* * *

Declan:

She’s naked under the thin hospital gown, lying on her back, her feet dangling next to the stirrups at the end of the examination table.

Christmas came early this year.

She’s beautiful, and she’s ours. I want her soft pouty pink lips wrapped around my cock. I want to hear her moan my name, her large brown eyes hazy with need. I want to feel her muscles tremble as we make her come, over and over again.

I exchange a glance with Blake as the two of us move inside the room. When she hears us, her breathing quickens, but she stays where she is.

“Ms. Davey,” I greet her, my gaze drawn to her round breasts. I can see the outline of her nipples under the thin robe, firm and erect, and my cock hardens in response. “What brings you in today?”

Her cheeks are pink and flushed. “I’d like the special service, Doctor,” she whispers. “Will you make me feel good?”

Make me feel good. That’s the code phrase. Lana Davey isn’t here for a routine examination. She’s here for the extra service this clinic offers. She’s here for a ‘happy ending’.

I’m delighted to oblige.

Blake moves to the foot of the bed. Before she has time to answer, he nudges her knees apart and positions her legs into the supports, spreading her wide open. While he does that, I reach behind her back and undo the tie that keeps the gown closed. “You won’t need this today.”

“Yes, Doctor.” Her voice is barely audible in the quiet room as I pull away the gown, and she’s exposed to my gaze.

She’s absolutely gorgeous, and I can’t resist her. Cupping her plump breasts in my hand, I squeeze them, and she moans in response. “Yes,” she whimpers, throwing back her head, her hips bucking in need. “Oh God, that’s so good.”

“You know what I’m going to do, Ms. Davey?” Blake’s voice is rough with desire. “I’m going to push my cock into your wet pussy. You’re ready for me, aren’t you?” His fingers tease her slit, hovering just out of reach of her clitoris, and she bites back another moan.

“Yes Doctor,” she says again.

I squeeze her perfectly round breasts, rubbing her pert pink nipples between my thumb and forefinger. She’s so beautiful, so responsive. Running my hands over her ankles, I make my way to the space between her legs. “Are you wet, Ms. Davey?” I scold her. “Already? You’re such a bad girl.”

Blake grasps her ankles and buckles them into the stirrups. Her breathing quickens as he places her, swiftly and surely, under his control. “Somebody’s excited,” he says, amused. He bends his mouth to Lana’s pussy, and she whimpers as he sucks her clitoris between his teeth, almost jumping off the table in response.

“Tie her down, Declan,” Blake says to me. “I don’t want her squirming away from me.”

A shiver runs through her body, as I hold up the leather straps in my hands so she can see them. Goosebumps rise on her skin, but her eyes shine with excitement, and she nods eagerly.

A smile curls on my lips.

Ms. Davey, we’re about to give you an afternoon you’re never going to forget.

* * *

Lana:

I’ve never felt the urge to throttle my boss. Until now.

“You promised I could go on vacation.” I stare at John Beene in exasperation.

For months, the managing editor of The Torch, Portland’s finest investigative weekly news magazine, has had me chasing one depressing story after another. I’ve done exposés of isolated religious sects in which the ‘leader’ marries every fifteen-year-old girl in the community. I’ve written articles about corruption in local governments. About water poisoning. About factories in the remote Northwest breaking environmental regulations without consequences.

I’m exhausted. “I’ve been living out of a suitcase for the last three months,” I continue, my voice rising in frustration. “You promised me that I could take a week off, and you promised,” I give my unrepentant boss a glare that bounces off him without impact, “that you’d give me a stint in the Lifestyle department. Three months, I believe you said.”

“That was before the Pulitzer nomination,” John says blandly. “Come on, Lana. You’re an amazing investigative journalist. I have a story for you to investigate. I don’t see what the problem is.”

Let’s see. When I got back to my apartment after chasing the latest story, my lone houseplant, a cactus, had died. Cacti survive in deserts. They’re supposedly indestructible, but even a cactus couldn’t survive my neglect. “John,” I try to appeal to my boss’s good sense, “I’m burned out. I need a week on a beach somewhere. I need margaritas and hot muscled pool boys offering to rub lotion on my back. What I do not need,” I pause for effect, “is to rush off to some remote middle-of-nowhere small town to investigate some kind of medical scam.”

