PRESENT DAY

When I was a kid, my ma would take me down to the hotel my dad owned so I could spend mandatory quality time with him and so she could not only remind him that he owed her child support, but also so she could pick up some extra shifts at Patrick’s Diner.

Cillian Aiden McHugh hosted everyone from the common wise guy to power-wielding mobsters, as well as state senators and famous actors. He’d wine and dine them. Shake their hands and kiss their wives’ cheeks while fleecing them out of their money in hotel fees.

All this, I would watch from the security room attached to his office.

“Did you see all those yuppies? More money than brains,” he would always say at the beginning of our dinners. Dinners that were about three courses too long for a ten-year-old. “Am I right, boy?”

I nodded in agreement because I knew he didn’t care if I said anything, but if I disagreed, he’d backhand me... and that would cause my ma to go off on him. They’d fight, and my dad would promise my ma the moon, and things would be good for a while. Real good.

Until they weren’t.

Funny thing was, his obvious disdain for the wealthy didn’t stop him from trying to be like them. He styled his hair like them, wore custom-made suits like them, and even lived in their neighborhood... but no matter how hard he tried to convince them he was cut from the same cloth, he simply couldn’t get rid of the Southie that permeated his soul.

It’s why he couldn’t marry their daughters, and why he was never invited to join their clubs. So, my old man married a college-educated tart from New Hampshire, banged the yuppies’ wives out of revenge, and developed a taste for the forbidden.

At least, that’s how my ma put it to me.

Camilla Maria Cicconne was good girl, the kind you took home to meet your parents, who went to Mass every Friday night, had the brains and grades to go to college... and all of sixteen when she met the smooth-talking Irishman.

Once she got knocked up by a man who couldn’t and probably wouldn’t have married her, my ma’s conservative Italian-Catholic parents kicked her out.

Unlike my dad, she never resented me, never made me feel like a job she was forced to do... She loved me, still does, and through everything, she’s always been my number one.

Always will be until I meet the right woman.

Too fucking bad that the right woman is married to another man.

I know what my dad’s advice would be. “Tempt her, Aiden. Charm her. It’s in your blood—women can’t resist McHugh men. It’s a fucking gift... and no one would have to know.”

But I’d know.

I didn’t start down the path of helping Layton get her happily ever after just so I could ruin it. That’s not me, no matter how much of a reputation for being an asshole I have.

Better an asshole than a home-wrecker.

“Can I get you another?” The bartender points to the beer I’ve been nursing for the past hour.

“Nah. I’m good.” I push the beer away and then moodily start to scroll through Instagram to see what kind of bullshit my publicist has posted about me. Good bullshit to be sure, but bullshit nonetheless.

A text from Kingston pops up on my screen.

Need your help.

Aiden: Your cut of my paycheck not good enough?

Kingston: I earn every penny. Get your ass to my place. ASAP.

Well, shit. This sounds serious.

I close out my tab and leave a tip for the bartender, then jet out of there. Kingston lives in a high-rise four blocks away. While I’m used to walking, there’s no way I’m walking half a block around here without getting recognized. There are Super Bowl rumors being spread about the Renegades. I don’t want to jinx them by getting cornered by a fan or a reporter pressing me to talk about the season.

Don't get me wrong, I like talking to fans. Reporters not so much. The fans, I’ll always do them a solid when they ask for an autograph or want a picture. Without them, there would be no Aiden McHugh quarterback for the Raleigh Renegades.

It takes me about ten minutes to drive to Kingston's apartment. He lives in a revitalized part of Raleigh, which in my book is code for ‘get all the poor people out so that the hipsters can move in with their coffee shops tea shops and avocado toast’.

I can't really say much for myself since I live in a suburb protected by a gated entrance that hires a security guard who requires you to be on the guest list before you can even enter the place.

But it gives me protection I couldn't have otherwise. It makes me feel safe when I get threatening emails or weird Instagram stalkers. Plus, my ma likes the fact that her son lives in one of those fancy neighborhoods. She likes to brag to her friends about how well I've done.

When I arrive at Kingston's apartment, he's waiting for me at the elevator. “What took you so long?" he asks, dragging me by the arm into the kitchen.

I shake off his grip. “Where’s the fire, chief?”

“It’s Layton.”

