“I don’t know. The blue is really speaking to me.”

Giving Logan a very unhappy glare, he shrugs his shoulders and pats me on the back. “Sorry, man. We might get along now but my loyalty will always lie with Addie.”

“So much for dicks before chicks,” I mutter, causing Logan to laugh.

“Told you blue is the winner,” Adalyn gloats while doing a very pregnant version of the running man, her large pregnant belly hanging over her grey sweatpants. She’s in month nine and not giving a fuck about how much her belly is out in the open.

“Settle down there.” I motion her to slow her dancing. “We don’t need any water breaking when we don’t have the nursery ready yet.”

“Whose fault is that?” Adalyn taps her foot and eyes the two paint swatches on the wall. Red and blue.

“All of the baby books say babies can’t see any colors but black, white, and red. Why not give him a room he can enjoy?”

“Because black, white, and red are not baby colors,” Adalyn protests, hands on her hips.

“Says who? All the people who design all this baby crap? It’s a mass market for suckers like you two. Oh look at this cute sailboat, or this dinosaur blanket . . . it’s all about black, red, and white.”

“And how convenient, that those colors just happen to go well with your hockey-themed room.”

Casually, trying not to show my true colors, I say, “Hey, if it works out that way, it works out that way.”

“What happened to wanting to keep me happy, huh?” Adalyn taps her foot, staring me down.

Logan’s gaze bounces between the two of us for a split second before he shakes his head and says, “I’m out. You two are on your own.” Giving the peace sign, he points at me and says, “Tickets for tomorrow’s game?”

“In your fucking dreams after your betrayal.”

Logan deflates but not for long because Adalyn walks up to him, gives him a hug and says, “Don’t worry, I’ll get them for you.”

Betrayed, once again.

Ever since that awful fucking night in the hospital, Logan and I have been on good terms. We never spoke of our problems again. It was simply accepted we both love Adalyn and will do anything to keep her safe. And what’s even better about this entire situation is that Logan has a girlfriend now, Mandy, and she’s a good fucking time. They make for a good couple to hang out with. On off nights, we have them over with Chris and Shannon, to have game night. Adalyn and I lose to both couples every single time.

We keep blaming it on the baby, eating all of Adalyn’s brain cells. Once the baby is born, it’s game on.

Once Logan is gone, Adalyn turns toward me, her gaze intent. I’ve seen that look before. She’s determined, not going to back down, and ready for ten rounds of arguing. She’s about to get her way.

It’s what happened when she moved into my apartment. She insisted on dating first, I insisted upon not letting her out of my sight. I won that round. Then when it came to the house we bought, she won with what house she wanted, not wanting anything too outlandish. Apparently an elevator in your house is “too much.” I was voting for convenience. And now, with the nursery needing to be painted, I can see that look in her eyes.

This place is going to be blue.

Giving in before we can get into it, I say, “Can we at least agree upon on sailboats?”

“What is your beef with sailboats? They are a delightful nautical fixture.”

“We aren’t nautical people.”

“We could be,” she suggests, wrapping her arms around me, her belly bumping up against my stomach. “Want to buy a boat? Go sailing?”

“Not even a little.” I chuckle, placing a soft kiss on her lips. “What about robots.”

“What kind of message are we trying to send our kid if we decorate with robots?”

Brow pinches, mirth in my voice, I say, “Uh, I don’t know, that they’re cool. What kind of message is sailboats?”

Gesturing with her hand, she answers, “Come sail away with us, baby boy. Your dreams can reach as far as the ocean. Let your every dream set sail.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, kissing her again. When I pull away, I whisper against her lips. “I’ll give you the blue, but not the boats.”

“Ugh, you hate me.”

Laughing hard, I shake my head and drag her to the white glider she picked out from Pottery Barn. “On the contrary, I’m absolutely obsessed with you.” I nuzzle her neck, kissing the soft column. “What about airplanes?”

She moves her neck to the side, giving me more access as my hands glide up over her stomach, to her full breasts. Pulling down the low cut of her tank top, I slip my hand into her bra and pinch her nipple, getting right to business. One thing I’ve learned from this pregnancy? Slow is not something she’s interested in at the moment. She likes it hard and fast, and fuck do I come hard every time when she screams my name, begging for me to thrust harder.

“Airplanes?” she gasps and leans her back against my chest. “Mmm, I can do airplanes.”

I slip my hand down the front of her sweatpants to find her wet already. “Fuck, Adalyn, why are you always ready for me?”

“Because, this is what you do to me, Hayden.” She circles her hips against me, holding on to my neck while I work my fingers between her legs.

“I need you on all fours, baby. Now.”

Helping her down, I take no time shedding our clothes and pressing inside her. So tight, so warm, so damn perfect.

“Yes.” She arches her back, her ass pushing against me. “Yes,” she chants.

Leaning over her, I roll one of her nipples in my finger, tugging and pulling, knowing in seconds she’s going to combust.

Just like clockwork, while I fuck her hard from behind, my cock slipping and sliding in and out of her, her pussy convulses around my cock, pulling at me, dragging out my orgasm as hers takes over, spiraling both out of control.

I come hard, my dick pulsing, giving me sweet relief. Short and sweet, that’s what we are right now, and I know once she has the baby, I will spend more time exploring her body, making love to her over and over again. But right now, my girl wants to be fucked, and I give my girl what she wants.

Falling to the floor, I tuck her into my shoulder and stroke the side of her hip, marveling in the softest skin I’ve ever felt.

“I don’t care what you do with the nursery, Adalyn,” I admit, knowing she’s going to end up winning most of these fights.

She kisses my chest, her lips grazing past my nipple, sending a jolt straight to my dick. “I actually like airplanes. I think it’s sweet. Who knows, maybe one day he’ll be a fighter pilot.”

I shake my head. “Nah, with a name like Connor Holmes, he’s bound to be a hockey star.”

“The poor kid, he’s doomed from the beginning.”

Chuckling, I kiss the top of her head. “As long as he’s happy and you’re happy, then I’m happy.”

She kisses my chin and sighs, snuggling closely into me. “Good thing being married to you is all I ever needed to be happy.”

“Damn right it is, Mrs. Holmes.”

Lying on the floor of our son’s room, I stare at the ceiling and realize how good I have it. I have my beautiful, feisty girl in my arms and a wonderful future ahead of us. A crazy, chaotic, but fulfilling future.

And all it took was a few punches. One punch to an asshole during the last game of a season. One punch to my heart when I met and fell in love with the person who became my everything. And then the final punch to my soul when she became my wife to have and to hold from this day forward. My dad’s always told me we don’t solve problems with our fists. Wise advice, although I may not have solved problems, but because of that first punch, I won the most important game of my life, and she’s currently wrapped in my arms. Score one for the baby daddy.

Want more of these characters? Start with CO-WRECKER for 99 cents or free on Kindle Unlimited… click

JOCK ROW

By Sara Ney

Chapter One

“The Friday When We Met.”

FIRST FRIDAY

SCARLETT

“No offense, Scarlett, but if you didn’t feel good when I invited you to come with us tonight, you should have said something. Now I feel terrible.”

Tessa—a girl I lived next door to in the dorms freshman and sophomore year and remained friends with—flips her perfectly coifed hair, eyeing up my soft sweater, the one I always wear when I’m getting over a cold, or sick, because it’s cozy, oversized, and comforting. It’s more appropriate for a bonfire or night at home than a college party, and when Tessa shoots me that sympathetic face—lips turned down at the corners, eying me skeptically—I manage a soft laugh.

“Trust me, I’ve been home for the past few weekends—I needed this night out.”

Two to be exact, couch surfing and binging on random TV shows, consuming copious amounts of hot tea and chicken noodle soup.

