Cole: The Wounded Sons, Leah Sharelle [the reading list .TXT] 📗

this.” Pushing open the back gate with a flourish, I stood to the side and waited for Cole’s reaction to today’s project.

I lived with my grandparents, but not in the main house. At the back of the property, my pa built a small two-bedroom bungalow. When my parents had their moments of not wanting to be responsible, I stayed in the main house in my dad’s old bedroom. Then when I turned twenty and was released from treatment for the last time, Pa and Nan surprised me with my own little private haven. To them, it was a present for making it out the other side of my disease. To me, it was a sign of trust. They believed me capable of living alone, of going to the toilet by myself and being responsible for my own meals and eating them. After so many years of being hovered over and writing down every morsel of food that went in my mouth, this kind of freedom and trust meant more to me than I can ever put into words.

I eagerly threw myself into making the bungalow all mine. Decorating it in my own style and turning it into a healing and calming space. The only thing that needed to be done was the—

“My godfather, you have your own fucking jungle back here,” Cole gasped, stumbling in shock at the sight in front of him. Not that I could blame him, the yard looked very much like a jungle. Tall weeds of every description grew healthy and happy, and I wouldn’t be surprised if we found a stray animal or small child in the overgrown vegetation.

“Yep,” I agreed, clucking my tongue, trying the see the mess from his eyes, and damn, I had to admit I was a little ashamed I had not bothered with it for all these years. Pa and Nan’s house was a few hundred metres to the front of the block, and even though Nan and Pa were very active for their age, always travelling the world, always off on one adventure or another, that didn’t mean they couldn’t take a tumble on the uneven surface. So I was the one who braved the prickles and creepy crawlies to hang out the washing, or they used the dryer and clothes airer.

Turning to look at me, Cole gaped twice before he found his voice.

“This is going to take more than a shovel, Oaklee,” he informed me, using my name and not baby or Temptress. I did not like that and going by the smirk on his face; he was picking that up.

“Lose the scowl, Temptress, forgive me, I’m in shock,” he placated, taking his phone out of his back pocket and slid open the screen.

“Who you callin’?” I asked, craning my neck to see the screen.

“The ghost busters,” he winked, then focused on talking to someone on the other end. I heard a whole lot of ‘brother’, ‘mate’, ‘need some shit delivered’, then rattled off my address.

Not a big talker on the phone either, I decided absently, a ghost of a smile playing on my lips.

“Taking over, I see?” I quipped, looking pointedly at his phone.

“If you expect me to help, then we do it my way, baby. Now, go move that chick car of yours and open up both gates. The boys will be here with a bobcat and some muscle in fifteen minutes. We need to clear some room for them,” Cole ordered, and at the same time, he whipped off his tee-shirt, stuffing it into his back pocket.

Oh heaven help me, the man is born to be shirtless. My insides quivered at the revelation and at the delicious bare skin and sculptured washboard abs Cole uncovered. My hands remembered them, my tongue ached to taste them again, but I didn’t get to see much of his body in the darkness of his room. The next morning he had been on his belly sleeping, the sheet covering him from the waist down only giving me a look at his muscular back before sneaking out quickly to grab a shower with every intention of getting right back so we could talk.

Plans failed monumentally there, didn’t they?

Shaking off that train of thought, now that he had explained somewhat about that night, I chose to take a more adult route.

“The only reason I am letting you boss me is because you have heavy machinery coming, and you took your shirt off. Otherwise, I would give you hell for picking on my car,” I huffed, stomping off with his deep chuckle following me like a smooth caress.

“Damn man thinks his incredible chest and lickable skin makes it alright to pick on my car. Chick car? Bugger that, it is a cool car,” I grumbled, ignoring the bellow of laughter from Cole, but a smile split my face hearing the sound of Cole at ease and relaxed.

I liked it and want to be the reason he felt like that more often than not.

“I have to admit; I am impressed, Rambo,” I told Cole around a mouthful of salad sandwich. Three hours ago, my backyard resembled a state forest; now it was weed-free, the ground was level, and the soil turned ready for lawn seed. A driveway from the gate to my front door was measured, dug out, and boarded for the concrete truck, ordered for Monday afternoon thanks to Cole and his uncle Deck.

Not only did Cole’s team arrive with a load of machinery, so did five other men from the Club’s construction business, one of whom was Deck himself.

My lord, that man rocked the silver fox look. His body a fine specimen of muscle and power, the small amount of hair on his head was salt and pepper sexiness, and of course, he had the required growl and grunt way of communicating like everyone else at the Wounded Souls. My job with Memphis required me to be at the compound a lot of the time, but I