Snake Snack Read online

  Snake Snack

  Cocky Cobras Book 2

  Tilly Pope

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  Also by Tilly Pope

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2020 by Tilly Pope

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  About Snake Snack

  The life of a cobra shifter isn’t easy.

  Thanks Mom and Dad for that bombshell.

  Aidan

  I love working with cars…and my brothers.

  The smell of grease and oil…heaven to me.

  I thought my life was set up perfectly.

  A new home with a loving girlfriend.

  Or so I thought…until she cheated on me.

  Now I’m heartbroken…and grumpy as hell. I never thought I’d find love again.

  But a chance meeting at the store changes everything.

  A beautiful woman. Perfect for me in every way.

  I’m scared she’ll freak out when she finds out what I truly am.

  But the snake in my pants wants to escape.

  And claim her for my own.

  Short, hot, and over the top! If you love possessive alpha males, totally unrealistic insta-love romance, this one’s for you! No cliffhanger, no cheating, and a guaranteed HEA!

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  For all my super yummy over the top readers!

  Who’s your daddy?

  1

  Aidan

  I’m genuinely happy for my brother. Connor deserves a girl like Alana in his life. She’s a wonderful girl. Good for him.

  Yet I can’t help feeling a sickening seed of jealousy bury itself in my gut as I lean against the Toyota I’m supposed to be working on. I’m watching my brother and his girl nuzzle together and make kissy, lovesick faces to each other. Alana is getting ready to leave to attend a conference for a few days, and neither of them can bear to be apart.

  I shouldn’t be so bitter, I mean, he’s my brother. But I have Allison to thank for that.

  Allison fucking Harley. Even all these months later, the mere mention of her name makes my gut coil. That crazy bitch turned my entire life upside down. And it still pisses me off.

  It would have been different if she’d just ended our relationship. But she didn’t. I’d walked into the house we’d just rented, and she was on the brand-new sofa we’d bought fucking her ex-boyfriend.

  Who does that? A slimy skank, that’s who.

  The worst part about it all is that the no-longer-ex, Tommy, used to be a friend of mine. We went to the same school years ago, hung out at the same gym, and he even introduced me to Allison, saying she was his ex, but they were ‘totally over. Just good friends now, is all.’

  What a fucking liar. I bet they were seeing each other the whole time Ally and I were a couple. Three years of my life wasted on that woman.

  I look over at Connor and Alana as they giggle at each other and wonder if I’ll ever have what they have. I mean, I’m happy for them, but after Ally and her bullshit, I just want to be left alone.

  That’s easier said than done. I’m surrounded by people, day in and day out. At the shop, there are always customers, my brothers, and the interns we hired last month. They’re all nice guys, but they’re young and haven’t had their entire lives trampled, yet. They’re hopeful, happy, and spend a lot of their time at work laughing and joking with each other. I hate it.

  At home, Dara and Brodie are around, but Dara spends most of his time in the garage, or in his small repair shop now that Connor’s moved out and taken all his bikes with him. And Brodie spends a lot of time in his room, reading car magazines and listening to podcasts.

  Brodie suggested I take a week off and go on vacation somewhere. However, when that vacation is over, I’ll have to return home, and all those horrible feelings that go along with it are enough to ruin whatever break I might plan for myself. I’m much better off just staying where I am.

  “Aidan!”

  I turn to see Dara walking toward me with a piece of paper in his hand. His blond hair is all messed up from where he’s been running his hands through it, which he does whenever he’s trying to solve a problem. There must be something back in his shop that’s giving him trouble.

  “What’s up?” I ask as he approaches.

  “Here’s the grocery list. I know it’s my turn to go, but I have to finish this Chromebook and get it back to the high school by tomorrow morning. And before you ask, Brodie’s staying late to work on that old VW. The engine’s still overheating,” he says, and hands me the list.

  Ugh. I hate grocery shopping. Don’t get me wrong. I love food, and I love cooking. I cook most nights for all of us. It’s one activity I enjoy, along with reading, but I hate shopping. That involves people, and many of them move at glacial speeds as they look at every chip brand in the aisle. I wish Pythos would get online ordering like every other city in the country, but until it does, every few weeks I drag myself to the local grocery store and stock up.

  “You’re lucky. It’s a brief list this week. Twenty minutes, tops. If you cut out early, you can beat the rush,” Dara says, looking at me with a knowing grin.

  All of us McKinley men have introverted tendencies, but Dara and I are the quietest, by far. He prefers to spend his time tinkering with technology, and I prefer to spend mine alone with books or a frying pan. He understands better than anyone about my hesitance to go into a public place filled with a ton of people.

  I check my watch. It’s 4:15 PM, and If I leave now, I can get to the store and back before the after work rush. Nodding my head, I fold the list and tuck it into the pocket of my jeans.

