Amanda

“ANDREW!” I call into the kitchen. “It’s starting!” It’s the final day of our honeymoon–such as it is–and I’m taking every last hour of time with my guy.

Which means torturing him.

“I told you I don’t want to watch it.” He walks out carrying a soda and glares at the screen as if it tried to change contract terms at the last minute in a merger at work.

“Someone’s doing a one-hour show on billionaire preppers and you don’t want to watch? Come on!”

“That’s exactly why I don’t want to watch it. Let me guess: the opening credits show a helicopter, diamonds, and a guy in a red Ferrari.”

I look at the screen.

Damn it.

“Close! No Ferrari. He’s getting a giant Hummer.”

“Are you sure this time it’s not you watching YouPorn?”

“ANDREW!”

He comes into the living room laughing and plops down on the sofa next to me. “You said he was getting a giant hummer. Where’s the blow job?”

I point to the screen. “They’re at a custom-outfitter auto shop. The billionaire is getting his Hummer re-designed for the apocalypse.”

He squints at the screen. “Who is the billionaire? Anyone I know?”

“Some twenty-four-year-old named Raji Mahara. Designed a social network for pets.”

“I’m doing this billionaire thing wrong,” he mutters as it becomes my turn to laugh.

It’s the very last day of our honeymoon, and so far we’ve been interrupted twice by the crew while trying to have sex in our bedroom, interrupted once while trying to have sex in Andrew’s study, and unsuccessfully tried to have sex in the treehouse but the poison ivy guy interrupted us there, too.

Frustrated and edgy, we’re trying to watch television now, waiting for the final hour of activity to cease in the house. Then we can get sweaty and naked and cap off these two weeks with a bang.

Or seventeen.

“I have no desire to live in a post-disaster world without being completely safe,” Raji says on the television, the scene cutting to what looks like his home. He’s surrounded by a tennis court, a pool, his new Hummer (with solar panels on top), and a pack of German shepherds that bark until the sound people somehow mute them. “I’ve worked hard and the world will need visioneers, especially after societal collapse.”

“What’s a visioneer?” I ask Andrew.

“A dudebro who cashed out his options and thinks he’s the smartest guy in the world,” he says through clenched teeth.

“Oh.”

“This guy is a total douchebag. His location is now public record. When the ‘societal collapse’ he’s preparing for happens, where do you think desperate people will go? He’ll be mobbed. All his preparations are for nothing.”

I turn back to the screen as the interviewer, a blonde, overdone woman I vaguely remember as a teen actress when I was a kid, asks Raji, “What about weapons? How will you prepare yourself?”

“Why would I need a weapon?” he says, looking at the screen, clearly loving the attention. “I have security staff.”

Andrew starts choking on his soda.

“Don’t worry, dear,” I say, patting his thigh. “You have me to protect you.”

Now he really gags.

Before I realize it, I’m on my back, half across the sofa, legs pinned by his body, his mouth an inch from mine. “We’ve been trying to have sex all day. I am the human equivalent of a vibrator right now, humming away in a drawer with nothing to slide into. You are insulting my ego and forcing me to watch a stereotype of a stereotype on the television in my own home where I can’t even have a quickie with my own damn wife.” His breath smells like cola, cool and refreshing.

I ache for his mouth and reach up.

He moves away.

“Not here.” The pneumatic whine of a drill in the next room splinters my arousal.

“Where?”

“Now?”

“Yes. Now.”

He blinks rapidly, thinking, still suspended over me. It feels illicit to have him so intimately attached to me when the electrician is re-wiring in the next room.

“Got it,” he says, suddenly off me, lifting me to my feet by taking my hands in his and pulling up. My breasts feel sensitive and light, aching for his touch, as he adds, “Get your shoes and purse.”

“We’re–we’re leaving?”

“Yes.”

“Where to?”

“A place I know is private.”

I sidle up to him, grab his ass, and whisper, “Are we finally going back to Walden Pond to have sex on the shore?”

He stiffens in every way possible. “That wasn’t my plan.” He looks outside. “And it’s raining.”

“Darn. We’ll have to go for your idea.”

“Trust me.” He pulls me into his arms and gives me a toe-curling kiss. “My idea is fabulous.”

“As long as we’re not having sex with a chocolate dong in the room with us, I’m fine.”

He shudders. “Don’t bring up Vegas again.”

“I do miss the vagina steamers at the spa.”