“Are you sure? Because if you’re not…”

“I’m fine—that’s why I wore this sweater. It’s going to keep me toasty warm tonight so I don’t catch a chill.”

The last thing I want is her changing her plans because of me.

“But that sweater…” Tessa worries her bottom lip, chewing off some of the lipstick. “It gets so warm inside those parties…maybe just take the scarf off? And the jacket?”

Fingering the gray, cable knit length around my neck, I breathe in the merino wool that’s the only thing keeping my neck warm and my cough from coming back.

“My scarf? What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it, but we’re going to the baseball house—you know, on Jock Row.”

When she says Jock Row, her voice changes, fills with this weird wistfulness and a playful giddiness, like we’re heading to some magical place. We’re not.

Jock Row: the off-campus housing block where student athletes live and party. Similar to Greek Row, each sport has its own designated apartment or house, spanning an entire city block. They study together, play together, live together. Hell, they even eat together in a special cafeteria I’ve only heard whispers about, with super special, healthy jock food.

How nice for them.

I remember listening to her talk about it in the dorms when we were new students; she’d babble for hours about wanting to date an athlete, explaining which ones she thought were cute, trolling them online. Crushing hard, wondering what it was like to date one but never having the lady balls to go to one of their parties.

Well, we have the courage now.

Tessa still has the same stars in her eyes when she talks about it, still has that same breathiness in her voice.

In a way, I don’t blame her, because the guys on Jock Row?

They aren’t boys—they’re a different breed of student body altogether.

These boys don’t compare to the guys from back home that I’m used to flirting with: the gangly, juvenile boys I grew up with who went to college but still haven’t matured—they are nothing like the boys of Jock Row.

Not physically.

Not mentally.

These guys? They’re men, with actual responsibilities and obligations. They work hard and play hard.

Bigger.

Brawny.

In peak physical condition—probably the best shape they’ll ever be in their lives.

Cocky.

Quick.

I’ve seen them in action on the baseball field; I know the team is good, and damn, they look good, too.

Smell good.

How do I know? I got close to one once, rooting around for a beverage at the football house one weekend a while back. A big, burly player cut me off in line at the keg, leaning over to grab the beer tap with his meaty fingers, and I accidentally caught a whiff—a long, deep whiff, one that ended with an internal ‘ahhh’ that only comes when we appreciate something truly delicious.

Obviously, being a warm-blooded female, I checked out his upper torso, muscular forearms, and thick neck in the process—like every other female in the room with a set of functioning eyes had been doing.

Every female, like Tessa and her roommate, Cameron, who’s still in their bathroom primping.

I know what these two want: they’re hoping to sink their hot pink talons into some unsuspecting athlete. They’re older, wiser, and more confident. They’re also wearing less clothes.

Tonight, Tessa has been prattling on about the baseball team’s catcher. She bumped into him earlier this week on campus and has been social media stalking him since. Discovered that if she timed it just right, he’d be walking out of the science building at the same time she’d be walking out of the international studies building.

Guess I can’t fault her; I’ve laid eyes on the guy a few times myself and don’t blame her for fawning over him. He’s dark, broody, and extremely good-looking, plus Latino to boot.

Muy caliente.

“Please trust me,” Tessa is saying. “I’m no nursing major, but I know this: if you wear that outfit to the party, you’re going to have a stroke, and there won’t be anyone there to revive you.”

“You don’t think there will be any pre-med students there?”

“Pfft, nooo—they’re probably studying right now.”

“Thank god—saving lives takes some learn-ed learning.”

She doesn’t get my joke.

“I’m serious, Scarlett. You’re literally going to die if you wear that. Plus…”

Her sentence trails off, blue eyes—the color of ocean breeze contact lenses—raking up and down my body for the second time. Cringing when they reach my scarf.

She hates my outfit but is too sweet to tell me.

“Do you not like my outfit?”

“It might be freezing outside, but it’s not going to be cold inside—the house is hot, and the guys are hotter.”

I wrap the scarf tighter, giving her arm a gentle pat. “We’re walking there and it’s freezing and I’ve been sick—I love you, Tess, but I’m not jeopardizing my health for one party.”

I forgot how caring her blue eyes could be, and I’m surprised to see her blink with all the mascara clumped on her lashes, mouth downturned. “What about your sniffles?”

“The worst of my cold is over.” I fake a cough. “Can we go? Otherwise I’m going to end up reading at home.”

“Don’t do that! You’ve turned into such a hermit since you got your own apartment.”

“Nerd alert!” I tease, pointing a finger at myself. “I just bought a new book, and I’ve been waiting for it to release for nine months—nine! That’s a damn eternity in romance novel years. You’re lucky I dragged myself off the couch,” I protest, head tilting toward their bathroom. “What is taking Cameron so long?”

“One of her hair extensions was loose. She had to add extra adhesive.”

“Ah.” I nod knowingly—as if that makes any sense.

Lucky for me, Cameron chooses that moment to come sashaying down the hallway as if she’s on a fashion runway, thumbing a long strand of platinum blonde hair, curls sprayed into submission. The rest of them lie in silky waves, and I briefly wonder how she’s going to walk the entire way on those four-inch heels.

Dark eyes, glossy lips, and black dress, Cam is ready to hit the Row.

Finally.

She halts when she sees me, pointing an accusatory finger at my boots. Practically hisses. “You are not wearing that outfit. It’s butt ugly.”

Tessa pipes up. “Save your breath—if we make her change she won’t come out with us, and I haven’t seen her in ages.”

“Aww, you are too sweet.” I wrap an arm around her slim waist, squeezing her in a side hug. “I kind of missed you two weirdos.”

***

Oh shit.

They were right—I’m sweltering and this entire outfit was a terrible idea.

Why didn’t they try harder to make me change into something new? I swear, Tessa is an abysmal friend.

I’m dying. I am going to have heat stroke.

It’s hot as Hades, the hundred bodies overcrowding the small space creating a blasted inferno, despite the freezing temperatures outdoors.

I pull off my jacket. Have no choice but to loosen the scarf clinging to my perspiring neck, a second skin, damp with my sweat.

Jerking at the end of it with my left hand, I pull it slack, lifting it over my head, relieving myself of one round mohair loop after another. Stuff the entire thing in my purse—which is more of a cumbersome tote—all the while holding a red cup in my right hand.

Drinking tonight wouldn’t be doing myself any favors with this cold still lingering, so it’s copious amounts of water disguised as alcohol instead.

And can I just say, finding a liquid in this house that isn’t beer was damn near impossible. I had to leave Tessa and Cam to their own devices to scavenge the kitchen, raiding the fridge.

There was a note taped to the door that said, Off limits, but it was old, and faded, and I was way too parched to care.

Inside, a treasure trove of water, juice, and power beverages, even some protein shakes.

Snagging two bottles of ice-cold water (one for now and one for later), I stuffed them into my tote, grateful I had a purse along and wondering why they don’t have water at the makeshift bar in their living room.

Is it stealing if the fridge was open?

I meander from room to room, searching for the two blondes I came here with, their pretty blonde heads having gone astray in the short amount of time it took for me to find two water bottles. I fidget, airing myself out by tugging at the neckline of my sweater, and take a few refreshing sips of my pilfered beverage.

Cold.

Delicious.

I fan myself idly, standing off to one side of the living room, doing my best not to faint dead away. A melodramatic statement, even for me, but if I manage not to pass out from overheating, it will be a damn miracle.

Three more sweeps of the room and I locate them near the front windows. My upper torso is so unbelievably itchy.

Stupid and scorching. I’m sweaty and irritable and oh my freaking god why am I freaking wearing this!

I slide a finger inside the furry collar to alleviate my crawling skin, lower my body temperature, giving it yet another tug. But, it’s no use—I’m boiling in this godforsaken potato sack.

I need the porch, porch, porch.