  “Fine. Tell Connor and Brodie I’m leaving. I’ll see you at home,” I tell Dara.

  “Steak quesadillas tonight?” Dara asks.

  “You know it!” I say and walk out.

  Every Sunday night, my brothers and I sit down to figure out what we want to eat for the upcoming week. Our decision factors in whatever we have in the fridge and pantry, any cravings we have, and whatever’s on sale.

  This week’s menu includes fire-roasted shrimp and pasta, steak and mashed potatoes, and beef lasagna. Quesadillas are our favorite though, because our mom used to make them every Thursday night when we were growing up. It’s a tradition I’ve tried to uphold after Mom and Dad passed away.

  She tried to teach us all to cook when we were kids. It was a life skill, she’d said, just like pitching a tent, or changing a tire. Our parents wanted to arm us with as many of these skills as possible, so we could stand on our own two feet as adults.

  But while my brothers had paid little attention to Mom and can barely boil an egg, I’d really gotten into the art of cooking.

  In fact, the day our parents died, I was baking a cake for them. A welcome home gift using Mom’s favorite Guinness chocolate cake recipe from the recipe binder she’d given me. In it is every si
ngle recipe we’d ever made together, along with those she’d been handed down by her own mother and grandmother.

  The day after their funeral, I opened the binder to the steak quesadilla recipe, and I’ve been making it every Thursday since. Layering three kinds of cheese and steak between tortillas and heating them in the cast iron skillet that’s been a part of our family’s kitchen for as long as I can remember.

  The quesadillas are pure comfort food that reminds us of the good times, sitting around the table as a family, laughing and enjoying each other’s company before everything went to shit.

  The good times before Mom and Dad died. Before we became snakes, and life got so complicated.

  2

  Colleen

  Two more hours, and then my shift is over. Two more hours, and I can go home and work on my food blog and forget this day ever happened.

  It started out fine. Dara over at the McKinley brother’s garage fixed my old, broken coffeemaker, so I woke to the wonderful aroma of freshly brewed java this morning. I’ve been a week without it, and it’s been absolute torture having to buy coffee every day.

  So, I drank my coffee, went to yoga, and got to work just before nine o’clock. I waved hello to all the familiar faces in the grocery store as I made my way back to the meat department where I spend forty-five hours each week.

  The morning tasks and to-dos went by so quickly and I was on a roll. I filled order after order, then my boss, Iona, walked in. She’s worked at four grocery store meat departments, and that’s after a fifteen-year stint at a fancy real life butcher in Brooklyn, New York.

  Why she moved out to the desert, I’ll never know. I’d take New York over Pythos in a heartbeat, but the cost of living is so much cheaper here, and I don’t have to pay any rent since my grandma left me her house, but still, if I had my way, I’d go NYC all the way.

  When Iona walks into the back where we butcher the meat, my hackles immediately go up. She intimidates me. She’s so knowledgeable; so experienced, and her resting bitch face would scare the strongest of men. I live in eternal fear of fucking up in her presence.

  One time, she caught a new guy throwing away a bunch of chicken livers, and the ass-chewing she gave him was off the chart. He quit a day later, and no one has filled his spot so far. It’s just me, Petey, and Robert; two butchers who used to run a shop down the road before the land got bought out to build a Walmart.

  “Colleen,” Iona says, in her deep Bronx accent which hasn’t gotten watered down one bit by all her time spent out west. It also makes her sound scary, which helps her with the whole intimidating employees thing. No one talks back to a woman who sounds like a gangster.

  “Hi, Iona! What’s up?” I ask as I continue breaking down a large rack of ribs. My hair is netted, my hands are covered in regulation plastic gloves, my apron is as clean as it can get when you work around blood all day long, and I’m dressed in my uniform of chef’s pants, a chef’s coat, and Crocs. It’s the ugliest shoe known to man, but also the most comfortable when you’re on your feet for nine hours a day.

  “Do you recall our meeting last week?” she asks, folding her arms over her chest and leaning against one of the refrigerators next to my workstation.

  “Of course. I took notes. They’re in my folder. I can get to it as soon as I…” I trail off, nodding at the giant cleaver in my hand and the ribs resting on the worktop.

  “Tell me, did you note down that we were changing our meat delivery schedule at the meeting?” she asks.

  I nod as I continue slicing into the ribs, leaving an equal amount of meat on each side of the cut. I know she’s a stickler about that kind of stuff.

  “Of course. The meat delivery schedule is changing since we finally got a contract with that organic farm in Rancho Cresco. They’re delivering every day at 6 a.m., so we’re rotating our shifts to accommodate the time slot,” I say.

  “Yes. And who was supposed to rotate her shift this morning to meet them?” Iona asks.

  Oh, crap! Now, I realize what’s going on. Why she’s glaring at me, like she wants to pick the cleaver up out of my hand and whack me with the handle. I was supposed to meet the supplier this morning. I was the first person on the new schedule; a position I’d volunteered for.

