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Semi-Charmed, Harper Hall Investigations, Book 1, Chapter 1 

Whispering Hope, New York, present day   Harper Hall swatted the fast-fingered hand of yet another horny, middle-aged CPA off her ass, but resisted the urge to dump tequila in this one’s lap. After all, the Prince Valiant haircut and underbite he was saddled with were punishments enough for his crimes.  “Hey, baby,” Valiant’s friend said as he fondled his shot glass suggestively. “Is that a mirror in your pocket? ‘Cause I can definitely see myself in your pants.”  Harper rolled her eyes and shot back, “Darlin’, I’m not your type. I’m not inflatable.”  And with that, she turned on the heel of one of her requisite six-inch platforms and started for the bar as the CPAs chortled and bumped knuckles. They were probably looking at her butt too, but Harper chose not to dwell on that, or on the fact that most of said butt was hanging out of her Daisy Dukes. Not her best look, to be sure.  Lanie Cale, one of the other waitresses, grabbed her arm and leaned in, shouting over the music, “Hey, can you take over for me with the guy at table five? Carlos is letting me dance tonight. I go on in ten.”  Harper gave her a quick once over. Lanie was five years her junior, ten pounds lighter, and had her beat by a full cup size. If she was Lanie, she’d probably want to be a stripper too. But as it stood, she was stuck waiting tables with the other B-cups.  “Sure,” she answered. “But, Lanie, this guy at table five…he’s not a CPA, is he? I don’t think I have the strength for another CPA.”  “No way is this guy a CPA. I’d bet Thor’s abs on it,” she promised solemnly as she disappeared into the crowd.  At that moment, the sweaty throng of dancers and customers and waitresses parted, giving Harper her first glimpse of the guy at table five.  Wow. Thor’s abs were in no danger tonight.  The guy at table five was definitely not an accountant. Serial killer, maybe. CPA…um, no.  Table five was wedged in the corner, to the extreme right of the stage, which was why no one usually wanted to sit there. But instinct told Harper this guy had refused to sit anywhere else. This was one of those never-let-anyone-sneak-up-behind-you types, maybe with a military or law enforcement background. Paranoid and probably with good reason.  Everything about him screamed tall, dark, and brooding. From the black hair long overdue for a trim to the black-on-black wardrobe, complete with biker boots and a Highlander-like leather trench, this guy was either a true rebel without a cause, or the best imitation of one she’d ever seen.  And he was drunk off his ass. Not the kind of happy, silly drunk the CPAs at table ten had going. No, Harper could tell by the way he was ignoring the half-naked dancer on stage that he was drowning his sorrows.  Ignoring Misty Mountains wasn’t easy, either. Her brand-new double D’s were mesmerizing, and the nipples kind of followed you wherever you went like the eyes on the creepy Jesus picture in her mom’s living room.  As Harper watched, he polished off a bottle of Glenlivet and set it beside three other empties. She sighed. He’d probably pass out before he remembered to tip her. Damn drunks would be the death of her.  Harper squared her shoulders and walked up to the table, then knelt beside him so he could hear her over the driving beat of Bon Jovi’s Lay Your Hands On Me.  “Can I get you anything else, sir? Like coffee?” Hint, hint.  He didn’t even glance at her as he slid the empty bottles to the edge of the table and said, “Another bottle.”  His voice sent a shiver down her spine. It was gravelly, raspy, almost like he’d growled the words instead of speaking them. Sexy.  But sexy voice or not, she wasn’t about to serve him another bottle. He was probably a few inches over six feet and maybe a little over two-hundred pounds, but no one—not even a manly man like this one—could down four bottles of eighteen-year-old Glenlivet and blow a Breathalyzer that wouldn’t get him immediately arrested.  “I think you’ve probably had enough for tonight.”  He slowly glanced over at her as if he hadn’t really noticed her presence until just then. When her eyes locked with his, she completely forgot what they’d been talking about. Hell, who was she kidding? She forgot how to breathe.  This had to be the most gorgeous potential serial killer she’d ever seen.  He had a dark olive complexion most women would kill for, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and eyes that were either black or the deepest blue she’d ever seen—it was too dark in the club to tell for sure.  His perfectly arched black brows—and they had to be naturally perfect, because she was pretty sure this guy wouldn’t be caught dead waxing—raised sardonically as his gaze moved over her.  Harper fought the urge to suck in her stomach and desperately wished her uniform was a size eight instead of a four. She had dignity in a size eight. Class, even. In a four…not so much.  He lowered his gaze to her chest, and then slowly lifted it back to her eyes. “I doubt they’re paying you to think, sunshine.” Sliding the empty bottles even closer to her, he repeated, “Another bottle.”  He’d said it very slowly, deliberately, in a manner most people reserved for slow-witted children and foreigners. The only part of her that wasn’t at all impressed with the guy’s fallen-angel face—which just happened to be her Sicilian temper—kicked in at that point.  Harper straightened and snagged the bottles off the table, preparing to verbally flay him, but just when she’d figured out exactly how many four-letter words she could hurl at him in one sentence, a premonition hit her hard.  People often asked her what premonitions felt like. Imagine someone punching a hole through your forehead and making a fist around your brain, she always told them. This premonition was no different.  Harper staggered forward and planted one palm on the table to steady herself as images assailed her: a young, blonde woman in an alley pinned to a dumpster by a man twice her size.  A vampire, she knew instinctively. Cold chills always shot down her spine when she saw them.  Harper sucked in a deep breath and forced herself to concentrate on details other than the victim, just like Sentry taught her so many years ago. Instead, she tried to picture the dumpster, the buildings around it, street signs…anything that might tell her where this girl was so she could call the police and get her some help.  And then she saw a logo printed on the side of the dumpster as big as life. Kitty Kat Palace.  Holy shit, the vamp and his victim were here. 

