The Kissing Contract (Wrong Side of the Tracks) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Discover more Amara titles… The Wedding Deal

  Tomboy

  Breathless

  What Happens in Vegas

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Amy Andrews. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 105, PMB 159

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  [email protected]

  Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Liz Pelletier

  Cover design by Bree Archer

  Cover photography by gpagomenos, ValeryBoyarsky, and shironosov/Getty Images

  ISBN 978-1-64063-831-0

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition July 2019

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.

  xoxo

  Liz Pelletier, Publisher

  To bunny lovers everywhere and to Brooke Dell-Sewell for coming up with the name Bunnyguard.

  Chapter One

  Marshall Dyson had truly only ever hated three things in his thirty-four years of living. His grandfather (thankfully now dead), The Jerry Springer Show (finally fucking dead), and lawyers.

  Which, at this precise moment, included his brother.

  Jeremy Dyson was completely at home behind the heavy wooden desk in the empty courtroom as they waited for the judge and opposing council to arrive, but it made Marshall itchier than a bear in a heat wave.

  “Stop fidgeting,” Jeremy said, not bothering to look up from whatever the hell he was reading.

  “I hate suits.”

  Marshall slid his finger behind his collar, easing it off the side of his neck. He was much more comfortable in a hard hat, an orange vest, and a pair of steel-toed boots. His brother, on the other hand, looked cool as a cucumber in his five-thousand-dollar suit.

  He’d come a long way from the trailer park. They both had.

  “Relax, dude. We got this in the bag.”

  Marshall didn’t doubt it for a moment. Jeremy was a hotshot defense lawyer, but that didn’t mean Marshall had the time or patience for these nuisance cases. Normally, he wouldn’t even attend the court over what appeared on the surface to be such a trifling matter. He’d just set Jeremy loose and go about his day, building shit and making money.

  But if anyone thought they could interfere with him razing the one thing Marshall’s grandfather had loved more than anything else to the ground, then they’d taken on the wrong man. He wouldn’t have missed today for all the money in the world.

  “Just sit here and keep your mouth shut,” Jeremy instructed. “Let me do the talking, okay?”

  Marshall grimaced. “I hate lawyers, too.”

  His brother laughed. “You wound me,” he said, obviously not wounded at all.

  Instead of flipping him off, which was Marshall’s natural instinct but not appropriate with Lady Justice glaring at him from behind her blindfold, he checked his watch. For the tenth time in the last five minutes. He glanced over at the empty desk on the other side of the aisle. “Shouldn’t they be here by now?”

  “They’ll be here.”

  “But if they don’t show, that’ll work in our favor, right?”

  Jeremy returned his attention to the paper. “They’ll be here.”

  Marshall drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Are you sure their lawyer is just some ambulance chaser?”

  “Peter Frobisher has an office over a dry cleaner’s in the crappy part of Denver and usually deals with disability claims. I’m sure.”

  That was good. The American Bunny League dude didn’t stand a chance against Jeremy’s slick, Chicago-criminal-defense-lawyer polish. Marshall drummed his fingers some more, the quiet in the room getting on his last nerve. “Not for nothing, but the American Bunny League sounds like a radical right-wing union for the protection of playboy bunny rights.”

  Jeremy laughed. “Best not to mention that to Peter or Gus.”

  “Gus?”

  “Dr. Gus North. The veterinarian from the league. He’s going to be giving expert testimony.”

  “On what? We’re clearing land to build cabins for families, not testing cosmetics on the damn rabbits for fu—”

  Marshall’s expletive was cut off as the courtroom door behind them opened with a startling clunk. He turned in his seat. Jeremy did not.

  His brother was one cool son of a bitch.

  A guy with a receding hairline and cheap suit entered, but Marshall only had eyes for the woman who followed him into the courtroom. She was tall, leggy, and busty. Her long, loose, butterscotch-blond hair swung as she walked. As did her hips, perfectly outlined in a tight skirt. And, hello there, a pair of five-inch fuck-me heels was the cherry on top.

  God, he was a sucker for a woman in a skirt and heels.

  “Are you sure it’s Peter with an R and not Peta with an A?” Marshall said, keeping his voice low as he turned back.

  Was this goddess clasping a briefcase in one hand and a sheath of papers to her chest in the other, the lawyer? And the balding guy the vet? No wonder his brother was so fucking happy with his job. Not too many women in sexy skirts and killer heels on construction sites.

  “Yes. I’m sure.” But Jeremy turned in his chair anyway. “Whoa momma,” he whispered out the side of his mouth. “Might be his clerk.”

  “A guy with a practice above a Laundromat has a clerk?”

  His brother didn’t answer as he stood and automatically fastened the button on his jacket. Marshall followed suit, eclipsing Jeremy’s six-foot frame by a couple of inches—in height and breadth. Self-consciously, he quickly raked a hand through wavy hair that tended to go rogue without the benefit of his hard hat.