“I am more than capable of warming that part of your body.”

And with that, he pulls me out to the Tesla. We’re on the road, headed toward the highway, when I realize where we’re going.

“The condo? We’re going to the condo?” When I met Andrew, he lived in a highrise on the water in the Seaport District. Since we bought the house in Weston, we don’t go there. He insisted on keeping it, which is fine–money isn’t an issue. And while he sometimes stays there when he has a series of late-night conference calls, I never do.

I love the big house.

Slapping his forehead, he mutters, “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before.”

“I can. The whole point of these two weeks was to remodel. Why would we leave the house?”

“All those contractors have cockblocked us. Why wouldn’t we escape to the condo?” he points out.

“Because that would have been cheating.”

“Cheating on... who? What?”

“Cheating on the whole point of the honeymoon.”

“I thought the point of honeymoons was sex!” he shouts, merging onto the 95/128 belt like he’s driving a racecar, eyes on the road but attention on me.

“Don’t yell at me!”

“I’m not yelling at you!” he yells. “I’m yelling at two weeks of being interrupted half the time we tried to get freaky.”

“Our sex is not freaky.”

“It’s about to be,” he assures me, breaking the weird tension and sending us both into laughter.

The drive down to the Mass Pike is easy, a surprise to me. Then again, it’s late afternoon on a Sunday. No rush hour. We merge onto the Pike and he clears his throat.

“What did you think of Ellie last night?” he asks.

“Adorable. As always.” I reach for his right hand, holding it loosely in case he needs it to drive.

“She is. Shannon and Declan seem happy. Tired, but happy.”

He has an agenda here. It’s pretty obvious.

“Andrew, do you want a baby?”

“Of course.” His eyes cut over to mine. “Don’t you?”

“Sure. But not just because they have one, and you want one so you can be even with your brother.”

“That’s not why I want one.”

“Then why?”

“Because when I hold Ellie, I feel an emotion I’ve never experienced before. A groundedness. I’m enough, right there. Enough. Nothing more, nothing less. I’m not striving or competing. When I make her smile or calm her down, I feel more powerful than I do in any boardroom.” He gives a self-deprecating shrug. “Sounds silly.”

My eyes are full of tears, unbidden and unexpected, the wellspring of joy inside me unmeasurable. “It’s the opposite of silly,” I assure him, voice shaking.

“Not sure it’s a good enough reason to start having kids right now.”

“I think it’s better than most people’s reasons, Andrew. By far.” Squeezing his hand feels inadequate. I want to hug every inch of him, wrap myself against his body, entwine our limbs and get our hearts as close to each other as possible until they beat in sync.

Until we’re almost one person.

The only other way to make my body part of his is to perform conception alchemy and have a baby. DNA combines in mysterious ways, but the end result is mostly predictable. Having a child together holds ripe potential, the sense of unknown overwhelmed by the certainty of the direction we want to go.

“Can we talk about this seriously?” he asks.

“I thought we were.”

His eyes widen, throat moving with a swallow, left hand on the steering wheel, right hand in mine. I memorize the details, blinking only as needed, because this moment is a turning point.

We’re already us.

And we’re talking about adding more to us.

“Are you ready to start trying?” His question is soft. Inquisitive. There’s no right or wrong answer. I can feel his exploration in it. This isn’t a binary question with only two endpoints. So much fills the space between yes and no.

That ambiguity is normally horrible to navigate for someone like me, who lives and dies by project management tools, spreadsheets with clear results, the outlines and checklists that define my day. My progress. My achievements. My failures.

The boundaries of my life.

And yet ambiguity holds its own answers. The questions themselves are divining rods, leading the way to a better goal than any we could pick without faltering in uncharted lands.

“Am I ready? I’m ready to talk about it,” I finally tell him, reveling in his patience as I take time to think.

“What kind of a father do you think I’ll be?” The unexpected question turns my mind into a blank sheet of paper, smooth and full of promise but devoid of any starting point.

“Father?”

“Declan’s a father now. My dad is the only role model I have. Your father is... well...”

“In prison. Right. And I barely knew him.”

“You’ve said Jason was more of a father to you than any other man. My dad can be a bastard but he’s always been there. And Dec and Terry have a different relationship with him than I do.”

“Do you want to parent like James did?”