Criminals Need Love Too, Adorable Psychos Series, Book 1, Chapter one 

Who’s the easiest mark in any room? That’s easy. It’s the one who looks desperate.  

Desperation makes a man—or woman…but mostly a man—vulnerable to manipulation. And the dude she was looking at right now?  

Desperate. As. Fuck.  

Tenley Taylor eyed her mark like a starving woman eyed a four-course dinner at a Michelin-starred restaurant. He was better than she ever could’ve hoped for.  

He was about her age, in his mid-30s, and tall. Probably six-two or six-three if she hadn’t missed her guess. Muscle-y, too. Not like a bodybuilder, but lean and rangy with the kind of hard strength that came from manual labor, not from being a gym rat.  

His clothes were…sad. The black T-shirt he was wearing looked like it had waged war with a bottle of bleach and lost. It was also tight across his chest, as if he’d once had a much smaller frame than he did now, but he’d never bothered to buy new clothes.  

His jeans were no better. They were at least a decade out of style and faded with age. So were his tennis shoes.  

Nice butt, though.  

Which was so not relevant.  

Tenley shifted her focus to his hair. It was thick, dark, lustrous, shaggy, and curled over his ears a little. Way overdue for a cut.  

He wasn’t looking in her direction as he leaned against his car (a Honda that looked like he’d have to fold himself in two to fit in the driver’s seat), talking on a burner phone. Like most men, he had absolutely zero situational awareness. A woman totally would’ve noticed someone sizing her up the way she was sizing this man up.  

He was, of course, oblivious.  

Whitehall wasn’t a huge town, but it was large enough that there were at least twenty or thirty people on Main Street right now window shopping—men, women, and children—while this guy was parallel parked in a highly desirable spot in front of the Chinese restaurant. He didn’t seem to notice any of them.       

In his defense, he was in the middle of what seemed to be a very contentious conversation. The way he was gesturing and shoving his hand through his hair told her he was arguing with someone and losing. Big time.  

And given the way he held himself—tensed, ready for a fight—coupled with the unkempt appearance and outdated clothes, she’d bet anything he was fresh out of prison.  

She’d probably even bet her pocketful of stolen diamonds on it. That’s how sure she was.  

All in all, this man was the very picture of a perfect mark.  

She needed a quick ride out of town that wouldn’t leave a paper trail, and Mr. Desperate Jailbird over there was her ticket to freedom. Hell, if he was freshly released, she could probably get this guy to smuggle her across the border if she wanted. Easy, peasy, lemon squeeze— 

That’s when he turned around.  

Yowza.  

Her new mark was hot. Brutally hot. Kind of pornographic in his hotness, really.  

That could be a problem.  