John isn’t budging. He’s like a dog with a bone. I’m so tired that even my metaphors don’t make any sense. “Admit it, Lana. This is fascinating stuff. In the last year, dozens of single women have moved to the small town of Goat, Oregon, all because a pair of doctors are running some kind of sex clinic, with promises of ‘happy endings.’” He does air quotes when he says ‘happy endings’ and his eyebrows rise comically high. “Don’t tell me you’re not interested in figuring out what’s going on.”

“I’m not interested in figuring out what’s going on,” I reply flatly. “Insurance scams are a dime a dozen, and they’re boring. Come on, John. The Astoria Yacht club is celebrating its hundredth anniversary this weekend. Let me cover that.”

John rolls his eyes. “That’s a fluff piece,” he replies. “It’ll be a bunch of rich guys in their boats, sipping martinis and what not. Mindy can handle it.”

Lucky Mindy. “You ever stop to think I might want to find myself a rich guy in a boat?”

He snorts. “You’ll be bored in ten minutes being some guy’s arm candy. Besides, I’m watching out for you. You’ll need to infiltrate the community before you can set up a sting at the clinic. That’ll probably take a month or two. Think of it,” he adds persuasively, “as a vacation.”

It’s not a vacation, not if I know John. I’m pretty sure he’ll be expecting me to write an article a day while I’m hanging out in Goat.

You could always say no.

But then what? Investigative journalists are being laid off by the dozens. I’m lucky to have a job at The Torch. Several of my classmates are flipping burgers and writing freelance click-bait articles for ten bucks a pop.

Of course, click-bait sells, and that’s precisely why John’s so gung-ho about this story. It involves doctors, sex, and threesomes in a small town. I bet you anything that John’s fantasizing about exploding subscriber numbers. “Fine,” I sigh. “What’s my cover?”

Now that he’s ensured my cooperation, John’s all smiles. “You have a reservation at the Nanny Goat Bed and Breakfast for the next eight weeks,” he says cheerfully. “They’re expecting you tomorrow night. Your cover story is that you’re a writer working on your next novel.”

Goat, Oregon. Nanny Goat Bed and Breakfast. I’m sensing a theme here.

“Tomorrow is Saturday, John. You have got to be kidding me.”

He spreads his arms wide. “I don’t want to get scooped on this, Lana. This story is going to be big. I can feel it in my bones.”

Shaking my head, I get to my feet. If I’m supposed to leave tomorrow, I have laundry to do.

Later that evening, I head out to meet my friend Hailey for drinks at a bar in Concordia. We settle down in a booth, and the waiter appears to take our food orders. Once we’ve been assured of nachos and beer, Hailey looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “What’s with the long face, babe?”

“John wants me to check out a couple of love doctors in some crazy-ass small town,” I mutter gloomily. “So much for the Astoria yacht club feature I was hoping to do.”

She cocks her head to one side, looking remarkably like a parrot in her bright green t-shirt and crimson red pants. Hailey never met a color she didn’t love. “Love doctors?” she asks. “Crazy-ass small town. I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”

Our beers show up. I drain almost half my glass before answering. “According to John, there’s a pair of doctors in the town of Goat, Oregon that specializes in getting women off as part of their treatment. John called it a ‘happy ending.’”

She snorts into her beer. “Goat, Oregon?”

“Yup.” While my clothes were drying earlier, I had time to do some research on the remote community. “It was founded almost sixty years ago by a reclusive millionaire who wanted a secluded place where he could stash his mistress. His fifteen-year-old mistress.”

“That sounds lovely.” Unsurprisingly, Hailey’s voice is sarcastic. She’s the editor of a feminist magazine called Girl Power. Stuff like this outrages her.

“Don’t worry; the millionaire is long-dead. The mistress is still alive though. She’s in her early seventies. Her name is Elvira Grantham, and she lives in a mansion on the outskirts of town. I bet you anything that she’s a lot more interesting than a pair of doctors with a fondness for pussy.”

The waiter shows up at that moment with a platter of nachos, and judging by his scandalized look, he’s overheard my last sentence. Poor guy. I make a mental note to tip him well.

Once he sets our food down and makes a break for it, Hailey continues her cross-examination. “So how do the doctors know if a patient wants a little frisky on the side? Is there a form to check off?”

“You’re far more fascinated by this than I am.” I snag a cheese-coated chip. “According to the anonymous tipster who called The Torch, there’s a code phrase. ‘Make me feel good, Doctors.’”