My gut twists. I don’t want to hear about Layton and her douche of a husband. Bad or good. I don’t wish them ill, but I sure as fuck don’t want to celebrate with them, either.

“What about her?” I open the fridge and grab the nearest bottle of water, twisting off the top and shutting the door with my foot.

“Dude, watch it.” Kingston makes a face and inspects the fridge, wiping off an invisible mark with the sleeve of his shirt. Guy is serious about his kitchen because he likes to cook. Swear to God, he once referred to it as the inner sanctum of his apartment.

Whatever. Who am I to judge?

I gulp down a quarter of the bottle before Kingston speaks again.

“I need your help dynamiting her ass out of bed.”

There’s no way in hell I’m touching LT while she’s in bed, much less out of it. “Wouldn’t that be a job for her husband?”

Kingston grimaces. “Not when the fucker left her for the wedding planner.”

“You’re shitting me.” White-hot anger that the motherfucker would dare hurt Layton fills me. On its heels, the sweet feeling of relief that Layton is no longer with him, along with guilt for being happy. She has to be fucking miserable. Has to be.

“’Fraid not. Bastard left her four days into the honeymoon.” Kingston’s hands clench into fists, and he gets this look on his face. It’s one I’m intimately familiar with because I’ve seen it on myself. He wants to kill Joe, but not before hurting him first.

I’m down with that. “What does his poor timing have to do with getting her out of bed? Shouldn’t she be in Bluebelle Hills, working for your dad or the country club?”

“She’s been here for six weeks. Moping around, barely showering. Eating her weight in chocolate.” He scrubs his hand over his face. “I’m not opposed to most of that continuing, but I can’t bring anyone over, and before you say it, I don’t mean for hook-ups. I literally can’t entertain clients because she’ll decide to come down, see people who remind her of the wedding reception, and burst into tears. Then I have to explain... and I’m tired of explaining.”

Six fucking weeks? How had I missed this? Oh, right. I refused to pay attention whenever her name came up. Instead, I concentrated on taking the Renegades as far as they can go. “Why not her bestie?” I ask. Layton and Paige are double trouble. What one can’t think of, the other does, and they usually end up irritating everyone around them.

“Tried that already.” Kingston grins wryly. “Paige suggested you.”

“Don’t I feel special and shit,” I mutter before gulping down the rest of the water. I toss the bottle into the recycling bin in the pantry. “What about Mrs. Pri—”

“Layton refuses to see her.”

“You guys need to stop coddling her.” Six fucking weeks. Only Layton Tallulah Price would take a six-week vacation from reality.

“Exactly why Paige said you’re the man for the job. I can’t do it. Boone won’t either because he loves her too much.”

If Layton’s brothers love her so much, they would drag her ass out of bed so she could watch while they pounded Joe into the ground.

Hell, I’d help.

You owe her.

The hell I do.

You made a promise to her.

Yeah, I also said I’d marry her if Joe changed his mind, and that’s not happening.

Do this instead, and you’ll mostly be keeping your word to help her out.

“You owe me big.”

“Huge. Whatever you need, it’s yours.”

“I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

Without waiting for a reply, I head to the second floor, taking the stairs two at a time. The apartment is only three bedrooms, so I go to the one with the shut door first.

As soon as I open it, the smell of Layton hits me. I brace myself for the stink that Kingston warned me about, but all I can smell is some flowery stuff that I’ve come to associate with her. Not exactly subtle, but not overpowering either.

A pillow missile comes out of nowhere, nailing me in the kisser. “I said leave me alone, Kingston,” Layton shouts, her voice slightly gravelly. It’s not a sexy sound because I know she’s been broken by the man who vowed to love her.

I toss the pillow on the bed. “Get up, baby girl.”

Layton pops up out of bed, reminding me of groundhog that hasn’t seen its reflection all winter. Which isn’t that far from the truth. Her curly, dark hair is far beyond bedhead status and straight into the rat’s nest my ma claimed hers got when she’d pull a third shift at the factory. But it’s Layton’s eyes that haunt me. They’re dull, flat, and—

“Why are you here?” She flops onto the bed, pulling the cover over her face. “Go away, Aiden. I don’t have time for your bullcrap.”

I advance on the bed, yanking the bedspread from her head. Thank fuck, she dressed in an old college t-shirt.

“Get out of bed, kid.”