  “Peter Frobisher?” Jeremy asked, offering his hand to the opposing counsel.

  “Hello, yes.” Peter smiled warmly and shook hands. “You must be Jeremy Dyson?”

  “Yes.” Jeremy returned the smile. “This is my brother, Marshall Dyson, CEO of If You Build It.”

  Peter shook Marshall’s hand, but Marshall was finding it hard to shift his gaze off the woman to the lawyer’s left. “And this is Dr. Gus North,” Peter said. “She’s from the American Bunny L
eague.”

  Marshall blinked, the usual burst of laughter at that ridiculous league name dying on his lips. This was the vet? Hell, if he’d known vets looked like this, he’d have gotten that dog he’d promised himself years ago and gone all Munchausen’s on its ass.

  The woman, Gus—what kind of a name was that for a chick?—politely shook hands with Jeremy and hesitated a second before deigning to shake Marshall’s. Her blue-gray gaze was as cool as the brief touch of her fingers, but she might as well have reached inside his underwear and shaken his dick given the effect on his body.

  It was disconcerting to have such a strongly virile reaction to a woman, even more so when that woman was looking at him as if he was a rut in the pavement into which her stiletto had become wedged.

  He half expected her to wipe her palm on her skirt.

  Jesus. That skirt.

  A weird and inherently stupid impulse to ask, “What’s up, doc?” almost overtook him, but he resisted. She might be the sexiest woman he’d ever met in his life, but she didn’t look like she suffered fools gladly and this, frankly, wasn’t a laughing matter.

  It was just that skirt fritzing his brain cells.

  He felt like a high school freshman whose voice hadn’t dropped yet, salivating after the impossibly pretty girl who would never look in his direction. Which was weird because he’d never been that guy.

  He may have been poor, but he’d always had game.

  Any chance of further small talk was severed when a side door opened and the clerk of the court and stenographer took their places, triggering Peter Frobisher and the vet to slide behind their desk. The main doors opened again and a small group of people wearing T-shirts emblazoned with Bunnies Before Buildings filed in and sat behind the ABL team. Dr. North turned around and smiled at them. They waved and gave her a thumbs-up.

  Another side door, opposite to the one the clerk and stenographer had used, opened and an African American man with silver hair entered, his robes fluttering regally in his wake. He quickly settled himself behind his desk.

  “All quiet, please,” the clerk said, addressing the room. She was a middle-aged woman whose nametag proclaimed her to be Maria Flores, and she emitted an air of don’t fuck with me that Marshall doubted few people were stupid enough to question. “This court is now in session, the honorable Judge Williamson presiding.”

  The judge looked up from some papers and smiled benignly, peering over wire-framed spectacles with a razor-sharp gaze. His face was heavily lined and dominated by two magnificent eyebrows, like fat gray caterpillars on his forehead.

  Marshall put his age somewhere between seventy and old-as-dirt.

  “Okay then, what have we got?” His voice was a little crackly but was shot through with a spine of steel. He returned his attention to the papers in front of him and read straight off the ticket. “An emergency injunction by the American Bunny League—”

  The judge paused, and Marshall was sure he saw the guy’s lips twitch.

  He cleared his throat. “To delay commencement of construction on Hitchkin Island until the successful removal of the entire domestic rabbit population has been completed.”

  He peered over his glasses again at the lawyers before him. “All righty, so…let’s do some introductions, shall we?” Both teams stood. “Mr. Frobisher, I’m acquainted with you, of course, but perhaps you could do the honors with your colleague?”

  “Yes, Judge.”

  Peter performed the requested introduction of Dr. North, and then, as the judge turned astute old eyes in their direction, Jeremy introduced himself and Marshall. “Chicago, huh?” The judge’s caterpillar eyebrows quirked upward. “You’re a long way from home, son.”

  Marshall suppressed a smile. He didn’t think Jeremy was used to being called son in court, but his brother didn’t seem particularly perturbed. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “The things we do for kin, huh?”

  Jeremy smiled. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  The judge’s gaze shifted to the group of people sitting in the chairs behind, obviously reading their T-shirt slogans before sighing audibly. “Okay, let’s hear it.” He banged his gavel then pointed it at Peter Frobisher. “You first.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” The opposing lawyer stood. “Five months ago, at the beginning of March, three agouti mini lop rabbits—one male, two female—were released by persons unknown on the deserted Hitchkin Island off the township of Doak in central Colorado.”

  “That was mighty inconsiderate of them,” the judge said.

  Marshall almost snorted at the understatement. It was exceedingly fucking inconsiderate. The island might be deserted, but it was private property. His and Jeremy’s private property.

  Well, strictly speaking, it was just Jeremy’s, but that was a technicality.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” the lawyer agreed.