“Hell, no.” All of the uncertainty in his voice is gone like a fingersnap. “The only similarities will be handing down the last name, teaching my kids to manage the company, and being a presence. Otherwise, smack me upside the head if I ever start to act like my dad.”

“I’ll be a mother,” I say, breathless at the end of the word, as if it’s attached to an invisible fishing line and someone else is pulling it out of me.

“Your mom is great.”

“She is. I’m sure yours was, too.”

He just smiles, making the turn off the Pike, headed toward the condo. Traffic’s light tonight, so we’re making good time. Why do the heaviest conversations always seem to take place in cars?

“The remodeling has me thinking. Holding Ellie has me thinking. But no amount of thinking is as important as what I’m feeling. What you’re feeling,” he says, turning to me. The red light holds steady, so as we sit there in the car, idling, I breathe. Each breath takes me deeper, pulling him into me, making the yearning truer.

I want what he wants.

I do want more us.

A bigger us.

“I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a beautiful waterfall,” I tell him, staring at his profile, a dual consciousness taking over my mind. I’m speaking but also wondering what our baby will look like. Ellie resembles Declan so clearly. Would our child have my eyes? Andrew’s nose?

“And a hot breeze fills my face, gentle, caring people urging me to dive in, to cross over, to let the mother’s embrace of the water soothe and comfort me, infuse me with joy. Everyone’s laughing and their eyes are so loving. All I have to do is move my body, open up, say yes to the great risk of jumping without a net. Without a tether. Into the wide, open space where destiny isn’t a goal–it’s who I am.”

The light turns green. Someone behind us honks. Andrew startles and presses the accelerator, jaw tight, shoulders low as he breathes deeply.

“Go on.”

“Most people have to wait until life aligns with conception. Money, jobs, debt–all of that. And then other people just get pregnant and don’t plan it at all. Just happens. It’s weird to be in neither of those camps. We get to choose every single step we take, consciously. Nothing holds us back.”

He smiles.

“Damn it,” I add.

“What do you mean, ‘damn it’? That’s good!”

“Sometimes too many choices make life even harder.”

“Only if you don’t know who you are at the core, Amanda.”

And with that, he pulls into our parking garage, settling the Tesla in place right near the elevator. Someone who works here will plug it in, clean it up, and tend to it with the same loving care that horse owners exhibit for their beloved companions.

We walk around our respective sides of the car and meet at the elevator, hands linking without thought. The ride up is reflective, tentative, and filled with an untapped sense of urgency and eagerness.

Is tonight the night?

“Even if I stop taking my pills, it takes four to six weeks before my body could conceive. Or, at least, they say you should wait that long. You have to use condoms because we wouldn’t want to make a baby while the pill’s hormones are still in me and–”

He kisses me to shut me up.

Or maybe for a few other reasons.

Talking about babies has me revved up. I know we can’t, literally, conceive a baby with birth control hormones rushing through my bloodstream, but the potential is there. The needle just moved in that conversation, and as he kisses me, we’re closer than we’ve ever been before to having a baby.

Possibilities are potent. To people like me, who like to fix problems and understand systems, they represent the end point of a long journey that could be taken so many different ways. The paths are endless but they are significant: the best way is the goal. Achieving the goal itself isn’t enough.

You need to do it well. Every step matters.

Like making a baby. A family. A future.

“You’re a million miles away,” he whispers into my ear, his nose brushing against my hair, my back against the brushed stainless steel wall of the elevator car.

“I’m right here,” I assure him. “Just thinking.”

“My kiss isn’t enough to clear your thoughts?”

“It’ll take more than that,” I inform him, tapping my temple. “There’s a lot to clear up here.”

“Then I’d better get started,” he says, cupping my breast with fingers laden with intent, all good, all sensual, all for me.

And just then, the doors open.

He grabs my hand and directs me to the condo. Until we bought the estate, this was his home. Nicely decorated in a nautical theme, but nothing like the Weston estate. A bachelor pad. A way station.

An in-between point.

From behind, his body presses into me, his hands on both ass cheeks, moving up, savoring the moment and trust me, there’s plenty for him to savor.

“You have the best ass,” he murmurs against my neck, kissing my shoulder, his hot, hard thighs pressing against my hips, his hot, hard something else sliding up against me, making promises I know we’re about to keep. Between his lips, his rock-hard body, and those hands moving around to engulf me, thumbs on nipples, teasing me to a frenzy, all I know is I want him. Naked, hot, in me.

