Lana:

It’s well after noon by the time I get on the road. Goat, Oregon is just a four-hour drive from Portland, but it feels like it’s in the middle of nowhere. The last two hours of my journey, I pass only a handful of cars. There are no gas stations or restaurants, just pine forests and fresh mountain air.

By the time I reach the outskirts of town and spot the ‘Welcome to Goat’ sign, I desperately need to pee.

The town slogan of Goat, Oregon is ‘Embrace your weird.’ How do I know this? It’s carved into the sign, of course.

This is going to be one hell of a place to spend the next two months.

Grinning, I continue my drive into the center of town. It doesn’t take me long to find the Nanny Goat. It’s a large Victorian mansion, yellow in color, on a corner lot. I pull up in front of it and get out of my car, ready to get into character. Remember, I tell myself. You’re not a journalist. You write novels.

I’ve worked out quite the cover story if anyone asks. I write cozy mysteries that feature a clever cat solving crimes. My first book did really well, and I’m writing the second while struggling against writer’s block.

There’s no doorbell, and the front door is ajar, so I knock and push it open wider and enter, blinking as my eyes adjust to the sudden gloom. “You must be Lana Davey, dear,” a friendly voice says. “Welcome to the Nanny Goat.”

A gray-haired old lady is sitting behind a desk in the makeshift lobby, knitting something green, though how she can see anything in the half-light, I have no idea. “Yes, I’m Lana,” I reply, moving inside.

“Excellent,” she murmurs, taking the credit card I hand her. “So you’re a writer?”

“I am,” I lie through my teeth. Hey, I didn’t come up with this cover story. John did. I’m just doing my job. “I’m hoping to finish my book this month.”

“You’ll like it here then,” she replies. “It’s nice and quiet. There are only two other guests staying with us at the moment.” She looks up. “Oh, there they are. Hello, Blake. You made it.”

I turn around to see who my fellow bed-and-breakfast guests are, and my mouth drops open.

Because the two guys walking into the dimly-lit room are not just hot. They’re sexy-calendar hot. Chiseled jaws, tousled hair, tall, muscled, utterly drool-worthy.

Thank you, Fate. You did me a solid. This is almost as good as lying on a beach and sipping fruity drinks with umbrellas.

“Marla, it’s good to see you.” Hottie #1 goes around the counter and envelops the little old lady in a giant hug, lifting her off the ground. “It’s been too long. You remember Declan, don’t you?”

Hottie #2 smiles at me as he reaches over to shake the little old lady’s hand. She immediately clucks and hugs him. “Of course I do. You look tired, Declan,” she scolds. “And you’ve lost weight.”

Blake chuckles as Declan shakes his head, a wry twist on his lips. “I bet Declan fifty bucks that’d be the first thing you’d say, Marla,” he explains. “Pay up, buddy.”

I shuffle from one foot to another, feeling out of place. Blake seems to notice me for the first time, and his expression turns rueful. “Sorry about that,” he apologizes. “We didn’t see you.”

“You didn’t see her,” Hottie #2—Declan—corrects him immediately. He holds out his hand to me. “Hi,” he says, “I’m Declan Wilde. My oblivious friend here is Blake Thorpe.”

“Lana Davey.” My voice comes out as a squeak. It might have been the booze I drank last night, but I swear, when I shake hands with Declan, I feel tingles. Tingles on my palm, and tingles lower south.

“Lana’s an author,” Marla chimes in. “She’s here for two months. How long are you boys staying this time?”

“I told Elvira I’ll be here for a month,” Blake replies, turning back to the innkeeper.

She nods approvingly at him. “That’s good, dear,” she says. “And you, Declan?”

“I don’t know,” he replies, still holding onto my hand. I make no effort to pull it away—why would I? A hot guy’s holding my hand. This is the most action I’ve seen in years. “I’m waiting to hear about a job. It could be two weeks; it could be two months. Who knows?”

