By J.P. Nicholas
A Sandy Heights Novel
Admittedly, I’m an a**hole. Okay, that might give you an unfair opinion of me if taken out of context. So let me explain myself.
Every guy knows the Bro Code. It’s kind of a package deal with the thing swinging between our legs. You can’t have one without the other. And the highest of all the Bro Codemmandments is do not—under any circumstances—have sexual thoughts about your best friend’s sister. And no, there is not an amendment clause for when she’s beautiful, smart, witty, and can kiss you breathless in under three point five seconds—yes, I counted. I’ve asked around the Brommunity and apparently that rule is deemed unbreakable. Which brings me back to my first point—I’m an a**hole.
In my defense, I didn’t know she was his little sister when she moved into the apartment next door. I also didn’t know when she was ripping my shirt off in her living room—don’t get the wrong idea, she just wanted to wash it. And I definitely didn’t know when aforementioned kiss had me stumbling over my words, her tongue, and my own two feet. But that’s as far as it went—and will go! I swear. From this point forward, we are just Good Neighbors.