Now.

His hands slide into my waistband, the crossing of that line so titillating, so sensuous. We live lives made of thousands of boundaries, socially appropriate litmus tests that help us to define our edges. Having this man cross those lines because I’ve invited him in is a moment of beauty, of release, of letting go of the lines that define – and bind.

I close my eyes and give in to his touch, taking all he offers, his fingers moving to give me pleasure, my breath suddenly gone, abandoning my lungs to make room for what Andrew does to me.

Breathing is an automatic response, but I have to remind myself to do it, hyperaware as heat floods me, his touch focused. He grins against my neck, the sublime torment making my knees turn numb, then give.

Andrew lifts me into his arms and as clichéd as can be, carries me to bed. Our bed. It used to be his, but now and forever it is ours, in this place that is, like so much of our life, between phases.

We haven’t been here in a while, but my mind orients itself. There is the sliding glass door with the view of the bay. Here is the white and blue striped duvet, the cool cotton welcoming me as Andrew strips off my shirt, his bare chest eye-level to me now as we move faster and faster to unwind, undress, unmoor in order to unleash ourselves from our personal restraints and join together.

My hips rise up as I hurriedly strip off my clothes and soon, but not soon enough, here we are, that first moment of full, naked embrace more delicious than any other. It’s the sense of there you are that comes each time we do this, every night we fall into bed with lust.

Every. Single. Time.

Will it fade over time? I take his face in my hands and find him staring back with the same questions, those deep eyes telling me the questions don’t matter. As his mouth finds my breast and his lips and tongue take the words away, I seek him out, too, palms and fingers dancing over his skin, encouraging him to join me, touch me, be with me, fall into the space we have here, away from the world, because it is ours.

No one else’s.

Moving to my other breast, Andrew flashes me a brief look of dark need, the kind that instantly jolts my sense of propriety. He has this way of making me feel like all of the carnal pleasures of the world are right and good and just, and letting him show me is the path to righteousness. He’s big, powerful, muscles shining in the dark as the moon is the only light we have in here, and when I reach down, enjoying the way he groans, deep in his throat, when I wrap my fingers around his erection, I know I’m powerful, too.

“Every time I think I can’t want you more, I’m surprised,” he says as I move down his body, licking his skin, tasting the essence of this man who has changed my life for the better in so many ways. His abs curl, hardening at my feathery touch, and when I envelop him with my mouth he groans, hands finding my hair, fingers thanking me.

Sooner than I anticipate, he moves me over him, pivoting our bodies so that his mouth can do the same to me, his tongue finding the spot on me that makes me start to shake, our mutual pleasure hard to maintain as receiving and giving become too twinned, too hard to extract from each other. That is a point of making love, isn’t it? To forget where you end and they begin. To make all boundaries to pleasure dissolve.

The sense of pure excitement and deep restfulness Andrew elicits in me is an inner paradise I cannot compare with any external experience. We move without speaking, knowing it’s time for him to come into me, for me to wrap around him, for the joining to be as complete as possible because it is all we have.

Andrew’s mouth finds mine, the taste of me on him, the tangy connection making me smile against his lips. He pauses, looming over me, eyes amused.

“What?”

“This. You. Us. We spent the last two weeks on the weirdest honeymoon possible, and we had to escape our own home to make love.”

“We chose this, Amanda. Just like I chose you.” His hands move over me, roaming as he exhales, a long, ragged sound of pent-up craving. “I love you. You know that. And I love this.”

At his last words, he enters me, the feeling slow and filling, wet and all-consuming. As a boat moves in the distance, the bass tones of its horn filling the air, I hear the sounds of the city below, the push of the ocean, the hush of Andrew’s breath in my ear, the steady, sonorous sound of his heartbeat filling my blood.

We crash together, complete and hungry, sated and relieved, yet left with the unrelenting reality that we have limits to how close we can be to each other in these bodies made of mortal skin and bone. Our energy, though, is endless.

And lives on and on in love.

* * *

Morning light wakes me up, one arm around Andrew’s naked waist, fingers casually brushing against part of his happy trail, the ticklish feel a delightfully domestic way to start the day. My other arm is curled under my pillow, propping up my head. A piece of hair is stuck to my lip. Which hand do I use?

Splaying my palm against his bare belly, I enjoy the feel of him. Post-sex sleep is the absolute best. Waking up naked and sticky and tasting of him is even better.