Being attracted to a mark—even just liking them too much—was the fastest way to ruin a good con and get yourself busted. And this guy had distraction written all over his knife-edged cheekbones, pouty, kissable lips, flawless olive complexion, and pale blue eyes.  

She sighed. Maybe he wasn’t so perfect after all.  

A screeching alarm two streets over made her change her mind with a quickness. Damn it. She figured she’d have at least an hour before Jerry figured out she’d emptied the safe. She’d been working for the jerk for the past two weeks under a false identity as she cased his business, and he hadn’t seemed to notice anything other than her ass the whole time. But today, of course, the stupid fucker decided to be observant.       

Waiting for a less attractive mark was out of the question. It was time to get the hell out of Dodge.  

Tenley took a deep breath, straightened to her full height (which was, sadly, only about 5’2”, because it was just her unfortunate luck that attitude didn’t manifest physically) and moved toward Mr. Cheekbones like a hungry lion stalking a hapless gazelle on the Serengeti.  

She pretended to be looking through her bag and let out a “shocked” gasp when her shoulder connected with his arm, knocking the burner phone right out of his hand. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t—” 

Whatever she was going to say next was cut off (quite literally) when his muscle-y forearm wrapped around her throat. He yanked her back against his chest and hissed in her ear, “Get in the car. Now. And don’t make a fucking sound.” 

Well…Hell’s Bells.  

This was going to be even easier than she thought.  

Caped and Dangerous, Grumpy Superheroes, Book 1, Chapter 1

Being a superhero is not all it’s cracked up to be.  

Evil doesn’t take a break because you have a date, or the flu, or just really want to stay home and binge-watch Supernatural on Netflix while wearing slouchy socks and sweatpants.  

Nope. Superheroes don’t get vacation days. You’re pretty much on call 24-7, with crappy state-employee health benefits and damn near useless dental coverage.   

And for what? The feel-good knowledge that you’re doing something good for your fellow man? The adoration of the public? Pfffttt. Sometimes the “adoring public” sues you because when you flew in to save them from a carjacking, you accidently shattered their windshield with the bad guy’s head. 

A thank-you would be customary in such situations, but it doesn’t happen as often as one would think.    

And you know what else? Capes chafe the back of your neck like a bitch. They always feel like an irritating tag in the back of a $2 T-shirt.      

These were all things Greer Glenanne, aka G-Force (a stupid nickname she did not choose for herself, mind you), wished someone had told her before she’d taken the gig as the official superhero for Gem City.  

But that was twenty-ish years ago. Back when she was shiny and new and so idealistic it hurt. There’d been so many things she’d wanted to do, so many people she’d wanted to help. She’d been so sure she would save the world one day.   

Now she got sued by the people she saved. (Yeah…that was a true story, sadly.) Her bum knee ached so badly every time it rained she was forced to limp on the job. Sometimes she woke up and her back hurt for no reason at all. Or she threw it out entirely because she sneezed wrong. 

As it turned out, being able to fly and bench press a Buick didn’t protect you from all the typical middle-aged maladies that impacted normal folks.   

Then there was the fact that she was in early onset menopause. That was a fun one. Hot flashes and heightened emotions. Just what every woman with superpowers should have.  

So, if being a superhero sucked, being a middle-aged superhero sucked the biggest bag of dicks the world had ever known.  

“Hey! Yo, G!” 

Greer startled at the voice that popped into her ear, nearly causing her to spill the mug of hot chocolate she’d just pulled out of her microwave.  

Yeah. That was another thing that sucked about being a superhero. The Bluetooth-enabled cochlear implant that allowed her team to reach her, anytime, anywhere.  

Day. Or. Night.  

The sheer number of times she’d taken calls while on the toilet was appalling.  

“What?” she snapped, wishing more than anything that she could just drink her damn hot chocolate and go to bed. But Rio only said “Yo” in that tone when she wasn’t going to like what he had to say.  

Rio Flores was her tech support, her project manager, her personal assistant, and her best friend all rolled into one six-foot-tall, ridiculously attractive gay man who had better style than all the Queer Eye guys combined. He was her Overwatch—the Felicity Smoak to her Green Arrow.  

And he was about to ruin her night. She could just feel it, from the tips of her messy bun to the soles of her fuzzy pink bunny slippers.  

“I got a call from Hottie McStudly, my friend.” 

Greer groaned and squeezed her eyes shut. “Ugh. Not again. Please, don’t tell me.” 