No one hears my loud sigh over the music; how could they? It’s turned up so loud the windows shake with the base, floor quaking with tiny vibrations.

Hating myself just a lil bit, I join the girls; they’re both having more fun and better luck tonight than I, cloistered in a huddle and chatting it up with two insanely attractive young men.

Tessa is batting her lash extensions at the blond one—he’s a tall, lanky guy, his winning feature a lazy smile he’s freely throwing her way. Perfect teeth.

Boyish, in a way, but I can see why she’s attracted to him, though my type is more rugged and rough around the edges. Someone large and strapping with a killer personality would win me over in a heartbeat.

“Hey guys—thought I lost you.” I raise my water and take a long, refreshing drag. “What did I miss?”

“Scar, this is Derek and Ben,” Tessa says, introducing us. “They’re both on the team. Guys, this is Scarlett.”

“I’m sorry, which team are we talking about?” I can’t help teasing, just can’t.

“The baseball team,” the dark-haired guy mutters, running his brown gaze up and down my outfit. He’s not entertained—not in the least—and stares at me like I’m an idiot.

Huh.

Can’t please everyone, I guess.

“We were just about to take a selfie,” Cameron adds. “Scar, will you take it for us?” She unceremoniously thrusts her phone at me, fluffing her beautiful, wavy hair.

I fiddle with the flash, flipping the camera toward me and sticking out my tongue before clicking away. Take a few selfies before righting the camera and getting down to the business at hand.

“Would you quit screwing around?” Tessa prompts through clenched teeth, lips curved into a seductive smile. “I can’t keep my face like this much longer.”

“You can delete those.” I thumb through the pictures before turning the camera back on my friends. “Well not this one—I look adorable. Can you text it to me?”

I giggle.

“Everyone say ‘Balls!’” I take another six photos before slapping the cell into Cameron’s waiting palm. She immediately starts shuffling through them, dissecting herself in every one, huge smile plastered on her pretty face.

“So, it turns out you were right about the sweater.” I give Tessa a bump with my hip. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m ready to get going.”

Everyone stares.

“I’m hot and itchy, but thank god it’s not a rash, ha ha.” I’m the only one who laughs.

Ben, the guy wearing a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and a baseball cap I want to knock off his head, points a finger in my direction. “Are you for real?”

“You have no idea how hot this shirt is, buddy.” I pull a long face, emphasizing my plight. Hold up my hands in mock defeat. “We’ve been here a few hours, and I wouldn’t hate it if we left. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

“How bad are you feeling really?” She reaches to feel my forehead. “You do feel warm, but it could just be the temperature in here.”

“Guys, we came together and we should leave together.”

“Tessa here can’t leave until she helps me with my little problem,” Ben says, eyes dropping down into her cleavage.

“Little problem?” My eyes drop unceremoniously down to the crotch of his jeans.

“My phone.” He holds his jet black cell in front of him like an offering. Tessa’s blue eyes land on the illuminated screen, her teeth raking across her bottom lip playfully. “There’s a problem with it.”

“What’s wrong?” she asks, tilting her head.

“I keep searching and searching but can’t find the number I’m looking for.” His big hand palms the device, thumb stroking up and down the screen, and I think he’s trying to be sexy? Or something?

“What number?” Tessa coos.

“You know—the number I’m missing.”

“Did it disappear?”

“No, baby, I’m trying to put it in here.” His thumb slides up and down the flat surface, stroking idly.

“But is it—”

Oh my god, I can’t take it anymore.

“I get it. I get it.” I step forward to finish the tease he’s trying his damnedest to deliver, dragging out the pick-up line in a painfully slow fashion. “There’s a problem with his phone, Tess, because your number isn’t in it.”

“Huh?” Tessa wrinkles her brow, confused, while the guy stares me down, mouth set into a hard line.

I pull a face like a grade-school student who’s just blurted out the answer in class without raising their hand, my cheeks getting hotter.

Clearing my throat, I’m too embarrassed to glace up at Ben.

“Tessa, it’s…you know—a pick-up line? It goes like this.” I lower my voice, doing my best impression of a man. “There’s something wrong with my phone—because your name isn’t in it.” My head wobbles back and forth as I deliver the moronic sentence. “Get it? I read it online, probably Buzzfeed? There was this whole long list of the world’s shittiest pick-up lines, and that one topped it.”

When I do happen a glance up, it’s into a set of scowling eyes.

“Don’t get mad.” I awkwardly laugh, pulling at my neckline. “Get better lines. Those are awful.” My flirtatious giggle goes unappreciated. “Oh come on, I’m trying to help you! That was a pro tip.”

The guy opens his mouth. “Do you not realize you’re a fucking buzzkill? What the hell are you wearing?”

His tone is no longer friendly, no longer flirty. He’s no longer interested in being a team player; I’ve unintentionally pissed him off by stealing his thunder.

Tessa, bless her kind heart, breaks through the tension with a lighthearted laugh, giving Benny boy a few flirtatious pats on the cheek. Diverts his attention.

“You want my number?” She sounds positively giddy. “Why didn’t you just say so, silly?” She plucks the phone out of his hands, tapping her digits into the contacts as he shoots another distrustful glance in my direction.

Looks down his nose at me.

I clutch my cup tighter; it wasn’t my intention to offend or piss anyone off. All I want to do is have a good time and laugh a little after being sick for so long—is that a crime?

He’s certainly staring at me like it is.

“You know what you could do, Stacey?” Derek intentionally butchers my name; I can see in his steely gaze that he’s trying to belittle me, the dickhead. “Run along and get yourself another beer.” He’s on his tiptoes, pretending to stare down into my red cup. “Looks like yours is half empty.”

Ben nods, drinking from his cup. “We’d hate for our guests to be thirsty, especially the ones who need booze the most.”

“You’re not trying to get rid of me, are you?” My laugh is nervous.

“Us?” He manages to look affronted. “No, babe, I live here. It’s my job to make sure everyone is having a good time, and you definitely don’t seem like a good time. Ha. Ha.”

I catch his dig. Try not to let it sting.

“I’m good, but thank you for the offer.” I swirl the contents of my cup, peering into it with one eye closed. “Besides, this isn’t beer. It’s water with a little lemon and it’s still pretty cold.”

“Water?”

I scrunch up my nose. “Yeah, I’m not really much of a drinker, and I’ve been sick, so is it really a smart idea to get drunk?” My chin goes up a notch. “I don’t think so.”

Derek’s face contorts. “Where’d you find water around here?”

“Uh, the kitchen?”

“Where in the kitchen?”

Is this a trick question? “Uh…the fridge?”

His eyes narrow. “We keep the fridge locked during parties.”

My brows rise into my hairline. “You do?”

“Yeah. So no one takes shit.” Like you just did. “Did you miss the big sign that says OFF LIMITS?”

My cheeks are on fire. No way is he accusing me of stealing from the house; it’s just a bottle of water, from a fridge that was open. Sure, it had a lock on it, and sure, there might have been a sign, but the fridge was open nonetheless.

Crap.

“I’m sorry,” I say sincerely. “I didn’t realize it was supposed to be locked. It opened right up.” All I had to do was fiddle with the handle a few seconds, and presto—all the drinks for me!

He glances down his nose at me for the second time tonight, silently judging me. “Maybe instead of sucking down that stolen water, you should have a beer—or five, since—”

“You seem so uptight,” Ben finishes.

“Thanks, I’m good,” I insist, pulling at my sweater, peeling it away from my scorching skin, needing room to breathe. The room seems to be getting hotter by the second—or it it just me? Normally, guys like this wouldn’t bother me—I can handle a little unease like a champ—but coupled with how warm I am, and the heat these guys are throwing off…

I’ll admit to being more than a little uncomfortable, and not just from the sweater.