Habit makes me sit up and turn to my nightstand, reaching for my purse for my birth control pills. And then I remember last night. Our conversation in the car.

Andrew lets out a long, stretchy sigh, turning over with kinetic force driven by a man who needs to pump blood throughout his limbs. One limb is standing firmly at attention, the male experience of morning wood still amusingly fascinating to me.

“Hello,” he says with a sexy, hazy grin. “What are you doing?”

“Contemplating.”

“It’s too early for that. C’mere.” I do as I’m told and lean down for a kiss. His mouth gives me a morning hello I can’t ignore.

“What are you contemplating?”

“My pill.”

“Your pill?”

“It’s in my purse. In the living room.”

“Is it? What are you – oh.” His voice goes low. Eyes go soft. Then they light up. “Really?”

“Really, what?”

“You’re really considering stopping it?”

“We talked about it last night,” I say quickly, feeling foolish. “I guess I misunderstood. I was just – ”

I’m silenced with an even better kiss.

“We did talk about it last night,” he says, serious and tender, taking my hand in his, looking at it carefully as he entwines our fingers, one by one, as if taking vows. “Have you come to a decision?”

“It’s not my decision. It’s ours.”

“Then let’s decide.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Now.”

“It feels like an easy choice. And then I feel like it shouldn’t be so easy. That if it’s easy, it’s wrong, and if it’s wrong, it’s – ”

Another kiss silences me.

“Amanda,” he says, those topaz eyes changing color as I lose myself in them, his mouth luscious and tasting like all those possibilities I’ve felt my entire life about love. “What do you want?”

“You.”

“I know that. What else? I already know what I want.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want, Andrew?”

He shows me.

Unequivocally.

But then again, that’s the man I married: he knows what he wants.

And now, so do I.

Thank you so much for reading about Andrew and Amanda’s honeymoon! To learn more about my future books, release dates, to read excerpts and to get the lowdown on special sales, join my newsletter by visiting my website at

Looking for a fun book to sink into? Try , a spinoff series based on the Shopping series! Andrew, Amanda, Shannon, Declan, and more of your favorites from the Shopping series have cameo parts…

Having it all is a fantasy, right?

Chloe Browne knows all about fantasy. Fantasy is her job.

And she’s very, very good at what she does.

As director of design for the O Spa chain, a sophisticated women’s club that is trending its way into being the Next Big Thing, Chloe’s ready to take on the world.

One baby at a time.

Her home study’s done, and she’s about to adopt, a thirty-something single mother by choice. Who needs to put her life on hold for the right guy when the right baby is waiting for her?

Besides, talk about fantasy.

The right guy?

Pfft. Right.

And then in walks Nick Grafton, with those commanding sapphire eyes and wavy blonde hair and a sophisticated mouth that only smiles for her.

He’s perfect.

But the last thing Nick wants is to start fresh with a new baby as his college-age kids fly the coop. A single father for more than fifteen years after his wife walked out on her family, Nick finally tastes freedom.

But he likes the taste of Chloe more.

Read an excerpt now:

NICK

It takes everything in me not to smile at her.

Everything.

She’s a pro. Sophisticated and smooth, gracious and composed, well-versed and well-informed. Chloe Browne moves with a confidence that gives the air in this stuffy conference room an erotic charge. Her dark hair, so smooth it must be soft. A body that doesn’t quit. Those brown eyes—tilted slightly, yet paradoxically round. Alert and intelligent, they take in the room.

I’m watching her. It’s my job to watch her.

And she’s watching me.

Days like this make me love my job.

Her mouth stretches with a delighted precision, as if she were waiting for someone to ask my question. Electricity shoots through me. She’s four steps ahead of the rest of us, a chess player who thinks in dimensions, not boards.

One corner of my mouth rebels and rises.

“A great question, Nick.” Her lips part slightly. The tip of her tongue slowly touches the edge of her top teeth. Then she gives me a sultry half-grin and says, “Integrating new positions into our body has been so exciting.”

I did not imagine that.

Chloe’s flushes. “I mean, integrating new locations into our body of work has been exciting.” She clears her throat, squares her shoulders, and continues. “New Orleans is the prototype. O’s brand ties in to Anterdec’s brand as a luxury option for insiders. People in the know.”

“Your maiden voyage.” Not smiling is impossible.

Her lip curls up, a mirror image of my own. “This is virgin territory, yes.”