“OK. But he says he has something of yours. Again.” 

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “See, I told you not to tell me.” 

“Sorry,” Rio said, not sounding sorry at all. “But we don’t know for sure it’s her this time.” 

Oh, of course it was her. It was always her. “Don’t patronize me.” 

Bryn Terrell—no official superhero nickname yet—was and had always been a pain in the ass, ever since the state made her Greer’s trainee. 

It wasn’t that Bryn was bad at the job. Quite the opposite, really. She was just overzealous. She tended to treat jaywalkers with the same “I am Justice” attitude she threw at bank robbers and muggers. She saw every petty thief and minor league crook in the state as evil. Greer had been at the superhero gig long enough to recognize all the shades of gray between good and evil.  

There were so many shades of gray.  

And Bryn’s righteous quest for justice was topped off with a mountain of blonde curls, perky, 20-year-old boobs, and a sweet, lilting voice. All of that made Bryn almost more than Greer could take on a good day.  

And today was not a good day. 

Bryn had, for some reason, made it her life’s mission to take down Killian Morgan, who Rio lovingly (or lustingly) referred to as Hottie McStudly. 

About once a month for the past two years or so, Bryn got caught breaking into Killian’s billion-dollar, corporate high rise, looking for “evidence of wrongdoings”, as she put it.  

Greer wasn’t entirely sure what Killian had done to make his millions, and she wasn’t certain what his employees did in that lavishly appointed high rise of his. What she did know was that he was way too smart to have any “evidence of wrongdoings” laying out where Bryn could stumble upon it.  

And it wasn’t like Killian didn’t know that Bryn had X-ray vision. If there was anything in the building that could incriminate him, she would’ve seen it. Then she would’ve gleefully reported it all to Greer in that annoyingly pretty voice of hers, and Greer would’ve gotten a migraine.  

Greer was willing to admit that, on some level, it irked her that Bryn might be at least a little right about Killian. The odds that he was completely innocent were most likely not favorable. After all, were any hot billionaires under fifty not crooked as hell? Greer didn’t see how they couldn’t be.  

But as far as Greer knew, whatever Killian was doing wasn’t actively hurting anyone. If anything, he was probably guilty of a bunch of white-collar crimes and money-making schemes that Greer didn’t give a crap about. And Bryn wasn’t going to find evidence of any of that in his building, or she would’ve already.    

So, here she was, again, in the position of going to the Morgan Enterprises building, and being forced to sweet talk Killian Morgan into not pressing charges against her trainee. 

Which left Greer in yet another uncomfortable position. Because as much as she tried to ignore it, Killian Morgan was wildly attractive. And she did mean wildly. Like, throw-him-down-and-mount-him-like-a-rutting-beast wildly. She couldn’t afford to develop a crush on him or indulge in any flirting. She did not need a sexual harassment suit on her record.        

Greer fanned her face. Great. Now she was having a hot flash. Just the thought of sexually harassing Killian gave her hot flashes. Fan-fucking-tastic. 

“Kiss him ‘hi’ for me, G,” Rio said. 

Greer let out an unladylike snort. “Yeah, sure. I’ll get right on that,” she said, still fanning her face.  

“Honey, if I was you, I would’ve got on that years ago. Now, go collect the B-Team.” 

“You know she hates it when you call her that.” 

“I could call her Plan B, if you’d prefer? Betamax?” 

Even in her foul mood, Greer got a chuckle out of that. “You know I love you, right?” 

“Pfffttt. Of course you do. Who else would pick up your hormones from the drugstore and iron your capes? 

Monster Match, Sanity Falls, Book 1, Chapter 1

The Chupacabra and the Chimera thought she was un-marriable.  

Lucy West let that fact sink in for a moment.  

The real irony here was that she didn’t even want to get married. She was only here because she’d had a weak moment personally, and she’d always wanted to see the old Spellman mansion close-up. A Monster Match speed dating event seemed like a great idea at the time. And there was free food and drinks. It was a win-win.   

So, the fact that a blood drinker and a lion/goat/snake person didn’t want to marry her shouldn’t bother her. It kinda did, though.  

Maybe it was because she’d just dumped Jonathan and her emotions were still a little raw. While she was calling him a cheating bastard and grabbing everything she could carry to walk out on him, he was telling her she wouldn’t ever find another man who was willing to tolerate her.  