Hailey starts to giggle. “This is awesome.”

A reluctant smile curls on my lips at my best friend’s mirth. “Okay, I guess it is kind of interesting, in a strange and demented way. You want to know what the absolute best thing is?”

She nods enthusiastically.

“The clinic is called Clinic of Love.”

She bursts out laughing. “Please tell me you’re going to become a patient at the Clinic of Love,” she begs me. “And you said there are two doctors? Do they both participate in the dirty-dirty? What are their names?”

“Not a clue about the dirty-dirty.” I pop a slice of jalapeno in my mouth. “And would you believe the Clinic of Love doesn’t have a website? I don’t know anything about the doctors.”

Hailey leans forward, her eyes shining with glee. “You should do them,” she says. She reaches into her bag and pulls out her ever-present notebook. Flipping to an empty page, she writes a big, bold heading.

“What the hell?” I stare at my friend. “You’re nuts, you know that?”

“Am I?” she retorts. “When was the last time you had sex?”

The waiter had been approaching us to ask us if we were ready for our next round. As soon as he hears Hailey’s loudly-voiced question, his face heats up, and he scampers away. “You scared the kid,” I accuse Hailey. “He’s going to be scarred for life if you keep this up.”

“Please,” she scoffs. “I bet he hears a lot worse. You’re ducking my question.”

How long has it been? I can’t even remember. Too long. I’m never home long enough to date someone, and I’m not brave enough for Tindr.

“Exactly,” Hailey says smugly.

I roll my eyes. “Hailey, I’m not doing it with the two doctors. Who knows what I could catch?”

“It doesn’t have to be dick action,” she says encouragingly. “They could pet the kitty, couldn’t they?”

“Pet the kitty?” My lips twitch. “Is that what the cool kids call a handjob nowadays?” Before she answers, I cut her off. “Not. Doing. It.”

“Spoilsport.” She rolls her eyes and writes in her notebook.

“Really? We’re doing this, are we?”

Her lips curl up in a grin. “Of course we are. You’re going to Goat. Live it up.” She adds a couple of items to her version of my sex bucket list.

I snort. I’m definitely not brave enough for a threesome. Hailey, on the other hand, seems to act like it’s no big deal. “Have you been in one?” I ask her curiously. “A ménage, I mean?”

She’s unfazed by my question. “Twice,” she replies. “It was five years ago.”

Before we knew each other. That explains why I’ve never heard about her threesome experiences. I rarely talk about my sex life, mostly because I don’t have much of one, but Hailey’s seldom shy about sharing details.

“I even wrote an article about it in our magazine,” she continues. “I got a ton of complaint letters for it.”

“Your readers didn’t like the raunch?”

“No,” she says, with a roll of her eyes. “There was some dick-sucking going on, and readers wrote to me and told me that when I went down on a guy, I was supporting the patriarchy.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “Some people take the fun out of everything.”

“Indeed. But we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you and your quest to get laid.” Her pen is poised over the list. “What else?”

Flagging down our terrified waiter, I order a pitcher. If we’re going to do this, I need beer-induced courage. “Fine. I’ve never been picked up at a bar.”

“Really?” She shakes her head at me disapprovingly. “Lana, you work too hard.”

We drink our pitcher, our voices growing louder as the beer takes effect. I can’t stop giggling as we make my sex bucket list. At the end of the night, Hailey tears the sheet of paper and hands it to me. “Cross off every item, kiddo. Make me proud.”

I run my eyes down the list we’ve made.

1. Say Yes instead of No.
2. Have a vacation fling.
3. And a threesome.
4. Kiss a stranger at a bar.
5. Get really good oral sex.
6. Have sex outside.
7. Have sex with someone who speaks a different language.
8. Anal.
9. Sex while blindfolded.
10. Threesome!!!!!

Even though I’ve had a ton to drink, I can see that a threesome appears twice on my list. When I point it out to Hailey, she grins wickedly. “Do it,” she says. “When you get back from Goat, I want to hear everything. And Lana? You better not chicken out, okay? You don’t know anyone in this town. It’s the perfect place to go a little crazy.”

Hailey’s right. I’ll do John’s stupid story, but I intend to get something out of the assignment that’s been forced on me.

Watch out, Goat. Ready or not, here I come.

* * *

Declan:

“Declan, you look like hell. What’s going on?”

