that chaos feels like a burden I’ll have to bear forever.

I got accepted onto the Philadelphia force. I’m leaving at the end of July.

What? I feel like a tornado just picked up my house and set it down in the middle of Oz. Like Dorothy staring at the munchkins and Glinda, trying to figure out exactly why there’s a roaring in her ears and her mouth is dry. His revelation is out of the blue. I feel the tears of disbelief and mortification climbing my throat. I shove him away, even though I want to clamp down on the feel of his hand against me as his touch trails over my core. So what exactly was this for? So I can be the inspiration for your masturbation sessions? What the fuck, Trevor? I’m hurt, but I don’t want him to see it.

He peers at me through the darkness. It’s not like that, he rumbles, and runs his hand through his hair.

I cross my arms over my chest to hide myself from him. I thought I was immune to the spike of insecurity he’s making me feel. I thought no man would ever again make me feel used.