Cameron pipes up then, unwittingly rescuing me, resting her hand on his meaty bicep, displayed beneath a black, short sleeve shirt. Changes the topic. “Before when you were getting water, Derek was telling us before how the baseball team won the College World Series last year. That’s the World Series of Baseball, but for college.”

My brows go up, holding back a look of disbelief. “Yes, I know what the CWS is, Cameron, and Iowa didn’t win it.”

“Yes they did!” She laughs. “Derek threw the winning pitch—he’s seriously amazing. Scarlett, you should hear the story.” She has her entire arm wrapped around his, giving him an encouraging squeeze. “Tell her the story Derek.”

I look at Ben. Glance at Derek. Back at these two naïve girls, and shake my head, dismayed. Literally can no longer handle their amount of bullshit.

“You realize these two are…teasing you, right?” The red cup hits my lips and I take a swig, readjusting the jacket and scarf I’ve been holding in my other hand. “USC won the College World Series last year—they win it almost every year.” The water tastes warm now, tepid at best, as it flows down my throat.

“How the hell would you know that, Miss Know-It-All?” Ben, challenges me.

Miss Know-It-All? Wow. I don’t think anyone has ever called me that a day in my life.

“My dad. He’s not a huge fan of major league baseball, but he loves watching college ball—loves it.” I tap my chin with a forefinger. “I remember last summer, he had the damn finals on for an entire week, on every TV in the house. We all had to watch that dumb game—no offense. The College World series is in June, right? I think I’m remembering that right…”

When my sentence trails off, Derek jerks his head in a terse nod at Ben, crossing his arms and spreading his legs in a defensive pose.

Raises his brows. Nods toward the kitchen.

“Anyway,” I chatter in an attempt to redeem myself, filling the silence with my babble. “I just remember being home and my dad watching that game. The highlights would be on when I left for work, and the game would be on when I got home from work. USC won that tournament, I’m sure of it.”

Both Cam and Tessa are having a hard time following the conversation. “Why would you say you won?”

I blow out a puff of air, gently tugging the sweater from my skin and giving it a few shakes to let the cooler air get in. “They lied because they’re trying to impress you, Tessa—kind of ridiculous if you ask me. I mean, honestly, you guys are really good-looking, you shouldn’t have to make shit up.” I push out a laugh—it comes out sounding strangled. “Weak. So. Weak.”

I push out another one, hoping to smooth things over, hoping they’ll be amused by the teasing tone of my voice and take pity on me.

“You’re not going to stand here with us all night, are you?” one of the guys asks.

“What else would I do?”

“I can call one of the rookies to take you home so you don’t have to keep standing here.” Ben drapes his arm around Tessa’s shoulders. “Besides, I want to get to know your friend better, and you’re making it impossible.” He tilts her chin up with his thumb, staring down into her eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to get to know me better, babe?”

Tessa nods, dumbly. Damn her!

I swallow the lump in my throat.

“We’ll take real good care of your friends.” He tries to back away with her, but I stop him. “You can walk away knowing they’re in good hands, babe.”

Not so fast, you bull hunk.

“I have no doubt about that.” I grip his forearm as he grins wolfishly down at Tessa and holy shit is it solid. Built like a tank, his forearm is a firm mass of muscle. I give my head a shake. “Are you sure it’s wise to go off with them? I mean…they’re strangers.”

“Strangers? What are you, fucking five?” He glares down at me. “What’s in that water that’s making you so goddamn bitchy?”

Tessa and Cameron volley back and forth between us, eyes wide as saucers. A little horrified, a little tipsy, a lot excited, and gorgeously clueless. I can hardly believe these two Neanderthals are turning my friends on! But they are—I can tell by the looks on both their enthralled faces.

Shit.

My friendship is no match for an athletic pedigree, great body, and handsome face.

So, I stand my ground, having nothing to lose; these girls are not leaving with me when I go.

“You did not just call me bitchy.” No one has ever called me that—not once—and if I wasn’t so pissed off, I might be embarrassed. All I’m trying to do is enjoy my night out, but these assholes are making it impossible. All because in some sick way, they see me as ruining their chances.

“Don’t call her bitchy, Ben, it’s mean!” Tessa scolds, narrowing her eyes and smacking at his arm. Her palms rests there, fingers doing a thorough pat-down of his skin. “You should apologize.”

He rolls his neck, getting the kinks out, his big, brown eyes rolling toward the ceiling. “If it’s not the sobriety making her act this way, it must be that butt ugly sweater.”

I glance down at my beige mohair garment, affronted. “I was cold, and I-I was sick!”

“Aren’t you fucking hot? Is that what’s making you run your mouth?”

“Yeah,” I admit begrudgingly, shoulders slouching. “Maybe.”

“You should go outside then and get some fresh air.”

Fresh air does sound better than standing in front of these idiots, putting up with their insults.

Ben casually arches a brow and the guys exchange another glance—so damn shady. I watch as he casually eases out of the conversation and disappears into the crowd, causing Cameron’s bottom lip to jut out in a pout. Arms cross. Boobs rise above the low neckline of her shirt.

“What did you say your name was?” Derek asks me.

My arms cross defensively. “Stacy.”

His face is a blank canvas, impassive, stony, and directed at me. “Are you going to tell me your name again or not, because if you don’t I’ll just give you a nickname—I have a pretty good one already, right up here.”

He taps his skull.

I make a hmph sound they probably can’t hear over the noise. “Scarlett.”

His mouth curves. “Sober Scarlett.”

“Oh so you think you’re clever now cause you can alliterate?” I hold up my red plastic cup, not bothering to hold back the biting comment on my tongue. “Got any other set of skills?”

I wish I didn’t sound so defensive, but these guys are bringing out the worst in me.

“You wouldn’t know what to do with my other set of skills.” He chuckles, pleased with his innuendo, thinks he’s being clever. Tessa must agree because the cheesy line throws her into a giggle fit.

Gross, Tessa. Just…no.

Get better taste in men!

Honestly, what is it with these guys?

Bunch of douchey jockholes congregating in one small space. The room lacks oxygen—that must be why they’re acting like assholes.

I smirk at my own joke but am still unable to figure out why Tessa and Cam find these idiots so damn charming, especially with how rude they are. Crude and unoriginal, Ben and Derek have one modicum of sense between them. I can tell by the cold glint in Derek’s eye that he’s a colossal asshole and is reining it in for my friend’s benefit.

Never have I ever met a bigger pair of douchebags.

I sigh into my water cup. What a shame. God wasted all that talent and those incredible bodies on these two creeps.

Amazing bodies, average personalities.

What dicks.

Derek’s face goes from a scowl to a megawatt smile when his buddy Ben reappears. “Heads up, Cock Blocker, the cavalry has arrived.”

Cavalry? Cock Blocker?

I glance around—is he talking to me?

He must be drunk.

From behind, I feel a large hand gently gripping my shoulder, the sizzling weight of a heavy palm and splayed fingers reheating my upper torso. Surprised that someone is touching me from behind, my head swerves, gaze settling on a large, tan hand with square-tipped fingers covering my shoulder.

Short nails. Rough pads.

Manly.

My eyes trail up, following the arm attached to that hand. Travel upward, over a muscular, bare forearm. Lift their way to a set of wide shoulders. Meet an unsettling pair of curious green eyes, a strong, straight nose.

Full, downturned mouth.

Five o’clock shadow.

The human attached to the massive paw is just as handsome as the others, not in a beautiful way, like some athletes tend to be, but good-looking just the same. Add in the the fact that he’s the only other human here not wearing a ridiculous Halloween costume?

Major points.

Imposing and intense, his gaze beams down as his fingers give my shoulder a light squeeze, refocusing my attention on his face.

His eyes are a diluted green, crinkled at the corners with laugh lines, like he smiles easily when he’s not glowering at people.