Jonathan hadn’t ever been right about much. But the idea that he might’ve been right about that, of all things, really chapped her ass.  

It hurt her pride, too, damn it. Breaking up with her live-in boyfriend (when his name was the only one on the lease) in the same week she was laid off from her job didn’t help her foster a sunny can-do attitude about, well, anything. She was homeless, jobless, thirty bucks away from sleeping in her car, and now she couldn’t even convince monsters who were desperately seeking human brides that she was a viable option.   

If that wasn’t the cherry on this shit sundae of a week, she didn’t know what was.   

Finding the flyer for the Monster Match had felt serendipitous at the time. The wind-swept thing had smacked her in the face when she was walking out on Jonathan.   

Since the male monster population in the United States outnumbered the female monster population ten to one, many marriage-minded monsters set out specifically looking for human brides. That’s why matchmaker Truvy Trudeau’s monster speed dating events here in Sanity Falls were always such a huge success.    

It hadn’t escaped Lucy’s attention that a rich, monster sugar daddy would solve many—if not all—of her current problems. Sure, her inner feminist prickled a little at the notion. Not enough that she didn’t attend the event, obviously, because here she was in her one fancy dress (a classy, knee-length, black, vintage Chanel she’d picked up at a consignment shop for her uncle Morty’s funeral five years ago), entirely unsensible (and uncomfortable) stilettos, and her last pair of clean underwear.  

Still, the idea that a rich man could solve all her problems bothered her enough that her conversations with the prospective monster husbands were awkward at best, deeply embarrassing at worst. 

Hopefully, the Orc she’d had her last speed date with would forget the story she told him about the time she’d gone to middle school wearing the same jeans two days in a row, and the previous day’s underwear fell out of her pant leg on the bus in front of Jimmy Jorgenson, the love of her young life.    

She sighed. Her relationship with Jimmy hadn’t survived. Of course, it hadn’t been any great loss since the relationship had existed only in her head.  

That wasn’t the point, though. The point was that when she was nervous, she was prone to bouts of verbal diarrhea nothing short of death could stop.  

Her nerves had nothing to do with being anti-monster, either. She totally wasn’t. She was pretty open-minded. Tails and tentacles and horns didn’t bother her. But marriage…that was way scarier than any monster she’d ever seen. Except for maybe that vampire with the combover in the orange leisure suit she’d passed on the way to the bathroom. She shuddered.   

So, that’s why she was currently hiding in a dark alcove, listening to all the humans and monsters mingling, laughing, drinking, and enjoying themselves. It would’ve been fun if she hadn’t overheard them talking about her. 

Lucy frowned. Maybe she’d just rescue a bunch of dogs, cats, and feral goats and give up on dating—humans and monsters—forever. Her Aunt Fanny had done just that, and she always seemed happy. The rest of the family felt sorry for her, but honestly, she was Lucy’s hero.      

Well, at least the Spellman mansion isn’t a letdown, she thought. It was every bit as majestic as it looked from the outside.  

The mansion was a Victorian gothic revival home on steroids. It was huge, dramatic, and unspeakably elegant. She was almost afraid to touch anything for fear of messing the place up with her grubby, unworthy paws. 

Lucy had only seen three rooms so far—one being the most beautiful, ornately-decorated powder room in existence, the other being a parlor designed for receiving guests, and the third a ballroom where the speed dating event was held. But from her perspective, it was a decadent collection of satin drama drapes, dark, rich wood panels and floors, antique tapestries, wrought-iron chandeliers, thick crown molding, vaulted ceilings, and jewel-toned, patterned wallpaper.  

In other words, it was Lucy’s dream home. Teenaged Goth Lucy would’ve killed to live here. And if someone didn’t stop her, she couldn’t promise she wouldn’t soon be sliding down the giant curved railing on the grand staircase that spiraled from the corner of the ballroom up to the mansion’s second and third floors. How could anyone who lived with that staircase not slide down it every morning?  

“Are you hiding from someone—or some thing –in particular?” 

Lucy startled at the deep voice behind her in the alcove she’d thought empty.  

The owner of said voice was leaning negligently against the wall, most of him cast in shadows. All she could see were a pair of long, trouser-clad legs, one crossed over the other at the ankles. Human-looking legs, she thought. Which meant he was probably one of the waiters or bartenders.  