He finally releases my hand, and Marla hands me a key. “I’ve put you upstairs in a corner room, dear,” she tells me. “It’s a nice quiet spot.”

“Thank you.”

Declan’s hazel-green eyes take in my purse. “That’s all the luggage you have for a two-month trip?”

“My suitcases are in my car.”

“Give us a second, and we’ll help you carry it up,” Declan says.

“That’s not necessary,” I demur. That’s a lie. I totally want to see their biceps bulge as they drag my two heavy suitcases up the stairs, and I’m definitely going to use the occasion to check out their asses. Hey, it’s like the museum. It’s okay to look as long as I don’t touch.

Blake chuckles. “You wouldn’t deny us the opportunity to look chivalrous in front of Marla, would you?”

They carry my luggage up a narrow and steep flight of stairs, and the sight is every bit as hot as I’d hoped it would be. “Have you eaten dinner?” Blake asks me when we get to my door.

“No.” Dinner? My thoughts aren’t on dinner. They’re on dessert, if you know what I mean.

“Declan and I are going to the bar across the street to grab a bite to eat. Would you like to join us?”

Most of the time, I’d be happier to stay in my room and think smutty thoughts of them. That way, there’s no real-life disappointment if they turn out to be boring asses. But there’s a loud voice yelling in my mind, and it sounds suspiciously like Hailey. Say Yes instead of No, Lana. You promised!

“I’d love to.”

“Excellent.” Declan smiles warmly at me, and my insides flutter. He has dimples on his cheeks, for crying out loud. Somebody better keep me from drinking more than I can handle tonight, because as God is my witness, if I get tipsy, I’m going to want to lick those dimples. And a whole lot more. “Meet us downstairs in thirty minutes, and we’ll head there together.”

The bar’s called Randy Goat. Of course. You’ve got to give the town credit for sticking to a theme.

It’s Saturday evening, but when we enter, the place isn’t horribly crowded. A burly, tattooed bartender gives Blake a friendly wave and points toward a table in the back. We take our seats, Declan sitting next to me, Blake across from us, and the bartender shows up with three laminated menus. “Hey Blake,” he says easily. “You in town to see Elvira?”

“Elvira Grantham?” I ask curiously, once we order burgers and beer. Just one pint for you tonight, Lana. “Do you know her?”

Blake gives me a puzzled look. “Yeah, she’s my great-aunt. Why?”

I feel my cheeks heat. “I looked up the history of the town,” I admit sheepishly. “Writers. We can’t stop researching.” I lean forward eagerly. “So is it true? The millionaire died under mysterious circumstances, leaving his money to Ms. Grantham?”

Declan chuckles. “Are you going to work it into your next book?”

Not exactly, though I do find the story fascinating. I’d much rather do a feature about Elvira Grantham, who by all accounts has led a complex, colorful life, than write about two horny doctors that are feeling up their patients, but journalists who want to keep their jobs write the story their editor has assigned to them.

Well, what if you do write about Elvira in addition to the doctors that can’t keep it in their pants? John wouldn’t be interested in it, but Hailey might feature it in Girl Power. Of course, I’d have to tell Elvira Grantham I’m a journalist, not a writer, and risk blowing my cover, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

“Maybe,” I reply vaguely. “The book’s still taking shape in my mind, and I don’t know exactly what I’m going to write about yet. Do you think I could talk to her?”

“I’m not sure,” Blake says. “Aunt Elvira can be a bit touchy sometimes. I’m going to see her in the morning; I’ll ask her.”

Our beers arrive. For a few moments, we lapse into silence, and I use the opportunity to study the men discreetly. They’re both impossibly hot, tall and muscled. Declan has dark hair, cut military-short. He’s wearing a black t-shirt and dark jeans, and his forearms are covered with tattoos. Despite the dimples, there’s an air of magnetic intensity about him.