Pillow-soft lips set in an unreadable, unhappy line, he’s irritated, but not in the same way his friends are. I can tell immediately that he’s friendlier, but right now he definitely means business.

Holy crap is he intense.

Broody, I wonder what his problem is and why he’s got my shoulder in a vice. What is it with these damn baseball guys? Why are they so grumpy? Did someone piss on their third place trophies?

My eyes widen when he dips his torso to get closer, warm breath brushing the outer shell of my ear. Leans down, broad chest grazing my back as that exquisite, pouty mouth speaks slowly into my cerebellum. Reverberates down my spine.

“Can you follow me for a quick second? I gotta talk to you.”

I shiver.

Inhale—of course I do—because he’s wearing cologne and it smells good and I can’t stop myself.

It’s what I do.

“Where do you want to talk?” My eyes stray to the front door, to the staircase leading to the second floor. To the kitchen, where I filched the water inside my cup and the bottle inside my bag. To the screened porch out back.

Cameron watches the exchange with rapid interest, eyes wide as mine, mouth twitching. She’s practically drooling, licking her lips.

“Over by the front door? This won’t take more than a few seconds. It’s too loud near the speakers to say what I have to say.”

What the hell could he possibly want?

And why is he so damn handsome?

I stare at the pronounced bow curving the top of his lip.

God, his voice. It’s deep and clear. Even with the pumping bass in the background, I can hear every syllable, the timbre sending an extra shiver of exhilaration down my spine.

“Just so you know, I’m fluent in karate.”

“Fluent in karate,” he deadpans, knowing I’m totally full of shit. “You don’t say?”

I slice through the air with my hands for good measure. “Yes, so make this quick.”

Warning bells go off inside my head, niggling at me, yet I trail along, curiosity and attraction getting the best of me. What could this guy possibly want?

God, what kind of idiot is persuaded so easily by a handsome face and sexy voice? Me—that’s what kind of idiot!

Me. I am.

I want to see what this cute guy wants and what’s going to come out of that pretty, perfect mouth of his. What’s the harm in following him to the corner of the room?

I mean—it’s the corner of the room. We’re not going outside, and he’s not taking me to one of the bedrooms. He can’t try anything in a room full of people. Plus, I took self-defense last semester, so I know where to knee a man to knock his ass down: right in the balls.

Grinning, I glance over my shoulder at Derek, at Ben.

Roll my eyes at them both. “I’ll hear you out, but no funny business or I’ll scream.”

“Funny business?” His tone is bored.

“Yeah—you know, assault.”

“Jesus, I’m not going to assault you. Could you lower your voice?” He glances around us to make sure no one heard, gauging the distance between the crowd and us. “Stay close, yeah?”

Yeah, yeah, whatever.

I nod, giving Tessa and Cam one last sidelong glance before prancing off after this stranger. They nod enthusiastically, encouraging me. Ogling him. Giggling.

The guy I’m following is big.

Bigger than the others, his presence parting the crowd like Moses at the Red Sea as we wade through, students evaporating so he can get by.

Who the hell is this guy?

I follow, gaze trained on his broad back. His muscles are unmistakably defined beneath his t-shirt, straining with every step he takes, every fluid movement, the cords of his neck visibly tense.

He has rich brown hair, lightened by the sun at the top, the back recently trimmed, lines precise. Short on the sides, slightly longer at the top, it’s a mop top I could easily imagine a girl running her fingers through.

He glances back at me again when he reaches the front door, yanks the handle, pushes the screen open to the porch.

I come up short. “You said this would only take a few seconds—why are we going outside?”

“It’s loud in here.” He yells to illustrate his point, pointing to his mouth like I can read lips.

I hesitate.

Poise my foot on the threshold, toe of my boot on the step before striding all the way out, cool air hitting me like a welcome force.

I breathe it in then out with a sigh of relief. God it feels so good.

“So…we’re outside.” I take the jacket out of my tote and slide both arms into it, zipping the front with a satisfying whirr. “And doesn’t this feel amazing? I was dying in there.”

He studies me under the porch lights, silently crossing his arms, a beer clutched in one huge hand.

No jacket, short sleeves, and a scowl.

I raise one brow, waiting.

He continues staring me down, wordlessly.

This guy is tall—good and tall—legs spread slightly, bulky arms crossed defensively. What I imagine a powerful baseball player stance to be, except without the uniform or glove.

I can’t take it anymore.

“What’s up? Did you see me across the room and decided I was irresistible? You just had to talk to me?” Haha. “Don’t tell me—you can’t resist a fuzzy brown sweater?” I try for brave and nonchalant, but my nerves betray me and my voice quivers.

His nose dips down, those brawny arms uncrossing, the cords in his forearms stretching. Claps his hands together like two giant cymbals, the noise echoing in the quiet yard.

“So, I’m just going to throw it down, all right? It’s nothing personal.”

Nothing good comes from sentences that begin with, ‘It’s nothing personal’, which is just a generic form of ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’

“It’s like this,” he continues. “The guys decided that for the rest of the night, you’re not allowed back in the house.”

“I’m sorry, what?” My voice raises a few octaves above my normal tone. “Why?”

His voice also goes up a few decibels. “The guys decided that for the rest of the night, you’re not allowed—”

I put my hand up so he’ll shut his gorgeous face. “Why?”

“What do you mean, why? Isn’t it obvious?”

Uh, no. “If I knew, I wouldn’t have been dumb enough to follow you out here, would I?”

“I’m not fucking around, sorry. You can’t go back—you’re being booted for the night.”

“Booted.” I snort. “By who?”

“By the guys. By me.”

“And who are you?”

“I’m their fearless leader—and the unlucky bastard that drew the short straw.”

My nose crinkles like I’ve just swallowed a Sour Patch Kid. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re running interference and it’s driving my friends fucking nuts. They want you gone. Hope you have all your personal shit.” He smiles, eyes catching the tote bag hanging off my shoulder. “Never mind, I see you brought a giant fucking suitcase along with you.”

Continue reading JOCK ROW by Sara Ney —>

LOVE SINCERELY YOURS

By Meghan Quinn and Sara Ney

Available October 9, 2018

PROLOGUE

PEYTON

Vivian: God, why is he such an asshole…?

Brielle: Don’t you think the better questions is, ‘Poor George, why is he never prepared?’

Peyton: George spends more time at the latte machine then his computer, that’s why—and look at how jolly he is. Like a cute little Santa Clause…

Vivian: Sigh. George’s wife makes the best apple pie.

Brielle: Oh crap, Vivian, look out, he’s coming for you.

“Vivian, what came out of your test study?” A man’s voice cuts into our our group chat and, unprepared, our co-worker stumbles to pull her notes up on her iPad.

Brielle: Shit, Viv is a goner.

Peyton: Oh I feel bad, she’s turning red.

Brielle: Yeah Viv, you’re turning SO red.

Peyton: Viv, you should see your ears…

Brielle: Maybe if the devil himself wasn’t breathing down her neck, she wouldn’t be sweating so much.

Peyton: To be fair, we are in the middle of a meeting—she should be prepared, not pretending to take notes but instead chatting online.

Brielle: Look how irritated he is. His nostrils are flaring.

Peyton: Yeah…look at his face. He looks like a dragon tempted to light the entire room on fire.

I turn to study it from my chair at the conference table, the long wooden slab a monolithic buffer between me and my boss. He’s at the head of this table, brandishing control and silver tongue over the room like a sharp sword.

No one is exempt from his contempt.

I watch as he reprimands my friend from the marketing department—her small office is two down from mine—laying both palms on the desk and leaning toward her.

“I have no new ideas to work with here. How the fu—” He stops himself from cursing midsentence, pausing to take a deep breath and starting over. Runs one of those large, masculine palms through his dark hair. “What the hell is it you do in your office all day? Stare out the damn windows waiting for inspiration? I want you outside for fucks sake—go climb a goddamn mountain. This is an outdoor adventures company, for fucks sake! Go outdoors!”