Andrew McCormick’s eyebrow shoots up as Amanda Warrick’s face goes deceptively blank.

“Love the innuendo. Fits nicely with the sensual branding that O cultivates,” Andrew says, his words snapping like the sound of buttons on a tailored woman’s shirt popping off, as I tear it open in the throes of passion.

Or something like that.

“The Big Easy.” Chloe lets that hang in the air, her eyes opening just slightly, then narrowing.

We’re playing a game. I don’t know the rules, but I sure do like handling the pieces.

“How easy?”

Andrew happens to be drinking from his coffee cup as Amanda asks that question, his throat spasming with the kind of hacking that provokes a sympathetic wince from the rest of us.

He glares in response.

At me.

There is a moment when you look at a woman for the first time. It’s an up or down moment. Thumbs up: yes, I’ll sleep with her. Thumbs down: she never enters my consciousness again sexually.

Chloe gets considerably more than a thumb’s-worth of up from me.

I shift uncomfortably in my chair and try to wrest control back from the strange tension that has infused the room.

This is a business meeting. Branding. My specialty is branding, and on paper, Chloe’s spa line has some serious weaknesses. Significant investment in an unproven market means that high risk needs to pay off.

You can’t put that kind of trust in just anyone.

“Very easy,” Chloe replies, reaching for a clicker and pulling up a PowerPoint spreadsheet. “Take a look at O Boston. Here’s the initial investment. Here’s the profit and loss statement.”

“Seventy-three percent growth in Year Two?” Andrew lets out a low whistle. My shoulders relax. I had no idea they were tight.

My pants are tighter.

Why am I invested in whether the CEO of Anterdec buys into the O Spa expansion? Until three minutes ago, this was just another pitch.

“Hold on,” Amanda interrupts. “That line for marketing and advertising. That figure is impossibly small. Did you forget a digit?”

Andrew gives Amanda a satisfied smirk. “A typo would explain that crazy profitability.” He leans back and reaches for his phone. When Andrew McCormick reaches for his phone in a meeting, it’s over.

“No.”

Chloe’s single word rings out like a gunshot.

Andrew’s hand freezes.

“That is not a mistake. Word of mouth is our primary form of advertisement.”

Andrew makes a grunt I know too well. It’s the sound I make when one of my college-age kids asks to borrow the car for a week. In Mexico.

“Isn’t that a little too 1990s?”

“Every customer who walks through our doors converts.”

“One hundred percent?” Andrew’s eyes telescope. “You’re certain?”

Click. A new graph appears.

“And each of those customers brings in an average of 3.8 new clients?” Amanda says, reading the slide.

“And that’s without paid advertising?” Andrew says skeptically.

Chloe remains unflappable as they read and analyze, talking about O as if she weren’t the expert. “Yes. In fact, our business model is counter-intuitive. The more we advertise, the less we sell.”

I frown. “That’s impossible.”

“No, Nick,” she says, her voice like velvet and chocolate. “That’s O.”

“You’re saying there’s some disconnect between paid ads and foot traffic?” Amanda asks.

“It’s lifestyle,” I murmur. “The advertising taints the allure. The appeal is in the secrecy. In being told by someone in the know. Women want to be part of the exclusivity, and it’s not special if everyone knows about it.”

Chloe studies me.

“Like an affair?” Andrew asks. Amanda glares at him.

Chloe pales. It’s the first hint of insecurity in her, and it intrigues me. This is a complicated woman.

She recovers quickly. “No. This is nothing like an affair. An affair is a secret because of shame. O is a secret because of pride.” She squares her shoulders and blinks exactly once, mouth slack and flat, devoid of emotion.

Andrew’s voice goes tight. “This is also nothing like any profit and loss statement I’ve ever read. It’s either brilliant or a giant waste of money.”

“Brilliant.” The word’s out of my mouth before I even decide to say it. Our business meeting has lost all pretense of being a corporate affair. Chloe’s chest rises and falls rapidly, yet her breath makes no sound.

“You’re telling me that Anterdec should make a significant investment in a subsector of the spa industry by trying an unproven and sweeping lifestyle niche—the fourth space—based on a blip in a spreadsheet and promises that word-of-mouth marketing is superior to data analytics we can track on paid ads?” Andrew makes a dismissive noise in the back of his throat.

“No,” Chloe says, before I can blurt out the opposite. “We have data analytics as well.”

