Penny X Sheepy Novels & Stories

“Of course I heard it.” She slapped his chest playfully, laughing. “Unbelievable.” “So?” he asked, brows raised. “Is he your type?” Jessy scrunched her nose. “Pfft. He’s way too young for me. What am I gonna do with a guy who still thinks Shakespeare is the peak of flirting?” “Oh?” Ethan teased, eyes dancing. “So what is your type then?” She leaned in closer, lips brushing near his jaw as she whispered, “Older, brooding, dangerously hot men with a secret soft side.”

He noticed she sat at the edge of the sofa, kept her knees pressed together and flushed whenever his eyes moved down to her beautiful legs. “Do you agree with the salary?” Dean asked when she stopped talking because he wanted to hear her speak again. He was in his early forties but barely looked a day over twenty-five. He had gotten their mother’s beautiful blonde locks and tugged at them when he noticed Penny's eyes falling on his hair several times.

It’s more like the generic hold music you get when you call customer service, pleasant enough, but you’re just waiting for it to end. My name is Penelope Jones. Everyone calls me Penny, probably because “Penelope” sounds like someone who owns a yacht and knows which fork to use for salad. I do not own a boat. I own approximately seven pairs of scrubs, a coffee maker that’s on its last legs, and a laptop that’s seen more werewolf smut than any piece of technology should have to endure.

Penny descended the staircase , her mink-trimmed shawl bouncing with each step. Her feet were tucked into plush slippers, and the scent of something outrageously expensive perfume wafted toward me before she even reached the bottom step. When her gaze landed on me, her doe-like eyes widened in startled fear, the corners of her mouth trembling. “Big sister…” she said softly. I said nothing, my eyes trailing over her perfectly polished appearance—manicured nails, flawless skin, and the kind of Jewelrys that screamed privilege.