He pins a big, brawny guy named Branson with a hard, emotionless stare. “Innovations are your job, Branson. Take a tent out, set the fucking thing up, and find a way to improve it.”

He’s breathing hard, pissed off.

“Look. I know we’ve just come off the holiday season and everyone is beat—but if we don’t get some advances with our designs to boost sales, this fiscal year is going to end up being complete shit.”

He drones on, deep voice reverberating off the walls as we all sit silently, holding our breath.

Vivian: Uh, hey, guys? Do you think he still wants my notes?

Brielle: Fuck your notes, Viv—don’t say another word unless your “notes” are actual notes.

Peyton: Pretty sure you lost your moment before he stood up and starting pacing like a tiger at the zoo.

Vivian: Thank god—I had nothing new to ad.

I watch across the table as Vivian slouches with relief, a sly smile playing across her bubble gum painted lips. Her lithe fingers tap away at the cell phone she’s holding beneath the table, and I know her next message isn’t to us.

Brielle: Do you not have notes because you were so focused on flirting with the guy tet online that has—how did you put it…

Peyton: Meat steaks for pecs?

Brielle: Yeah, that guys. “Meat steak guy.”

Vivian: I can’t be accountable for my actions! I have to flirt!

Peyton: You don’t even know if he’s real.

Vivian: Who cares if he’s real—he’s the prefect distraction.

“I want everyone to crawl back to their hole of an office and pull an idea out of their ass by noon. This is the summer of ‘roughing it.’ Our target demographic—Harry can provide the data—is the millennial, and the yuppy. If you don’t know what a yuppy is, google it. If you can’t figure it out how to do that, clear the shit out of your desk.”

At the mention of his name, Harry blanches, an unattractive contrast to the muddy green color of his short sleeve plaid shirt. His neck turns a ruddy burgundy, which only serves to highlight the stubble his razor missed when he shaved this morning.

Brielle: Did you guys just see that? Harry wiped his brow, he’s legit sweating.

Peyton: Yeah, I saw that—gross. He looks like he’s about to barf—you heard what happened though, right?

Vivian: No, what happened?

Peyton: Rumor has it, the ad copy he proofed for Mountain Man Magazine had three errors in it.

Brielle: NO IT DID NOT!

Vivian: THREE?? Ohhhh shitttttt….

Peyton: Yes, three.

Our boss levitates Harry with a pair of eyes so gray I squirm, though they’re not directed anywhere in my direction.

Thank God.

Bossman holds up three fingers.

“How could you let three god-” He stops himself again, pushing his large, hand through his thick, ruffled hair. “How could you let three errors get through proofing? You had one job, Harry. One. Keep us from looking from looking illiterate.”

He has a point; an ad has no more than 100 words in it.

“I’m so sorry, Rome, I, uh, had a headache that day,” Harry fidgets with the handkerchief in his hand. It was given to him by his wife, embroidered with his initials and a heart that’s gag worthy sweet—too bad he’s using it to wipe the jittery sweat pouring from his temples.

It’s not a good look for Harry—or anyone for that matter.

“You’re giving me a headache.” Boss man surrenders to his chair, head in his hand.

“I’m sorry, Rome, I—”

“No, Harold, I’m the one that’s sorry.” His meaning couldn’t be more clear: I’m sorry I hired you. I regret it. I intent to fire you if you fuck up one more time. “There will be no more second chances.”

He straightens to his full height, addressing the room full of minions.

“For the love of all that’s holy—someone give me something by noon.”

My fingers, about to tap out another message to my friends, cease their mission.

It’s ten fifteen in the morning.

He wants ideas by noon.

I have an appointment with him at eleven.

Shit.

When my eyes up from the small screen cradled in my hands, they connect with a set of steel gray ones. Dark brows an expressionless line. Full lips, impassive.

He is so good-looking.

Beautiful, even.

Such a waste on a man so emotionally unattached.

Still.

When our eyes lock—a little too long to be coincidental—

heat rises up my chest, neck, then cheeks. Colors my entire face and has me reaching to press a palm there.

It’s warm, too.

I shiver.

I have an appointment with him at eleven.

And he isn’t going to like what I have to say.

CHAPTER 1

ROME

Why the fuck is she staring at me like that?

She hasn’t’ said a goddamn word in—I check my watch—three minutes.

Allowing the seconds to tick by despite her discomfort, or possibly because of it, I let the silence stretch in front of us unpleasantly long. Uncomfortable and challenging situations are what I do best, and I thrive on them.

Tic.

Tock.

No worries, my sardonic smile says at her. I have plenty of time. An entire twenty minutes penciled in just for her, per her request, to sit here pissing away my precious time. Waiting for her to open that pretty mouth and speak her mind.

Instead she shifts in her seat, the gray skirt she’s unable to tug down hugging her hips. It’s tight and prim, complimented by a stark, white button down shirt. Black glasses sit primly perched on the tip of her nose, the dark slash of eyebrows above their rims, raised in surprise.

She doesn’t look like any marketing coordinator I’ve ever met, and I certainly had no idea there was someone who looked like her working for me. Under me.

Four floors down.

She looks like a goddamn accountant. Or secretary. Or the principal of an east coast prep school.

I swivel in my leather chair before plucking a pen off my desk and pinching it between my fingers, studying it with half hooded eyes.

Feign boredom.

I’m anything but.

Click the end cap once, twice, watching this woman’s large brown eyes track my movements from the other side of this mammoth desk. Her brows pinch, thinly veiled patience wearing thin.

Peyton.

Shit, when I saw her name in appointment calendar, I assumed the person walking through the door would be a male. Imagine my surprise when the delicate wrist gently knocking on my doorframe belonged to the woman seated at my conference table this morning.

She’d been on her cell phone during that meeting, I’d bet my right nutsac on it.

I glance down at the sheet of paper at stare at each letter of her name; I’ve never had a sit down, or meeting, with this woman a single time she’s been with my company.

Five years.

Even with a solid track record for results (according to my secretary’s snooping), she’s never once been in my office. Peyton somethingorother, whose last name I can’t fucking pronounce and won’t bother to try.

Why bother? She has one prissy foot out the door of the company I built.

I part my lips and put us both out of our misery. “Does your supervisor know you’re here?”

“Not yet.” She begins, spine straightening, breasts straining against the starched shirt. “I wanted…” she pauses, inhaling a nervous breath.

“Why didn’t you go to HR first? That’s protocol.”

I like being direct. Favor bluntness over candy coated bullshit, no matter what the flavor someone is trying to feed me.

“I wanted to give you my two week notice in person. I thought it would be personable.”

Personable.

Is she fucking serious? Who does that?

“You’re quitting. Do you think I give a shit about being personable?” Or polite? Or her trying to be considerate?

Those traits have no place in this office.

It’s an office not a daycare center; we’re here to make money, not pander to hurt feelings.

Another pause from Peyton before her shaky breath says, “I thought since it was your company, it would behoove me to not burn any bridges down.”

Behoove.

Isn’t she just fucking adorable? I suddenly imagine her from a small town in the middle of nowhere USA, where parents teach their children manners and spend quality time together on the weekends. Family movie nights and all that feel-good bullshit.

I snort, clicking my pen.

Peyton. What kind of a name is that?

A man’s name, that’s what.

“You didn’t want to burn down any bridges.” I repeat with a sneer, thumbing the cream colored paper she’d set down on my desk upon entering. Her letter of resignation, printed out on resume paper. “I don’t just burn down bridges, I drain the rivers and fill them with concrete.”

Then I go camping along the banks of the rivers remains; I own an outdoor adventure company, so finding a tent would be easy.

