Want more of Ethan and Fiona?

You can catch them as secondary characters in SEXY JERK.

The quaint tree-lined street of Hudson Avenue is where Fiona and Ethan’s very old East Lincoln Park home is located. Originally built in 1886, the narrow brick building with three floors has a charm that I just love.

Easing down the street, I take a left about ten homes from theirs to circle around to the alleyway where their driveway is positioned.

Spotting the black Range Rover parked there puts me on edge. The chrome wheels and tinted windows immediately give it away. It belongs to Nick Carrington, one of the biggest real estate developers in Chicago. Nick also happens to be Ethan’s former college roommate and best friend. Oh, and did I mention, he’s Max’s Godfather.

What the hell is he doing here?

Last I heard he was in Miami for an extended amount of time working on a really big real estate deal. Then again it isn’t like I keep tabs on him. He and I don’t exactly get along.

Yes, we’ve been forced together in the same social settings at least a couple dozen times since Fiona and Ethan met. But to be honest, I’ve never really given him a second thought—other than to say he’s kind of a jerk.

Out loud.

So he could hear.

Many times.

Sure, he’s tall, dark, and handsome. And yes, he has the best ass I’ve ever seen, and I mean ever seen quite literally. You see he mooned me at Fiona and Ethan’s Fourth of July barbecue last year, which pretty much defines his personality.

He always has to be the life of the party.

He’s also arrogant.

Rich.

And a playboy.

Every time I see him, he has a different woman on his arm. I can say this about him—he doesn’t discriminate. Tall, short, blonde, brunette, they’ve all gotten their turn with Chicago’s most eligible bachelor. From what I’ve heard, he just never keeps any of them around long enough to give them a chance.

Plain and simple, he’s a manwhore.

And I’ve had my fill with manwhores. So seeing his vehicle in the driveway isn’t making me extremely pleased right now.

Again I ask myself, “Why is he here?”

Unless.

No, please no, don’t tell me something happened to Fiona.

Hitting the gas, I floor it into the driveway as fast as I can. Once I put the SUV in park, I hurry to get Max out of his car seat.

Rushing inside with Max on my hip and his gear on my shoulder, I take the stairs up to the main floor two at a time, and come to a screeching halt.

Oh.

My.

God.

Holy shit!

Coming down the stairs is all six-foot-two inches, and I mean all six-foot and two inches of Nick Carrington in his glory.

Wet.

No towel.

Completely naked.

He looks at me, only a little surprised, and mumbles, “Shit,” or something like that. I’m not really listening right now. There is so much white noise in my head that I don’t think my ears are working properly. Or my hat is on too tight.

Wait.

Ignore that two inches part because he is, well, to be blunt…huge.

“Uncle Nick,” Max screams in delight, jolting me out of the trance I had fallen into.

“Nick!” I scream in outrage, while at the same time relieved that nothing must be wrong with Fiona or Ethan.

He covers himself with his hands and shrugs.

“Nick! What the hell!” I yell.

“Uncle Nick!” Max exclaims again with glee.

My head jerks in Max’s direction. Instead of following suit and covering his eyes like me to shade his vision from the sight of Nick’s smooth, tanned, muscular chest, tight six-pack, and well, his huge endowment, the almost three-year-old reaches out for him.

Traitor.

There is more Fiona and Ethan in Big Shot.

HAVE YOU MET JACE BENNETT IN BIG SHOT?

This emotional story will tug at your heartstrings.

The For Sale Sold sign told the story.

I didn’t know or care what that story was.

On the front porch there was a number of kid’s toys. A bicycle, a Nerf football, and a pair of roller skates that looked well used. Jonah’s I assumed. The kid suddenly became real, and I considered driving right past the house.

He was only a kid.

Yeah, a kid that made my daughter cry.

I didn’t leave.

Instead, I parked my BMW on the street and opened the car door. With each step I took toward the newly painted porch stairs, I inhaled a deep breath. I could do this reasonably and respectfully. I wouldn’t accuse, I’d simply inform. The parent could then address the issue with the child.

That sounded like the most mature approach. I felt a little proud of myself that I had calmed down and wasn’t gunning for the jugular.

The bottom line was, I’d want to know if my daughter had made someone cry on his or her first day of school.

When I reached the front door, it was open, and the only barrier was the flimsy screen door that if I had to guess, wasn’t locked. I could hear the Clash playing from inside, and I had to force myself not to smile. Another punk rock enthusiast. Interesting. I didn’t come across them very often.