She smirks at me, and I’m half-amused by it because maybe it means she’s only bent instead of broken. “Wasn’t that long ago you wanted me in your bed. Well, Joe cheated, so have at it, lover boy.”

Shoving the sheet to the end of the bed, she throws her hands out so she resembles a sacrifice on an altar and squeezes her eyes shut.

I fight back a groan.

While I got lucky on the shirt, I lost on her lack of pajama bottoms. All she’s wearing is white panties. And while I shouldn’t be turned on by them, the horn dog in me has sat up and taken notice. There’s something about white underwear on a woman that drives a man wild.

“Thanks for the offer, but you smell like a pig.”

Her eyes open wide as she gasps. “I do not smell.”

I lean in close and take an over-exaggerated sniff of her neck.

Bad move.

Supremely bad move.

My body starts to hum like it has just been hooked up to a live wire. “When’s the last time you brushed your teeth?” I ask, inches away from the smooth skin of her neck.

She slams her hand over her mouth. “My hygiene is none of your concern, and a gentleman wouldn’t ask a lady that.”

“I’m not a gentleman.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” She rolls away from me, giving me an eyeful of a wedgie that showcases her luscious ass.

I force myself to stop ogling her. “Stop being a child and grow the fuck up. Your family is worried about you. Paige, too.”

“You grow up.” She buries her face in the pillow. “Go home, you damn Yankee.”

“No need to insult me.”

“It wasn’t an insult. It was a suggestion. A hope... A girl can dream, you know,” she says, all sass now, and I fucking love it. “But in case you didn’t understand me: go the fuck away.”

“Language, princess.” I smack an ass cheek, and she squeals in anger. It jiggles as my red handprint appears. “Get up.”

She grabs the nearest pillow, and hits me in the chest with it. “You don’t get to tell me what to do because... how did you say it... my lady parts don’t belong to you.”

“I said pussy.”

Layton rolls her eyes. “You’re so crass.”

“And you’re looking for a fight.” I grab her by the waist and drag her off the bed, hoisting her over my shoulder.

She beats her hands against my back. “Put me down.”

“Give me a minute.” I step inside the bathroom and turn the shower on. I’m half-tempted to not wait for it to warm up, but I remind myself she’s still hurting over Joe’s betrayal.

“Is this how you charm women, Aiden? Smack ‘em around and force them to do your bidding?”

Her accusation cuts to the quick, because that’s exactly what my old man does to women, and I’ve spent my life trying to outrun that legacy. “That’s it.” I shove her into the shower, closing the door and holding it so she can’t get out.

“You jerk,” she shouts, pulling on the handle. “It’s freezing.”

“Good. You need to cool off.” She’ll have to wait a while because Kingston’s hot water heater has been on the fritz since he moved in, and management won’t replace it because each time they send someone to check it out, it’s working properly.

Her bottom lip juts out. Even though there’s water pouring on her face, I swear I can see her tears. “Why you gotta be so mean? I’ve just had my heart broken.”

My heart breaks for her. Yeah, I’m a sucker, but in this moment, I don’t care. Opening the door, I crouch to her level. “I know, LT.”

She gazes up at me, hair plastered to the side of her face. “It hurts so bad.”

“I know that, too.”

“How long did it hurt when you and Finley broke up?” she asks, blindsiding me.

“Long enough.” But Finley wasn’t the one who got away. No, the one who got away is sitting right in front of me. “You can’t stay holed up in Kingston’s apartment forever. He has a business to run, and you have a life to live.”

“Joe took that from me.”

I look her right in the eye, allowing myself to touch her cheek. It’s soft and slick from the water... and cold. “Only if you let him. Take life by the balls and make him regret leaving you.”

“I might just do that,” she whispers.

My gaze drops to her lips, then further down still to where her nipples are hard and pointing through her shirt.

“But first...”

Layton’s hand shoots out, grabs me by the collar, and yanks me inside with her. Cold water hits me like a thousand needles, bringing me out of my horny stupor as I fall forward, hitting my knees on the shower lip. She pushes me, and I end up like a water bug on my back, my hands slipping on the wet tile as I attempt to push myself up.

“What the fuck, LT?”

She steps over me, water running down her body as she says, “Stop complaining, and be glad I didn’t grab you by the balls.” With a little smirk, she snags a towel and slams the door behind her.