  This, of course, was back when my coffeemaker was working.

  “Oh, my gosh. Iona, I am so sorry. There is no excuse. I…I can’t believe I messed up like this. Please allow me to make it up to you and the rest of the team,” I say, trying to keep the hint of desperation out of my voice, though I suspect I’m unsuccessful.

  Iona is staring at me with a mixture of pity and disdain, which honestly is not that far off from her normal bitch face, but there’s a slight sneer to her lips that makes me want to curl into a ball and hide in the walk-in freezer where it’s safe, cold, and quiet.

  “You’re right. There is no excuse. So, you’ll take the early morning shifts for the next three weeks. You’ll also be training the new interns next week. There’s three of them. All high schoolers. Good luck,” she says, then dismisses me with a wave as she walks out, allowing me to bask in my own freak-out.

  There is no way I will be able to get everything done if I have to work the early shifts for the next three weeks. I’ll have to give up something. And I can’t give up my food blog or the cookbook I’m working on, since they go hand-in-hand, so I guess I’m giving up sleep. Wonderful thing my coffeemaker works again. Lord knows, I will need it.

  After I finish breaking down the rack of ribs, I wash my hands and go up to the counter where a couple of people are waiting. Robert and I usually switch between butchering and counter duty throughout the day. However, since they called him in to meet the meat supplier so early this morning, he’s already gone home.

  Thankfully, the rush of folks getting off work and rushing to get their grocery shopping done hasn’t begun, so I only have these two to serve and they are the best kind of customers—clear, concise, polite. Things are looking up, and then he walks in.

  I’ve seen this guy around the store before. He’s always in a black t-shirt and jeans with heavy work boots on his feet. His hair isn’t quite blonde or brown but isn’t red either. Bronze, maybe?

  His skin is both freckled and tanned, his arms corded with muscles, with veins that stand out against the hair on his arms.

  Yes, I’ve noticed his arm hair. Truth be told, I spend a lot of time staring at this guy every time he comes in. But I’ve never served him. He only comes in once every few weeks, and it’s always been Robert.

  But today is my chance. Today, I’m staying out front here for the rest of my shift, and I know for a fact that Mr. Mystery Man always comes to the meat counter on his grocery trips. He needs protein to feed those lovely muscles of his, after all.

  Sure enough, not five minutes after I see him walk into the store, he makes a beeline to the counter with a look of deep contemplation on his face. He’s holding a basket in one hand, and a crumpled, hand-written grocery list in the other.

  3

  Aidan

  Since Ally and I broke up, I’ve barely looked at another woman. My brothers have suggested I get on one of those dating apps, but that’s not how I work. I don’t date girls I can’t see a future with, and I can’t think about dating anyone right now. Or at least, I couldn’t until five seconds ago. But as soon as my eyes land on the hottie at the meat counter, my dick twitches and my palms get a little sweaty. I’ve been numb and cold for months now, but one look at this girl’s face has me alive with feeling and a warmth I haven’t felt in a long time.

  She’s wearing a hairnet, but I can still see a mass of golden curls. Her figure is hidden by the large apron she has on, but I can see her face and neck perfectly, and I like what I see. Round face, full lips, and beautiful green eyes framed by dark lashes. Even though she’s just staring into space, there’s a hint of contemplation in her gaze, like her mind is working on something.

  I have to say hello to her. I need steak for the ques
adillas, anyway. Damn, how have I not noticed her before? I really need to get to the meat counter more often.

  “Hi there. How can I help you?” she asks as I approach. Her voice is very feminine. Kind of sexy.

  “Sure. Can I get a pound and a half of New York strip?” I ask, breaking away from her eyes. I scan the trays of meat on sale and see some Andouille sausage. Gumbo sounds great about now and if I order it, I get to stand here looking at her for a few more seconds.

  “And…can I also get some of that Andouille sausage over there? Three pounds, please.”

  “Sure thing,” she says brightly, adjusting her gloves before bending over to select what I’ve ordered. The air is thick between us as she first weighs the steak, and then the sausage. I’m in awkward silence territory when I finally pluck up the courage to speak again.

  “I’m….uh, I’m thinking of making a gumbo with the sausage. Do you think I could use frozen shrimp with that?” I know my gumbo, but just talking to her makes me giddy. Maybe I’ll ask a few more stupid questions.

  “Is the frozen shrimp peeled?” she asks, setting the wrapped pieces of meat down on the counter.

  “Nope. Got it from here a couple of months ago to make some shrimp scampi. Didn’t use all of it so I froze it that night.”

  “Oh, then it should be fine. Just defrost it in the fridge, then peel the shells and use them like you normally would for the broth. Should be fine,” she tells me as she hands over the bundles of steak and sausage.