Blake, on the other hand, looks a lot more happy-go-lucky. His sandy-brown hair is longer than Declan’s. He’s wearing a navy-blue linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and faded jeans. His lips are curled into a smile, and the expression in his blue eyes is one of relaxed amusement.

Serious or laid-back, one thing is crystal clear. Both guys are way out of my league.

“What kind of books do you write?” Declan asks conversationally.

“Cozy mysteries.”

His brow furrows. “I don’t think I’ve heard of them. What are cozy mysteries?”

Oh God. Kill me now. When I made up the details of my cover story, I didn’t plan on running into two good-looking guys, guys who are now going to think that I’m a crazy cat lady. “Have you read Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple books? Those are cozy mysteries.”

Blake looks up. “Elvira will love you,” he says. “She’s a huge Miss Marple fan. She’s got first editions of all of Agatha Christie’s books. Are your books set in England too?”

“No.” Dear God in Heaven, why are they interested in my imaginary books? I’m digging myself deeper and deeper into a hole. “They’re set in Portland. My heroine is a fifty-five-year-old lady who solves crimes with the help of her cat, Smokey.”

“Cats solving crime?” Blake’s lips twitch, and his eyes run over me. “You don’t look like a cat person.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask indignantly. “What do cat people look like?”

His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Mostly,” he says, “their clothes tend to be covered in cat hair. Marla, for example, has stopped wearing black because her cat, Mr. Boots, sheds on her.”

I have to grin. “Okay, I guess that’s fair. I like cats, but I’m horribly allergic. So I write about them instead. What about the two of you? What do you do?”

“A little of this, a little of that,” Declan replies evasively. Blake gives him a sidelong look, his eyebrows raised, but doesn’t say anything.

Okay, be that way. Our burgers have arrived, and I’m starving. They can keep their secrets; I’m far more interested in my food.

It’s around my third drink—and yes, I remember I was supposed to drink only one, thanks for noticing—that I realize I’m having a really good time.

Blake and Declan are well-traveled. I’m quite proud that I’ve visited ten countries, but when we compare numbers, Declan has me beat by a mile. “Sixty?” My mouth falls open as I stare at him. “You’ve been to sixty countries? How is that possible? How much vacation do you get anyway?”

He chuckles at my indignant expression. “A lot of it is for work,” he says. “I lived in Europe for two years in my twenties, and I spent every weekend traveling to a different country.”

Blake’s blue eyes twinkle. “There’s nothing wrong with your number, Lana,” he says, the double-entendre clear.

“But if you want to add to it,” Declan adds, his tone suggestive, “we’re happy to help.”

Lana’s Sex Bucket List. Item 4: Kiss a guy at a bar.

“Help?” I gaze up at them innocently, pretending I have no idea what they’re talking about. “How exactly do you suggest helping?”

Declan’s lips twitch, and those sexy dimples flash into view. I have to dig my nails into my palms in order to stop myself from falling all over him. Would it be terrible if I reached out with my pinkie finger and traced that indentation? That’s not wrong, right?

Should have stopped drinking after the first beer, Lana.

Declan winks at me. “You wanted to go to Rio, right? My friend Yasmin loves showing people around her city. Want her phone number?”

Well, that’s a whole lot of ice-water on my raging hormones. Then again, Declan just winked at me. Hello, mixed messages.

And this is why you stay in your room, working on an article or reading smutty books on your phone, Lana. That’s also why you’ve never been picked up at a bar.

Hailey flirts like it’s second nature to her. Me? I’m far more awkward. “Umm, sure thing,” I murmur, bending down to grab the handbag that I unceremoniously shoved under the table when we walked in. I pull my trusty spiral-bound notebook out and open it to the first free page. A sheet of paper flutters to the ground. “What’s her number?”

Declan doesn’t reply right away. He bends to pick up the sheet, and my heart stops beating.

Because he’s holding my Sex Bucket List in his hands.

