Weddings.

Gag me with the sharp end of the bouquet.

No offense to those who enjoy this kind of shit, but I’d rather be dragged naked through the streets behind a speeding Harley.

My brother’s wedding is better than most—Dylan and Emma are crazy about each other and can’t seem to stop having kids, so it makes sense for them to take the plunge, I guess—but all the sappiness in the air is still making me queasy.

Romancing the shit out of a woman is one thing.

Getting teary-eyed over the wedding vows is another.

As soon as the toasts and the first dance are over, I beat it to the parking lot, knowing I won’t be missed. The bride and groom are too busy making goo-goo eyes at each other, and everyone else is too drunk, seeing as the wedding started forty-five minutes late and Emma’s tasting room staff was pouring hefty samples while we waited.

I, however, only had one glass. I knew a quick getaway was in my future.

But when I reach my bike, I find my baby—a vintage 1950 Harley Panhead I coaxed back to glory with my own two hands—hemmed in by two Smart cars. “What’s Smart about an overpriced novelty baby stroller,” I grumble, cursing beneath my breath.

“Not to mention poor handling around corners, a less than stellar safety rating, and the fact that they look really, really stupid.” The husky voice comes from the shadows beneath a live oak. A second later, the most dangerous blonde at the party steps into the light streaming from the lamps on the porch, looking as drop-dead sexy as ever.

With her shoulder-length bleached blond hair dyed purple at the tips, thick eyeliner that accentuates wild blue-purple eyes, and a body made for the black leather bustier and long, gauzy skirt she’s wearing, Carrie Haverford checks all of my boxes.

She’s also my new sister-in-law and completely off-limits.

I don’t have many rules when it comes to women, but I don’t fuck where I eat, and I’ll have to face this woman over too many holiday dinner tables to risk a one-night stand.

Or however long we would last.

Judging by the sway of her hips as she slinks over to sit on the hood of the red car in front of my bike, it wouldn’t be long. She looks like a man-eater, this one.

Be still my raging hard-on…

God, I love bad girls who know what they want. They’re even better than good girls desperate to prove how bad they can be with the right guy.

“Looks like you’re stuck, bucko,” Carrie says with a sigh. “I feel for you. I’m staying in Emma’s new guest cottage, which means I’m trapped in happy-ever-after-land.”

I laugh as I slide my hands into the pockets of my tux pants, the better to keep them to myself. “Don’t tell me you hate weddings, too?”

“Like carpet burns on my ass,” she says, filling my filthy mind with images of things I could do to her curvy body that would cause such a thing. “Marriage is just another sickness inflicted upon society by the development of agriculture. It’s about property, not love everlasting.” She tosses her head, shifting thick blond and purple locks off her forehead, revealing more of her doll-perfect face. “And people weren’t intended to be monogamous. Science proved that years ago.”

I arch a brow, intrigued. “Really? How’s that?”

“Lots of different sources and studies, but the most compelling to me is the design of your gear shift.” She grins as her gaze drops to the front of my pants before sliding slowly back up to meet my eyes.

“Yeah? How so?” I murmur, getting thicker in spite of myself.

A hot body is reasonably easy to resist, but a sexy, shifty little mind like hers does me in every time.

“The male member is designed to suction out other men’s sperm before it makes its own special delivery,” she says, eyes dancing into mine, issuing a challenge I know I have to refuse. “We were meant to be wild things who don’t give a damn about who belongs to who. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“Better than nice. It sounds natural,” I grunt. “And sane.”

Her eyes narrow as she nods. “Totally. Why can’t everyone else see that they’re the crazy ones? Why must they judge us, Valentine?”

My grin stretches wider. “Everyone calls me Rafe. I told you that last time we met, Carrie.”

“As I hope I’ve made clear, I don’t care what everyone else does.” She stands, hips swaying temptingly beneath her skirt as she moves closer. “I would rather call you Valentine Huxley Raphael, if that’s all right.”

I curse. “Who told you?”

“Dylan, when he was drunk at the brewery grand opening.” She straightens the flower in my lapel, making me powerfully aware of how close she is and how incredible she smells. Like orange blossoms and spice. “Did you know your second name means ‘inhospitable place,’ Mr. Hunter?”

“But my first name means strong and healthy.” I tip my head down, bringing my face closer to hers. “And my third name means God has healed, so I figure two out of three isn’t bad. But there’s a more pressing question on my mind right now, Trouble.”

Her smile stretches wider, proving she likes it when people call her on her mischief. “Yes? What’s that, Valentine?”

“Why have you been looking up the meaning of my many ridiculous names?”

“Why, because I want to do bad things to you in the dark, silly,” she says in a husky voice. She presses up on tiptoe until our lips are barely an inch apart. “What about you? You up for a top-secret night? You and me, nothing off-limits, and in the morning, we part ways and never say a word about it to each other or anyone else in this family ever again?”

I should say no.

I really, really should…

But I’ve never been good at “no” or “should,” and she’s making a compelling argument.

If we stick to Trouble’s terms, what could go wrong?