Click.

“Does that column actually say ‘sex toys’?” Andrew asks, giving Amanda an arched eyebrow. “You didn’t tell me that they—”

“The average client owns 3.2 devices.”

“Only 3.2?” Amanda mumbles.

Did Andrew just kick her under the table?

I don’t care who is screwing whom at the company, but knowing who is screwing whom is strategically important. Catalogue that.

“Before they begin patronizing O, that was the figure. After two months of membership, that average increases to 7.9,” Chloe explains.

Amanda interrupts her. “Do we sell batteries and chargers on-site at the O spas? If not, we need to.”

Andrew raises an eyebrow and tents his hands, index fingers pressed against his lips. “Good point.”

What’s next? An O Spa porn channel? I almost open my mouth, but stop.

Because they might take me seriously.

“I will add batteries and chargers to our inventory. Great suggestion. All devices purchased on-site,” Chloe says to Amanda. “All via careful customer relations management that allows staff to learn their preferences and anticipate their...”

“Kinks?” I ask helpfully.

“Preferences is the term I would use,” Chloe says, her voice smooth as silk. “We optimize our device sales. Private label, all made in the USA, no BPA—”

It occurs to me that this is the first professional meeting I’ve ever attended where the casual discussion of sex toys as a profit-making venture has been a primary topic. Staying cool is key. The CEO acts like we’re discussing cars or magazines or lamps.

I wonder what Chloe’s preferences are.

All 7.9 of them.

Then again, she’s hardly average. Bet her number is higher. That mesh corset, after all.

Down, boy.

I raise my hand to a spot above my ear and run a tense hand through my hair. Across the table from me, Andrew McCormick does the same. With great concentration, I return my attention to the screen, where it should be, and not on Chloe Browne’s cleavage.

Where it wants to be.

Through the next ten slides, Chloe shows us exactly how brilliant she is, while I struggle to grasp the landscape of the meeting. She walked in here with a fringe idea and a slim chance of convincing Andrew McCormick to invest on the scale she wants.

And now they’re talking New Orleans, San Francisco, and—

“Rio would be a great target for 2018,” Chloe says, sitting down across from Andrew, tapping the end of a pen against the front of her teeth. “What about Tokyo for 2020?”

“The Olympics!” Andrew and Amanda say at the same time, then laugh.

“We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” I declare.

“You’re not convinced I’m worth taking a chance?” Chloe asks, her nose twitching with amusement, that curled lip driving me mad.

“You’ve convinced me,” Andrew says, standing and finally looking at his phone. “Nick, make it happen.”

“What?”

“Give Chloe whatever she needs.”

“Whatever she needs?” I choke out in surprise. Quickly, I recover, face showing no emotion, even if my pulse and half the blood in my body has migrated below my belt and I can’t stop wondering what’s under that corset. One peek of a nipple is like being given a single sip of Hennessy cognac.

It’s great, but you want the whole thing in your mouth eventually.

God help me, her eyes meet mine and her smile widens.

Best. Job. Ever.

“Right. Chloe, why don’t you go back to your office for an hour or so, while Nick and Amanda and I hash out some details in the conference room. We’ll call you,” Andrew says, standing and reaching for her hand. The only hint of emotion in Chloe’s face comes from the micro-movements in her eyes. She is pleased.

I want to please her. And not just with Anterdec’s money.

In this business setting, she should be pleased. Sharp and perceptive, she’s turned the meeting around. A green light from Andrew McCormick isn’t easy to obtain, and she marched right in here in secret dominatrix lingerie and she did it. I am intrigued and a little spellbound.

Maybe I’m just lightheaded from the lack of blood flow to the brain.

She unmoors me, turning back decades, making me feel like an awkward, uncoordinated teen.

But with a man’s appreciation for all that goes into making her her.

“Nick?” Andrew’s clipped tone makes me realize I’m in my own head. Chloe’s standing before me, her nose twitching with amusement, the rest of her face revealing nothing.

“Great presentation,” I say, shaking her hand. My eyes float down to her rack.

“It’s an eyeful, isn’t it?” she jokes.

“Certainly impressive,” I confirm. “The graphs.” I need to dial this down. Andrew’s giving me looks that could peel paint. “You give great data.”

“I aim to be Good, Giving, and Game.”

“Isn’t that what Dan Savage says about sex?”

“It applies to business, too.”

“A universal set of tools.”