She raised a brow at him. Well, in his direction, at least. “I could ask you the same.” 

He chuckled. It was an intensely pleasing sound that vibrated along her nerve endings, making her wonder if she’d had too much champagne and too few shrimp puffs. “I would say I’m hiding from…a bit of both,” he admitted.  

He had a really great voice. Cool accent, too. Croatian, if she hadn’t missed her guess. And she was fairly sure she hadn’t because she’d always loved the Croatian actor who took over when George Clooney left ER, and this guy sounded exactly like that actor.   

Note to self: find out where I can stream ER again. Time for a rewatch, methinks.  

She wondered idly if she could convince this guy to narrate audiobooks for her. Hearing some of her favorite romance novels read in that voice would be orgasmic.  

But then she remembered it was her turn to talk, and hey, if he could be honest, she supposed she could do the same. “I’m eavesdropping,” she admitted.  

“Really?” he asked, sounding interested instead of disappointed by her bad manners, which made her like him even more. “Heard anything interesting?” 

Her shoulders slumped a little. “Well, apparently I have a great rack and a decent face, but my personality is shit.” 

A sound emanated from his chest that could only be described as a growl.  It should’ve scared her. 

It didn’t.  

“Who said that about you?” 

He sounded outraged on her behalf and it was nice. She couldn’t remember a time when someone championed her.  “It’s OK. I’m a lot to take. I get that.” 

He grumbled again. Clearly it wasn’t OK with him. And that was most likely why she felt comfortable telling this man—this stranger—her secret.  

“I’m glad they don’t like me,” she said quietly. 

She felt lighter the moment the words were out of her mouth. Unburdened.  

There was a long pause on his end that made her heart beat a bit faster, but she heard no judgment in his voice when he eventually asked, “Why would you be glad that someone doesn’t like you?” 

“I don’t really want to marry any of them. I just got out of a relationship with a guy who I barely even tolerated most days. I think I was only with him because it was easier than being alone, you know?” 

“I do know,” he murmured.  

Here came the dark part that didn’t paint her in a very flattering light. “I saw the flyer for this event and thought, for just a split second, that marrying a monster would be an easy solution to all my problems. But it turns out I can’t do it. I can’t use someone like that. For that split second, though…I thought I could. I just wanted things to be—I don’t know—easier.” She blinked back the stupid tears that were bubbling up behind her eyelids. “Look, I’m strong and smart and resourceful, so I’ll figure all this out. But it was nice to imagine, if only for a little while, that someone else could just swoop in like a knight on a white horse and rescue me from my problems.” 

And she felt like such a weak-ass feminist for even thinking all that crap, let alone saying it to a stranger. For shit’s sake, what was wrong with her tonight? Why was she spilling her guts to a stranger in a dark alcove?  

He remained quiet for so long she thought maybe she’d scared him off for good before he said, “I admire that.” 

She snorted. “What? My lack of options and grayish morals?” 

“Your unwillingness to use someone to get what you want and need.”    

Lucy frowned thoughtfully. “That’s, like, the lowest bar for humanity ever.” 

There was that dead-sexy chuckle again. “Indeed. And yet I spoke with so many people tonight—human and monster—who have no problem using someone to get what they want.” 

She thought about all the women she’d talked to tonight who seemed willing to do or say anything to get the rich husbands they wanted. And all the monsters who were willing to be used in that way for their own reasons. It was kind of awful now that she really thought about it.  

“What would you do if you had a nice place to live and plenty of money?” he asked.  

“You mean like if I hit the lottery?” 

“Sure.” 

Oh, she liked this game. Lucy used to dream of what she’d do if money wasn’t an issue. “It’ll sound weird.”  

“Try me,” he said dryly.  

Well, at this point, she imagined she’d already let him see the worst in her. Why hold back now? “I know most people say they’d like to travel the world. And maybe I would one day. But if I had money, I’d stay home. I’d make my home as comfortable as possible without being too extravagant. I’m not saying I’d hoard my wealth, because I’d definitely set up some big charity donations. But all I’d really want is to get a dog and build a big-ass library—you know, the kind where the shelves go floor-to-ceiling and you have rolling ladders to reach everything? Hell, I might even write my own book one day. I’d just…live a quiet life, not answering to anyone. I’d be an eccentric weirdo hermit, I guess.” 