Peyton’s mouth puckers, surprised or shocked or disgusted by my candor, I can’t tell.

I skim the paper in my hands. “It doesn’t say where you’re headed next. Do you not have need for a letter of recommendation? Because I must say, Peyton,” I lean back in my chair, letting it squeak on its rusted old hinges. “Quitting is a piss poor way of wringing one out of me.”

Her head shakes, the dark hair pulled back in a tidy bun at the nap of her neck doesn’t budge an inch. All it’s missing is a hair net.

I let my eyes drift from the tips of her shiny leather heels to the collar of her starched dress shirt.

Narrow my eyes. “Do you always dress like that for work?”

She glances down at her blouse, touching a pearl button fastened against her throat. “When I have an important meeting, yes.”

“It’s a goddamn outdoor adventures company and you have a librarian bun in your hair.”

She stiffens, eyes falling to the blue silk tie knotted around my throat; the broad shoulders of my suit coat, no doubt labeling me a hypocrite. Tough shit, it’s my company. I do what ever the fuck I want, and I too have an important meeting this afternoon with advertisers. I’m not about to show up in a goddamn lumberjack plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to my elbows.

Peyton fiddles with a gold, hoop earring. “I thought our meeting warranted a little extra effort this morning.”

“Well you could have saved yourself the trouble. When someone quits on Roam, Inc., I no longer have use for their time.”

“But Rome, I was hoping…” She uses my first name instead of my last, lifting an arm, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear that isn’t there; a nervous habit she can’t partake in because it’s pulled back in that damn matronly bun. “I came in to suggest that though I’m striking out on my own, my services could still be of use to you.”

“Your services?” A chuckle escapes my lips despite myself, lips settling into a sneer.

When I think services, my mind goes immediately into the gutter: escorts and blow jobs and loose woman. Sue me for immediately thinking about sex.

She must read my thoughts reflected in my eyes, because hers flutter and the skin on her exposed neck ignites to a hot red.

“My design services, yes. I’m finally—”

Agitated by the excited glint in her eye, I cut her off. She’s leaving and has the balls to begin a pitch for her sub-contract work?

I don’t fucking think so, sweetheart.

“We’ll manage just fine without you, I’m sure.” I lean forward, hands folded on my desktop, sleeves of my dress shirt cuffed and rolled to my elbows. “I’m not successful because I spend my time sensitivity training the shit out of everyone who needs it. This is a business, not a hobby. And since you insisted on this little meeting, let me fill you in on something; a valuable lesson that might come in handy for your next job, if you will.”

“I-Im listening.”

I level Peyton with a hard stare. “If you think for one second you’re going to work for a competitor, think again.”

I shift the papers on my desk, jabbing my finger at her non-compete contract; the one she signed the first week she came onboard at Roam, Inc.

It’s ironclad and irrevocable for one year after the termination of her employment, and I’m not afraid to enforce it.

Yup. I’d take her for everything she was worth if she went to work for the competition.

Her chin lifts a fraction. “I would never.”

My lip curls into a smile. “That’s what everyone says.”

She stares at my mouth a few heartbeats before shaking her head. “I won’t be working for anyone again—I’m finally going to work for myself. And if you can’t respect that, I guess I underestimated you.”

I lean forward, clasping my hands on the desk. “Underestimated me?”

“I thought you were progressive. As someone that started their own company from the ground up, I thought maybe you’d give me a chance.” She stands, handing me a manila folder. “My graphic design work is good. Fantastic even. If you can’t see that, then, well. You…you’re a…”

My brows raise into my hairline. “I’m a what?”

“An ass.”

When she’s gone, I fiddle with the mouse of my laptop, scrolling through the company contacts. Click on her name. Hit enter.

PEYTON

The sound of Rome Blackburn’s door closing behind me startles me out of my stupor. Out of the haze of delusion I’d somehow created and been surrounding myself with the past few weeks, thinking maybe—just maybe—he’d want to hire me on as a contractor once I left the company.

I was betting on him giving me a chance.

What the hell just happened in there?

Did I just march into Mister Outdoor Adventures office to resign with an envelope full of designs? To pitch him my new company? To stare at the strong set of his jaw while he rattled off insults?

I did.

Oh God, I did.

And I called him an ass—to his face. Honestly, the look on his face will be burned into my brain forever. And I doubt insulting him will bode well for me in the slightest. Talk about not wanting to burn bridges . . .

But he didn’t even let me get a word in edgewise.

Well maybe a few—a stutter here and there.

Good job, Peyton, way to represent the future of Fresh Minted Designs by losing your backbone when you needed it the most. How is that going to help you succeed?

“How’d it go?”

I breeze past the front reception girl, her voice stopping me with a staged whisper. She’s leaning over her the cold stone counter, glancing up and down the hall—then back at me, crooking her finger so I’ll come closer.

“Well? How did it go, you weren’t in there long.”

I glance toward Rome Blackburn’s office, my face defeated. “Not as I expected. And now I know where he gets his last name from.”

His personality is as black as his soul.

Wincing, Lauren motions with her finger for me to come closer, still. I have nothing better to do since I just quit, so I follow her little command, resting my hip against her granite reception counter with a loud sigh.

She grimaces. “That bad, huh?”

“Worse.”

“I didn’t hear any shouting—how bad could it have been?”

My brows shoot up. “Shouting?”

“Well yeah—you’re leaving. You quit. Rome Blackburn doesn’t take kindly to people leaving the company.”

As if I needed to be told; I just witnessed it first hand.

“Were you able to give him your two-weeks notice?”

“No. The conversation tanked when he started talking about my non-compete.”

Lauren laughs, clicking away at her keyboard. “Yeah, he usually has people clean out their desk on the spot when they intend to leave. Don’t be surprised if there’s a box already packed by the time you reach your desk.”

“Oh really? I never would have guessed.” The words drip from my mouth, coated in sarcasm I can’t conceal, but my stomach drops.

I hope he lets me stay; I need this last two weeks.

“He’s built this company on blood, sweat, and tears from the ground—”

I lean over to pat Lauren on shoulder. “Sweetie, I know. You don’t have to defend him. I get it. It’s nothing personal, it’s business. I just wish he would have given me more of a chance to—”

Down the corridor, a door opens.

His door.

Lauren’s back goes rigid; her fingers immediately begin flying faster across her keyboard.

I freeze.

My shoulders stiffen, back straightens, senses kick on, suddenly on high alert.

His cologne is sharp and masculine—with an air of power, mixed into one unmistakable and ridiculously intoxicating scent and what the hell am I even saying?

Rome Blackburn is woods and rivers and adventure.

He is excitement.

He is an asshole.

Rome Blackburn is a freaking. Prick.

The energy in the entire room shifts in the hallway. Commanding steps move toward Lauren and I, stopping just behind me.

“Ms Lll…” He stops, unable to pronounce my last name, and not even attempting to try. “What are you still doing here? Don’t you have two weeks notice to give to your supervisor?”

He’s not making me clean out my desk. He’s not making me clean out my desk!

“It’s Lévêque.” It’s pronounced le-veck.

“What is?”

“My last name.”

Sharp, intense green eyes narrow, five o’clock shadow covering his strong, chiseled jaw. Rome crosses his arms, biceps straining against the expensive fabric of his blue, button down shirt, feet a shoulder width apart. The stance makes the room feel smaller, tighter, sucking all the air.

“Le veck,” he repeats, testing it on his lips. His gorgeous, pouty lips.

“Yes.”

“Then why the hell don’t you spell it that way?”

“It’s French.”

His eyes narrow even further—if that were possible—

jaw ticking, thrumming an irritated beat as he sticks his hand in his pocket.

“Lauren, please show Ms Fancy Pants Le-Veck to the elevator, the clock is ticking on her time here.”

