Appearance is everything to my upper-crust mother, but when she insists I take back my pedigreed-but-cheating ex? I’d rather stab myself with a salad fork. So I blurt out I’m dating someone new. Someone like…that smoking-hot, vaguely familiar guy across the restaurant, who could be the next James Bond.
Turns out he’s the star of my favorite, cheesy, sci-fi soap opera. (Don’t judge me.) One minute I’m fantasizing about Borg and his green-hued abs. The next, Simon Dale is making me an offer my sex-starved body can’t refuse.
I’m up for a breakout movie role that’ll launch me off the B-list, but I don’t need a script to read the scene between Marissa and her mum. Even though I’m a London gutter rat who never rubbed elbows with a Royal, I easily slip into the role of Marissa’s doting boyfriend. Why? I need a favor in return— a steady girlfriend, just long enough to convince the producers I’ve changed my wild ways.
Trouble is, I’m going all Method on this relationship—and close to losing the one thing that could break me. My heart.
As a photographer, I appreciate contrasts. The stiff, snobby brat on the flight from New York turns out to be a scared, vulnerable woman who warms my heart. The icy cold soda she dumps in my lap leads to the hottest sex of my life in an LA dressing room.
When I watch her walk away, I feel something I’ve never felt before. A twinge of regret that I’ll never see her again. Except we do meet again. And she’s driving me insane.
Clearly, I’ve lost my mind.
Turns out the owner of the deep, sensual voice that kept me from needing the airline barf bag, who lured me completely out of character to indulge in anonymous, semi-public sex, is the photographer for my designs’ first photo spread in Bella fashion magazine.
Worse, our artistic visions clash. And every time we butt heads, our butts somehow get naked.
I can’t let my hormones cloud my judgment. I tried having it all, and it didn’t work out. I have to stop envisioning a life with him, and get my head back in the game…before I lose everything.
I just wanted to tell Hunter Kiss where he could shove the fancy phone he gave my little brother as an obvious bribe. I’m sorry/not sorry I hit him in the nose with it, but sports agents who come sniffing around with dollar signs in their eyes have to get through me.
But now I’m pinned between the wall and Hunter’s naked body, and I’m the one sniffing his unbelievably hot, freshly showered skin…and trying to remember I’m a strong woman who stands on her own two feet, not one of his peanut-butter-legged conquests.
I make college football players into stars without having to bribe them, and I’m pissed Dani Cross thinks otherwise. But anger isn’t all she makes me feel. The pink-haired, pierced tattoo artist is so hot she makes me want to forget my own rule: one night per woman, no exceptions.
Only she doesn’t trust me as far as she can throw me. (And trust me, that woman has an arm.) She’s been hurt, and it’ll take more than smooth talking to make her forget the pain. But for the first time in my life, I’m ready to lay it all on the table—even if closing the deal means offering my heart.
I love Lee Bowers. And that sucks.
He’s my brother’s best friend, but a bookish nerd like me would never fit into his celebrity-chef, serial-heartbreaker world. I don’t do risks. Lawyering feeds my bank account. Anonymous food blogging feeds my soul.
But one night, in a red-wine-fueled funk, I pour out my feelings in a blog post, safe behind my anonymous mask. And realize too late my drunken fingers hit “Publish” instead of “Delete.”
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I am screwed.
At first, I wanted to skewer the popular food critic who brutally lampooned my restaurant—apparently while simultaneously ogling my butt. But you know what? She’s right. The only hands-on time I’ve spent in the kitchen lately involves a hot blonde and, um…a zucchini.
Somewhere between my I’m-gonna-sue fury, and unexpectedly cuddling with Jenna after a night of soul-searing sex, I accidentally discover that blogger’s identity. And my whole life does a screeching 180.
I love Jenna Harrison. And I’m going to prove it to her, one anonymous, sexy text message at a time.
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