She shrugs. “Everyone can have the same tools, Nick. Tool acquisition? Anyone can do that. The real skill is in implementation.”

With that, Chloe Browne leaves me speechless, hard as a rock, and the object of my boss’s ire.

One hell of a hat trick.

“Coffee?” Andrew’s admin, Gina, appears with a smartphone in hand, an app for a local coffee shop open.

Grateful for the save, I give her my order and will myself to think about subjects that deflate. She takes Amanda and Andrew’s requests and disappears with quick, nervous steps.

“Didn’t know Anterdec added a dating service to our portfolio. Cut it out, Nick,” Andrew says with a warning tone as he settles back into his chair.

Amanda snorts.

Catalogue that, too.

I say nothing. Eyebrows up, eye contact with my boss, but no words. I don’t challenge.

But I don’t back down.

“Oh, good Lord,” Amanda finally says with a sigh, reaching for Andrew’s hand. “We’re together. Nick can flirt.”

Before I can reply, Andrew leads her into the room we’re using here at O. I follow, loving the hypocrite he’s become in the course of three sentences. We settle around the table, Amanda perched on the edge, Andrew in his chair, me in the chair with the view behind him, the Financial District spread out for us, the ocean stretching behind him as if it were there for his pleasure alone.

It’s good to be the king.

“She’s good, isn’t she?” Andrew says.

And giving and game, apparently.

I give Amanda a look. She shrugs.

“Chloe?” I ask.

“Right. Smart, intuitive, an eye for design, and a great presenter. Gets three layers deeper than anyone in the room ever considered. She’s strategic and composed. Perfect face of O.”

Her O face sure does come to mind.

Damn it.

“You want to fund her?”

“The RV spa thing seems farfetched, but figures don’t lie.”

Chloe’s figure, bent over the edge of a bed, that sweet ass—

“Nick?” Andrew snaps his fingers. I shake myself like a wet dog.

“Right. How much should I put in her?”

Andrew’s jaw grinds, but before he can answer my garbled question, we’re interrupted.

Thank God.

“Twelve inches!” Gina exclaims from the doorway.

Timing really is everything.

“What?” Andrew sputters.

She’s holding a tray with three enormous white coffee cups in it.

“Twelve inches! The size of these coffees from downstairs. They’re so big!” As she hands out the coffee, Amanda stifles a giggle. Sunlight bounces off her ring. A wave of memory pours through me, lightning fast, like a retracting cable that snaps hard at the end, leaving marks.

Simone. Our engagement. Working nights through undergrad to pay for her little diamond chip of a ring...

The same ring she mailed back to me from France, along with her signed divorce papers.

“Jesus, Nick, what is wrong?” Andrew’s gone from anger to a furious concern, the irritated worry radiating off of him with a masculine sense that triggers my testosterone, sending me into high alert. We’re playing male hormone ping-pong, only without the paddles.

Paddles.

Chloe and a paddle....

“You’re not like this. You’re the focus man.”

“The what?”

“That’s what people call you behind your back,” Amanda explains cheerfully, her big eyes wide and friendly. They’re the color of mink, with lashes so long the bottom layer sticks to the top, making her reach up with a finger and rub.

“People talk about me behind my back? What do they talk about?”

“Your nickname—pun intended—is Focus Man. Now live up to it,” Andrew says sourly.

Damn. I’ve only been with Anterdec for a year, and so far, so good. After they acquired my firm, my prospects weren’t exactly certain. With three kids in college, this needs to last. Just long enough to have an empty nest, and then...

And then no one depends on me. I’m free. Free to pursue whatever I want for the first time in my life.

A flash of mesh corset fills my free mind.

“Focus Man?” I laugh. “I can think of worse names to call me.”

We all take a sip of our gigantic coffees and sit in silence for a moment. Andrew types on his computer, drinking more, then looks at me.

“Done. Gina can take care of specifics, but I green-lighted another gO Spa RV and two more locations for new, full-service spas.”

“Do I get to help hire the staff?” Amanda asks Andrew with a wink.

“You,” he says archly, his voice going low and dark, “are staying at HQ with me.”

She gives him a wicked smile.

I miss having a woman smile at me like that.

I wonder if Chloe’s free for dinner.

If I’m Focus Man, I can be focused in more ways than one.

Get the rest at and immerse yourself in the world of the O Spa, Nick and Chloe, and more….