“Yes, Mr. Blackburn.” Flicking an apologetic look my way, his secretary stands, hastening to do his bidding, guiding me hastily to the elevators twenty feet in front of her desk, hands on my shoulders, propelling me forward.

“I’m so sorry. We’ll talk more later,” she whispers, her ruby red nail poking at the down button; the doors automatically slide open, revealing the interior black and chrome walls.

Stepping in, I turn around and press my floor button, four levels down.

“Human Recourses first Ms Fancy Pants,” Rome calls out the reminder with a smirk. “It’s that way.”

He points toward the ceiling.

Jerk.

God he’s good-looking.

Tall, with wide shoulders and tapered waist, the best part about him is his broody demeanor. I am attracted to it like bee’s to honey; it intrigued me to no end.

As the doors of the elevator begin to shut, Rome steps into view, hands tucked into the pockets of his perfectly pressed trousers and watches me, scowl etched across his beautiful dark brows.

Just because I feel the need to be pleasant—despite how rude he’s treated me—I mouth the words, “Thank you, Mr. Blackburn,” as the door slide closed in front of me.

Smile to myself, knowing I had the last word.

Smile as the door shut me in.

Only when they close do I slump my shoulders and lean against the wall for support, letting out a ragged breath.

Giving your two-weeks notice is difficult enough—giving it directly to a man like that?

Harder.

That could have gone better.

It went exactly nothing like I’d imagined when I played out the scenario in my mind. Or when I’d rehearsed the speech I was going to give to my dog, a rescue mutt I’d named Scott, because I think it’s hilarious giving my pets people names.

“Scott and Mister Blackburn—thanks so much for seeing me today, I know your time is valuable.” I’d cleared my throat. “Oh, what’s that? You like my skirt? (giggle) Thank you so much, I picked it out just for you.”

But he hadn’t liked my skirt; he’d made fun of it. I’d stuttered over myself, hadn’t been able to give him my pitch, and fallen flat on my face.

I had visions of how much better that could have been. Dreams actually.

Praise and gratitude were supposed to be thrown my way. Excitement for a new partnership. For growth! Maybe some high fives or at least a few professional handshakes or a fist bump to seal the deal!

I adjust my tweed, tight-fitted pencil skirt, feeling the hug of the fabric and slit up the back, allowing for some breathing room. Pluck open the top two buttons of my stifling shirt.

Embarrassed from the gauntlet I just ran through, I make my way back to small office, that’s really just a glorified cubicle, passing many on-looking and incredibly nosey co-workers.

Leave the door open.

Squeaky wheels adjust against the plastic chair mat that protects the carpet of the office, rolling forward as I sit down. Leaning forward, I grip my forehead with one of my hands and replay the meeting over and over in my head.

Rome Blackburn’s casual, yet intimidating stance. The pinch of his long fingers as he fiddled with that damn pen. My eyes as they roamed to the taper of his waist of his well-tailored pants as he watched the elevator doors close on me. The simple mess of his hair, pushed in all different directions, as if moments ago he was pulling on the silky brown strands, making a decision for the fortune 500 company he’s created from the ground up.

And those eyes.

Dark brows hooded over pools of complex green, that for once, I’d been close enough to discover the color of.

Mossy, they’d gotten darker as he’d gotten more irritated with me.

With me.

Ugh.

Rome Blackburn is callous, brash, and calculating. Yet, in that brief moment we’d stared at each other, I saw it—

saw a fleeting look of vulnerability behind his tough exterior.

A glimmer of—

Knock, knock.

The wrap of knuckles sound on the top of my cubicle wall, and before I even look up, I know it’s my best friend Genevieve.

“Well. How did it go?” Genevieve works in IT, the technical side of Roam, Inc, and has been incredibly supportive of me leaving the company to start one of my own. A branding and consulting firm.

Gen sits on a small filing cabinet in my office, smooth legs crossed and ready to listen.

Spinning slowly in my chair, I angle toward her. Purse my lips. “How do you think it went?”

Her face contorts. “I’m going to guess not so well?” She phrases it like a question. “Mister Blackburn doesn’t seem like an understanding kind of guy. He’s too pissed off all the time.”

Understatement of the year.

“God, Gen, I wussed out so hard. I’m so embarrassed—and I didn’t even get to talk about my idea or my plans.” I shake my head. “What he hell was I thinking? Rome Blackburn legit cut me off before I could even get my words out of my mouth.” I laugh some more, finding the meeting more comical with each passing breath.

“At least it’s a pretty mouth,” my friend teases.

“He didn’t even know my last name, which means he had no idea who I was. Awesome.”

That gathers a chuckle from Genevieve. “He seems so refined, how could he mess up your last name?”

“He couldn’t pronounce it so he didn’t bother saying it.” I shrug. “Or maybe it was his way of jabbing me with one last insult before I left.”

Dutiful and supportive, my friend rubs my back.

“All it did was make him look like an ass.” Her high heeled shoe bounces up and down. “Hey. Listen. Forget about him—you’re leaving and you’re going to some serious kick ass when you’re out there, hustling all these companies, making a name for yourself, he’s going to be sorry he passed on you.”

I shake my head mirthfully. “He is not. You’re so stupid.”

Genevieve considers that a compliment. “I’m telling you, he’ll be sorry.”

Picking up a paperclip, I play with the metal and undo its shape—a nervous tick of mine. When I was younger, I’d shove the metal in my mouth against my teeth and pretend it was braces. I’m older now, so I set the bent metal back on my desk. “Any gossip I need to know about lately?”

Genevieve knows everything. And, in my opinion, has the best job in the company.

She monitors the instant messaging accounts, watching for any kind of misconduct or misuse of time. Creates new employee accounts and emails. Deletes old ones. Takes random screenshots of co-worker’s desktops.

Basically, she is the eyes and ears of Roam, Inc.

The best part of her job? No one knows exactly what she does; they just think she sets up work phones and fixes their computers every now and again—so she can dig up some real dirt on people.

“Hmmm,” she hums, taping a finger against her chin. “Calvin over in finance has a girlfriend getting implants this Monday, and he’s paying for the entire thing.”

“You’re lying.”

She shakes her head.

I quietly laugh, slightly jealous, my shoulders shaking. “What about Rose and Blaine?”

She takes a mint from my candy dish and pops it in her mouth, the crinkle of the wrapper rolling in her fingers before she tosses it in the trash can next to my desk.

“Still in a stand-off. He won’t admit to crushing on her, and she won’t admit to kissing him when they were drunk at the last office party. Looks like good old fashion stubbornness is going to get in their way of true love.”

“Such a shame.” Toss my paper clip in the trash, grabbing another one. “And Sally up in payroll? Is she still talking shit about me to Jessica?”

Genevieve rolls her bright blue eyes. “Always. Said you were dressed like a tramp today and went to the top floor today to try to fuck the boss.” She emits a soft snort. “As if anyone would want to go near that icicle dick.”

I bite the corner of my lip, eyes cast down. I don’t know, someone might want to fuck him.

In fact, I could name one person off the top of my head in an instant.

Me.

Me, me, me.

I would do Rome Blackburn in a heartbeat.

My friend chatters on, oblivious.

“Hey!” She perks up, sitting up ramrod straight on the desk. “Are we all still on for tomorrow night? Thirtieth birthday celebration!” She claps her hands, excited.

Some people might dread turning thirty, but not me.

I’m excited to be out of my twenties and I’m ready to be taken more seriously. I’m ready to have my own business, I’m ready for this new chapter in my life, despite the slightly negative start to it.

“We’re on. I need a stiff drink.”

My friend snickers. “A stiff drink and a stiff cock inside you.”

“Trust me, that’s not going to happen.”

“Why not?”

Because. I’m saving it for someone who doesn’t want me back: Rome Blackburn.

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