Blake Thorpe was my roommate in medical school and is one of the few people I can count on to be brutally honest.

I pour myself a pint of beer from the pitcher on the table. If it were anyone else asking me the question, I’d lie and tell them nothing’s wrong, but Blake and I go back a long way, and even though we’re polar opposites, I value his judgment. “I’ve been having nightmares ever since I got back from the Congo,” I admit. “I’ve done rough stints before, but this time…” My voice trails off. “So many children.” I swallow hard. “No matter what I did, it wasn’t enough.”

That’s the problem. It’s never enough. There’s always a war going on somewhere. People always die in pain and agony, and sometimes, they’re just kids. Though I’ve been Stateside for two weeks, I can’t forget my patients.

Blake downs half his pint in one gulp, his expression concerned. “Declan, I love you as a brother, man, but you’ve got to stop. You’ve been going from epidemic to war zone. You’ve done six missions in the last three years. You were in the Congo, in Sierra Leone, Haiti, where else?”

“Everywhere.” I take a deep breath. “I can’t stop. I’ve applied for a job at the United Nations.” Blake starts shaking his head disapprovingly, but before he can say anything, I cut him off. “Lecture me later. Tell me what’s been going on with you.”

“Same old,” he replies with a shrug. “While you’re making the world a better place, I’m injecting Botox into Hollywood wannabes.”

I chuckle, my dark mood lifting somewhat. Hearing about Blake’s misadventures always has that effect. My buddy is a locum—the doctor that works in the place of the regular doctor when that doctor is on vacation. “You filled in for a plastic surgeon? Really? Why on earth?”

“I wanted somewhere warm to spend the winter,” he replies.

My lips lift up in an unwilling grin. That’s typical of Blake. He’s a brilliant physician, but he hates being tied down. He’s been bouncing from one temporary stint to another ever since residency, refusing to settle down in one place.

“Where’s next on the list?”

“For the moment, vacation,” he replies. “Thank heavens. I thought I’d enjoy the Hollywood job, but for six months, I didn’t see a pair of real tits. Not a single one.” His expression is disgruntled. “Fake tits only look good in porn.” He refills his pint and takes a sip before he continues. “I’m flying out tomorrow to Oregon to visit Aunt Elvira.”

Blake’s great-aunt is quite a character. She rarely talks about her youth, but I’ve pieced together enough to know it wasn’t entirely pleasant. It hasn’t affected her disposition though.  She’s funny and endlessly entertaining, and she dotes on Blake. “How’s she doing?”

“She’s getting older.” Blake has an uncharacteristically serious expression on his face. “I’m staying for a month.”

The waitress comes up to us. She’s got dark hair, a great body, and a killer smile. “Can I get you another pitcher?” she asks.

Blake perks up. “You read my mind, Janie,” he says with a wink. “Have you met my friend Declan? He’s a doctor too.” He pats the seat next to him. “Sit down, honey. Let the two of us buy you a drink.”

Janie giggles. “I can’t,” she says reluctantly, “I just started my shift. If you guys stick around until I’m done though…” Her voice trails off suggestively, and she bends over to reach the pitcher, giving us a look at her ample cleavage. “I’m sure we could find something fun to do.”

Blake says something to her with a flirtatious smile. I watch him, feeling a little envious. Once upon a time, the two of us worked hard and partied harder. Now, my life has narrowed to the next mission. I can’t remember the last time I did something fun and impulsive.

When she’s gone, Blake turns to me. “Here’s an idea,” he says. “Why don’t you come with me to Goat?” Before I can reply, he continues in a rush. “I know it isn’t the most exciting destination, but you need a vacation badly, and I need someone to hang out with so I don’t go out of my mind with boredom.”

My first response is to decline. I can’t go to the middle-of-nowhere Oregon for a month. What if the UN calls? What if Doctors Without Borders needs volunteers for a mission?

Then I reconsider. Once I take the UN job, if they even offer it to me, it’ll be a long time before I can take any time off. This might be my last hurrah.

“Okay.” My lips lift up in a grin. “I’m in.”

* * *

Lana:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.”

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

“My suitcases are in my car.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d love to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cozy mysteries.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Should have stopped drinking after the first beer, Lana.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ouch.

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

My cheeks go hot with embarrassment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re joking,” I say flatly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he kisses me.

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

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

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

This is surreal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. More. Beer.

Ever.

* * *