  “How do we know these details of the initial release when we don’t know who released them?”

  “The ABL received an anonymous phone call two weeks ago. They assumed it was one of the offenders who had apparently recently seen some documentary about domestic rabbits in the wild and felt guilty enough to fess up.”

  “Well…better late than never, I suppose.”

  “Indeed, Your Honor,” Peter Frobisher agreed. “After being left on the island, the rabbits then did what”—he cleared his throat—“rabbits do best.” The audience tittered a little. “And, because it’s an island where, apart from some migratory bird life, there are no other predators, the population of rabbits has exploded. Two weeks ago, the League, after receiving the phone call and having one of our officers confirm the prevalence of rabbits on the island, contacted the owner to request permission and time to remove the rabbits. This is the kind of work they do often and, as such, are experts in this field. They were informed that construction of some cabins was about to commence and that they had the rabbit situation ‘in hand.’”

  “Oh dear.” The judge tisked in his crackly voice. “That doesn’t sound very good for the rabbits.”

  The lawyer smiled. Marshall squirmed in his chair. “No, Your Honor. My clients were told the project would go ahead despite the rabbit situation. They, of course, objected to this, as the building plans clearly show large destruction of habitat, which would have catastrophic consequences for the rabbits.”

  “Yes.” The judge nodded. “Of course.”

  “After further objections registered with If You Build It by my clients, they were informed that the company would outsource a cull operation prior to breaking ground on the project.”

  Two caterpillar eyebrows shot high. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, I suspect you’re thinking exactly what it means.”

  Marshall, never one for keeping his mouth shut or listening to his brother, stood abruptly, the scrape of his chair echoing loudly in the quiet room. Jeremy’s hand yanked on his arm, but he shrugged it off. “All due respect, Your Honor, it’s not what you’re thinking. The animals are going to be trapped humanely and released elsewhere.”

  His brother sighed, but it was quickly obliterated by another chair scraping loudly. “All due respect, Your Honor, but trapped humanely is an oxymoron.”

  The doc’s emphasis on the moron part of that word was not remotely subtle, and Marshall was left in no doubt about her assessment of his intellect. In fact, he was sure the entire courtroom got it. Unfortunately, his dick was undeterred by her scorn. It didn’t care how stupid she thought he was. It had always been impervious to insult.

  Such a hardy little fucker.

  Still, Marshall rallied his anger, because getting started on this project, one that had already seen too many hurdles and delays for his liking, was a top priority. A bunny infestation was the last fucking straw.

  “I’m assured this is doable and the rabbits are going to be rereleased into the wild.”

  The ABL vet flashed a stormy blue-gray gaze in his direction. Her hair brushed against th
e satin of her blouse where it pulled taut over her breasts, which was distracting to say the least.

  Eyes up, dude, eyes up.

  “The problem with that,” she said, appealing to the judge, “aside from Mr. Dyson’s asinine belief in some kind of mythical Watership Down, is these are not wild rabbits.”

  Marshall blinked. In the space of a minute, she’d insulted his intelligence twice. And his dick still didn’t care.

  “They’re a domestic breed of rabbit,” she plowed on. “They belong with people. You can’t just release them into a strange new environment full of potential predators when they’re completely unused to them and not equipped to deal with this kind of threat. They won’t survive.”

  “They seem to be doing a bang-up job of surviving on Hitchkin,” Marshall said. “In fact, one could even say they’re thriving.”

  Jeremy quirked an amused eyebrow at him. Yeah yeah. So, he’d never used one in that context in his life—there was only so much insult to his intellectual capabilities he was prepared to take.

  Either that or her skirt really was fritzing his brain cells.

  And, because she was totally discombobulating him just by standing there looking smart and gorgeous and haughty—which was weirdly arousing—and he hadn’t shot himself in the foot enough yet, he added, “That is what pests do, after all.”

  An audible gasp came from the supporters on the other side of the aisle. The vet sucked in her breath and glared at him. “They’re pets,” she said, her voice as frosty as a Colorado winter, “not pests.”

  The crowd burst into raucous applause. The judge banged his gavel, raising his caterpillars first at Jeremy then at Frobisher. “We got a couple of hotheads here, I see.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” the lawyers agreed in unison.

  Jeremy yanked harder on Marshall’s arm this time, and Marshall sat as the judge addressed the vet, who had also taken her seat. “I’m assuming, Dr. North, you have evidence these are domestic rabbits and not wild?”

  “Yes, Judge Williamson.” She riffled through a folder, extracted some photographs, and offered them to the clerk. “Apart from the details in the anonymous call, we also have photographic evidence. Wild rabbits, such as hares or cotton tails, have long, upright ears. Any rabbits with floppy ears, such as in the pictures taken by our officer of the Hitchkin rabbits, are a domestic breed.”