She thought her last statement would at least get her a chuckle, but it didn’t. “You’d do all that alone?” he asked. 

Lucy bit her lip. “Ideally, I’d have someone who just wanted to be alone with me. If that makes sense. Two people who just love to be alone together sounds like the perfect relationship to me.” 

“It does indeed.”  

That’s when he stepped out of the shadows, and…whoa, she was not in any way ready for the sight that greeted her.  

First of all, he was huge. She was five-seven (five ten in her impractical party heels), and he towered over her like she was a toddler. If she had to guess, she’d say he was nearly seven feet tall.  

His body was lean, but the way his clothes pulled taut through the shoulders led her to believe he was muscular under that expensive-looking suit of his. It took a minute for her gaze to make it all the way from his polished dress shoes up to his face, but when she did, she had to swallow a sharp gasp.  

She’d assumed her new friend was a waiter or a bartender here at the manor.  

Oh, how wrong she’d been.  

She’d been talking to the owner of the manor all along—a man as infamous in town as he was reclusive. There wasn’t a resident in Sanity Falls who didn’t gossip about the monster of Spellman Manor.  

The man who’d allegedly been created from dead bodies a mad scientist had stitched together and reanimated...roughly three hundred years ago.  

He looked good for a three-hundred-year-old dead guy.  

His creator had obviously taken great care to find…specimens with features that were aesthetically pleasing and symmetrical. But there were obviously at least three, um, donors, who’d contributed to his form.  

The thick, jagged scar that surrounded his neck (and the two small metal bolts a few inches below his ears) told her his head and body hadn’t always been attached. Probably not to each other, at least. And the straight scar that ran down the middle of his face separated two very different halves. The left side of his face looked like it had been carved from stone. It was flawlessly beautiful, like a runway model. The other side was what Lucy would call ruggedly handsome. More like young Harrison Ford and less like some pretty boy you’d see in a perfume commercial. They were two very different faces, but when put together with what had obviously been such care…well, it worked.    

The fact that the left eye was a rich, chocolate brown and the right was pale blue made his gaze oddly piercing, but Lucy decided that worked, too. As did his shampoo-commercial-shiny, just-a-little-too-long, just-a-little-messy black hair  

With the gossip mongering going on about the monster of Spellman Manor, why had no one mentioned how hot he was? That would’ve been first on Lucy’s list if she’d been so inclined to spread gossip about the man.  

He bowed at the waist slightly and offered her a dinner-plate-sized hand. “I’m Viktor Adamovic.” 

Duh, she thought. With that face, there really wasn’t a shadow of a doubt who he was. But then her manners caught up to her brain and she took his hand. “I’m Lucy West.” 

He lifted her hand to his mouth and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. She felt the warmth of his lips all over her body.  

All. Over. Her. Body.  

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lucy,” he rumbled quietly.  

Sweet baby Jesus did her name sound good coming from his lips. “Y-you, too.” 

She thought he’d let her go, but his grip on her hand tightened just a fraction before he said, “I have something I’d like to show you.” 

Now, Lucy had watched more than her fair share of serial killer documentaries and true crime specials. If anyone else in the world had said that to her, she would’ve laughed in their face. No way was she going to allow herself to be separated from the herd like a limping baby gazelle at the watering hole by the big, scary lion.  

So, color her surprised when she opened her mouth and “OK” tripped easily off her lips.  

Well…fuck. 

Neighbors with Benefits, Love in the 'Burbs, Book 1, Chapter 1

Her next-door neighbor was, in fact, Satan.  

There was no other scenario Ridley Lennox would entertain. Why else would the bastard be coming home at 3:30am on a Monday night, slamming his car door, and triggering the motion-detecting flood lights on his porch? The ones that pierced right through her sheer bedroom curtains to poke her in the eye while she was trying to sleep?  

And what the fuck was he doing that required slamming his screen door three times? Three!  

With a groan, she flopped over on her stomach and pulled her comforter over her head.  

Ridley had wanted a house in the upper-middle class Elmwood Terrace neighborhood in the small town of Ridgeland Falls, Indiana, since she was eight years old. Back then, her family had lived in the ratty trailer park on the outskirts of town, so the sprawling river rock ranch homes in Elmwood looked like nirvana to her as she biked past them on her way to school every day.  