Standing there, I glanced inside. There were boxes everywhere. Moving in or out, I hadn’t a clue. Didn’t really care.

Ringing the doorbell, I waited patiently and didn’t pound on door the way I had envisioned myself doing.

The sun was shining in the direction of the door, and it was hard to see, but I could make out the shape of a woman as she came into view through the mesh. She had a large book in her hands and her face was down as if in deep concentration.

Everything started to change the closer she got to me. First there was the unmistakable smell of lavender, a scent that made my nostrils flare in excitement, and then I saw the familiar shape of her eyes, her lips, her nose, and even the slender curve of her shoulders.

What happened next was like one of those slow motion movies.

I stumbled back with a jolt, and thought…no way.

The woman with blond hair that hung straight at least halfway down her back struggled to open the door, and only when she did, did she raise her gaze. “Can I help—?”

Out of nowhere, pure adrenaline raced through my veins. A thrill. An excitement I hadn’t felt in a very long time. I opened my mouth to speak, but shut it.

She didn’t finish her sentence either. Instead, she set the book down on the table beside the door. The haphazard way she released it caused it to fall and land on the floor with a clang. The spine read, “Web Design.”

That was not what I was paying any attention to, though. Rather, I found myself staring at the unusual pale blue color of her eyes. The color of a hot summer’s day and cool spring night. A color I’d only ever seen once before. But no, it couldn’t be—could it?

The silence drew out. I was dimly aware of her wiping one of her hands on her jeans, but nothing else. There was a reason I was there. A wrong to right. But unable to look away from her wide, startled eyes and her half-open mouth, I couldn’t seem to recall what exactly it was.

I took off my sunglasses to get a closer look. From the angle she was standing at I could see the curve of her ass, the shape of her tits, the plain of her stomach, and I knew, I knew for certain that this was her.

This was Hannah.

H. Crestfall was Hannah Michaels.

The first girl I ever loved… and the one who broke me even more than I already had been before I met her.

“Hannah,” I said at the same time she said, “Jace.”

I nodded.

She nodded.

“What are you doing here?” she asked in a voice that trembled.

Right.

I was there for a reason, and it wasn’t to go down fucking memory lane, and it certainly wasn’t to relive the pain she caused me.

Still trying to brush off the shock, I stuffed my hands in my pockets. “Do you have a son named Jonah?” I asked, my voice slightly uneven.

She nodded, and pushed her silky blond hair behind her ear. It was a nervous twitch I knew so well.

“Does he attend The Preston School?” I asked to be one hundred percent certain.

Her eyes narrowed. “Yes, he does. Why are you asking?”

There was no invite inside, and it was for the best. I’d regained my balance by then and went for the jugular. “He’s in my daughter’s class, and today he said something to her that made her cry.” This time I kept my voice even, calm.

Her narrowed gaze raked over me in an accessing manner that told me she didn’t appreciate me being at her front door. “What is it you think he said to her?”

I ignored the sarcasm that dripped from her voice, and remained calm. “He told her that her hair looked like she’d plugged herself into a light socket, or something along those lines. I thought you might want to know that he was bullying someone.”

“Jonah has the sweetest disposition, and I doubt he would ever say anything like that.”

“Are you calling my daughter a liar?” I asked.

The physical trembling was hard to ignore, but the step she took closer to me was even harder not to notice. “Are you calling my son a bully?”

That wasn’t my intention, but she was pushing my buttons. Without realizing it, I puffed my chest out. “I’m just calling it like I see it.”

Her eyes, those blue eyes, blazed, and she put her hands on her hips. “Still the same old big shot, huh, Jace. Think the world revolves around you.”

A white-hot fury rose up from somewhere deep within me from a place I had buried it long ago. Once it did, I couldn’t stop it, or my reaction to her words. “Screw you, Hannah,” I bit out, and turned to stomp down the stairs.

“Jace,” she yelled.

Every hurt I ever felt from that day so long ago came back to me, and I had to ignore her. Unable to fight my emotion, I tuned out whatever else she was trying to say to me. I didn’t want to hear it. I knew I had come here about our kids. I also knew this wasn’t about us. But as soon as she called me a big shot—that’s what it became.

I tried to take a deep breath as I stormed toward my car with my words echoing in my head.

Screw you.