And judging from the way his eyes widen, he’s reading it.

Ouch.

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Writers are far more interesting than I would have imagined,” he says, handing the sheet to Blake, who takes it from him with a raised eyebrow. “Don’t you think, Blake?”

My cheeks go hot with embarrassment.

Blake scans the list and looks up, his eyes dancing with merriment. “You have threesomes on here twice,” he points out.

My only option is to tough it out. I lift my head up and look steadily at the two men. “Can I have my list back?”

“Of course.” Blake hands it to me. “And if you’re interested in crossing items off your bucket list,” he says, his voice silky-smooth, “Declan and I are happy to help you out.”

Work-Lana would decline, sternly reminding herself that she’s here for a story and nothing else.

I’m tired of Work-Lana. She never has any fun. A devil-may-care attitude fills me. These guys want to up the ante? I’m in. “Yeah right,” I scoff. “Sure. You’re all gung-ho now, but any suggestion of your swords touching and I bet you twenty bucks that you’ll run away in panic.”

Declan wordlessly takes a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and sets it on the table.

“You’re joking,” I say flatly.

Blake chuckles. “What’s the matter, Lana? You don’t think we can live up to your expectations?” He winks at me. “I promise you; we’ll work hard to rise to the challenge.”

Bad puns. I know I’m not dreaming—there’s no way my imagination could produce a pun that groan-worthy—but it does nothing to make them less attractive in my eyes. Evidently, my dry spell has been more desert-like than I’ve realized.

“Tell you what,” Declan’s voice cuts in. “We don’t have to jump into the deep end of the pool. You want to kiss a guy at a bar, right?” He spreads his hands wide. “Here we are.”

He doesn’t think I’m going to do it. Neither of them does.

Lifting my chin up, I grope for my purse and pull a twenty-dollar bill out, secretly thankful I had the good sense to go to the ATM before I left Portland. Then I lean forward and wrap my fingers around Blake’s shirt. I know why I pick him—he seems less dangerous.

Of course, the moment I breathe in the scent of him, a faint cologne, laced with beer and masculinity, I change my mind. My heart starts beating in my chest at the smoldering, heated expression in his eyes. “What a good idea this is,” he says softly, closing the gap between our lips.

And he kisses me.

His hand curls around the back of my neck, drawing me in. His tongue traces the outline of my lips, and then he deepens the kiss.

Smart-Lana makes one last effort to inject some common sense into the proceedings. This is a dreadful idea. You don’t know these men at all.

I don’t care. My fingers run over his chest and over his biceps, feeling those rock-hard muscles. The blood pounds in my veins, and I open my mouth to his exploring tongue. My insides throb as he kisses me, slowly, as if he has all the time in the world.

This is surreal.

“Ahem.” We’re interrupted when the bartender clears his throat, looking acutely embarrassed. “Sorry, man,” he apologizes to Blake. “I don’t mean to cock block you, but it’s closing time.”

I slide back to my seat, still in a haze of lust. “But it’s just eleven,” I hear Declan say.

The bartender laughs. “It’s a small town,” he says. “There aren’t enough people to be open until midnight, let alone two. You guys want separate checks?”

“Yes,” I reply. “No,” both guys say at the same time.

The bartender moves away. Declan surveys me with hungry eyes. “You could kiss two strangers at a bar,” he suggests. “Or, you could invite us to your room.” His voice lowers. “Invite us to your room, Lana,” he urges softly. “You won’t regret it.”

Oh, I doubt that. No matter how hard I want to pretend, I know I’m not good at casual sex. I get attached. Feelings happen.

I’m in Goat for two months, tops. Blake, going by what I heard earlier, is here for a month, and Declan could leave at any moment. Common sense comes rushing back in. “I’m sorry,” I mutter, not meeting their eyes. “I shouldn’t have led you on. I’m going to leave.”

Then I flee across the street and make a beeline for my room.

No. More. Beer.

Ever.