Say You're Mine: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Southport Love Stories Book 4) by Sarah Brooks (books for 6 year olds to read themselves .txt) 📕

is it, buddy?” My massive blood hound mix, Edgar came barreling full speed into my office, knocking over the potted plant and heaving himself into my lap. He pressed his body against me and nuzzled my chin. Even though the dog was easily over a hundred and forty pounds, he had been a lap dog in a previous life. One of my first acts as a new homeowner had been to adopt Mr. Least Likely to Find a Home from the local animal shelter. Edgar was a mess of drool and shedding fur, but was fiercely protective of me, which is all you could ask for from man’s—I mean, woman’s best friend.

I scratched behind his ears and his jowls parted, his tongue lolling out. A drop of drool landed on my jeans, but I didn’t cringe or push him off. Who cares about a little dog drool?

“You really are a needy thing,” I cooed, kissing the top of his head and heaving him gently onto the floor so I could stand up. “Come on, we need to get ready for company anyway.” I turned off my laptop and left my office, closing the door behind me. Edgar followed me out to the living room, panting loudly. I had only just reached the front of the house when the doorbell rang, sending Edgar into fits of howling. He was loud, his bark more than a little intimidating. He may be a gentle monster, but between his size and the implied viciousness of his bark, he’d keep away any would-be burglars. He was the best home defense a single gal could want.

The doorbell chimed again, followed by impatient knocking. I looked at the time on my phone, surprised that it was already seven. I had a bad habit of losing track of time when I was working. I looked down at my torn jeans and paint-stained Foo Fighters T-shirt and figured getting dolled up was out of the question at this point. Good thing my plans for the evening didn’t involve leaving the house.

“Skylar, I know you’re in there!” A muffled voice called out.

“Keep your pants on,” I grumbled, but without ire. I tapped my turtle, Morla’s terrarium as I moved, unhurriedly, to the door.

“You’re borderline rude, you know that, right?” I asked my dearest friend in the whole wide world as I let her and the two other women on my porch inside.

Meg Galloway, now Decate, rolled her eyes, shoving a heavy strand of dark red hair out of her eyes. There were flecks of paint on her chin, which wasn’t unusual for the professional artist. “We had been out there for five minutes already, my arms were getting tired,” she quipped with a grin.

“She bought enough alcohol to knock out an army regiment,” Whitney Webber, Meg’s older sister and Kyle Webber’s wife snarked, lifting a cloth bag, glass bottles clanged tellingly.

“It’s a good thing I didn’t get out of my grunge gear then. No sense in getting sloppy drunk in nice clothes,” I deadpanned, leading the way to the kitchen.

“This is the first time I’ve been out of leggings in weeks, I wanted to make the most of not being covered in spit-up for once,” Lena Wyatt stated, dropping her purse on the table while Meg started filling the refrigerator with wine and beer.

“You’re telling me! I thought we’d be out of the waking up three and four times a night thing now that Tyler is eighteen months. We had to put him in his toddler bed already because he started climbing out of the crib and Adam was worried he’d hurt himself,” Meg sighed and I could see how tired she was.

“Katie wakes up every morning at five on the dot and climbs into our bed. She thinks if she’s up, we should all be up,” Whitney grumbled good-naturedly. I knew there was no bite to her complaint. She loved her stepdaughter as much as any mother could love a child. I had been on the fence when she and Web had decided to fake a marriage for Kyle to get full custody of his daughter, Katie. We all knew Web had been batshit crazy in love with Meg’s older sister for most of his life but it seemed destined to end in heartbreak and tragedy.

It was one of the very few times that I was happy to be proven wrong.

My three closest friends started talking in animated hand waving about the travails of motherhood while I stood awkwardly off to the side, absently scratching the back of Edgar’s head.

It seemed the conversations among us had become more and more about their kids and their marriages and less about anything else. And I understood why. They were at the changing diapers, packing lunches, and bitching about their husbands leaving the toilet seat up stage of their lives. Me? I was the quirky single friend living with her behemoth of a dog and ten-year-old turtle she had stolen from her evil ex. I couldn’t add anything to the debate about which daycare was best or the signs of lactose intolerance in babies.

And I was okay with that.

The last thing I wanted was marriage and babies. I liked my space. I liked my privacy. I liked being able to focus on myself and not worry about the wants and needs of anyone else.

I was an independent woman, damn it!

Meg glanced my way and grimaced. “Sorry, Sky. You don’t care about our kids’ sleep schedule.” She handed me a bottle of my favorite microbrew beer. “Just tell us to shut up.”

I waved away her comment. “It’s fine. You know I love all of your kids. Your husbands not as much,” I teased. I would never be that single friend who they had to tiptoe around. I had made my life choices and I was happy with them. If they wanted to talk about their kids and marriages, then I was happy to lend them a listening ear.

Even if it bored me to