She’d scrimped and saved nearly every penny she’d made since college to afford a solid down payment on her move-in-ready, three-bedroom, two-bath ranch house on a quiet cul-de-sac in the middle of the subdivision. It had taken her nearly two years to furnish the place, which she’d done on a shoestring budget by frequenting consignment shops, thrift stores, and Goodwill to find beautiful, serviceable items that were also a little funky and stylish. Everything was finally exactly how she wanted it.  

And she couldn’t enjoy any of it because a complete douchenozzle had moved in next door and ruined everything.  

Six weeks ago, Finn Doyle bought old lady Harrison’s house. Apparently, none of the Harrison sons wanted the place. Ridley didn’t blame them. The old bat had been a heinous bitch who threatened to throw pots of scalding water on trick-or-treaters on Halloween if they didn’t get off her lawn. She’d made Christmas carolers cry on more than one occasion. And the Jehovah’s witnesses? Well, no one ever saw them again. Foul play was suspected. 

So, it wasn’t any surprise to Ridley that the Harrison boys had no fond memories of their mom or her home. Their lack of emotional attachment to the place was Finn’s gain, because according to the real estate website she’d stalked, he’d gotten the place for a song, and he’d moved in right after the closing in a whirlwind of activity—way more activity than this neighborhood was used to seeing.  

He’d arrived with the biggest U-Haul Ridley had ever seen. The giant beast had blocked her driveway all damn day while Finn unloaded every box and piece of furniture by himself.  

That should’ve been her first clue that being his neighbor wasn’t going to be a pleasant experience. Who moved by themselves? Didn’t he have any friends or co-workers who could be bribed into helping him with beer and pizza? And who blocked their new neighbor’s driveway all day without even checking to see if she had to go anywhere? 

Fortunately for him, Ridley worked from home and rarely went anywhere other than the grocery store, the nursing home where she volunteered, the office supply store, or the post office. (OK, fine…or the liquor store.) 

That wasn’t the point, though. The point was that he didn’t know she worked from home and rarely had to go anywhere. For all he knew, she was a bigshot surgeon or some shit and had to go save lives at the drop of a hat.  

She wasn’t a surgeon, though. Ridley was a copywriter for a local ad agency, and there were hardly ever any copywriting emergencies that required her to rush out of her house. Unless she was out of chocolate and Diet Coke.  

But that was another story entirely.  

She also liked to read romance novels in her spare time. Happily Ever After endings were her jam. Which kind of explained why initially, she was willing to overlook the red flags that Finn’s entrance into her quiet community had raised.  

See, Finn Doyle was hot.  

Not like normal, boy-next-door hot. Finn was movie star hot. Underwear model hot. Bad-boy-biker-with-a-heart-of-gold hot. Ruin-you-for-other-men-and-leave-you-weak-and-dehydrated-after-fucking-you-for-three-days-straight hot.  

Romance novel hero hot.  

Ridley had watched him haul every one of his boxes and pieces of furniture into his house. Every time his muscle-y biceps and forearms flexed, every time he swept his too-long, messy, dark hair off his brow, every time he bent down to lift something, putting the most perfect, round, sculpted male ass in history on display…she’d seen it. And maybe drooled a little. The way the man filled out a pair of ragged, faded jeans and a gray Henley should be illegal.  

She’d made the mistake of going over to welcome him to the neighborhood a few days later. 

It wasn’t something she normally did. She was usually a I’ll-call-911-if-your-house-is-on-fire kind of neighbor, not a let-me-organize-a-cookout-for-the-neighborhood-block-party kind of neighbor. She kept to herself, mostly. Peopling wasn’t really her thing.  

But Finn was so, so pretty that in a moment of weakness, she pretended she wasn’t an introvert and played welcome wagon for the day.  

Big. Mistake.  

Huge.  

She was a little ashamed to admit that she’d even taken time to straighten her hair, swipe on some mascara, and put on a pair of jeans instead of her work uniform of a ratty Star Wars sweatshirt that said “Pew Pew Pew” across her chest and a pair of threadbare yoga pants. It was normal for a single woman to not want to look like she was a natural disaster survivor when first meeting a hot new neighbor, right? 

But when she’d knocked on his front door, he’d practically ripped it off the hinges, narrowed his eyes at her, and crossed his arms over his broad chest like she was about to ask him if he wanted to buy Amway. In the glare of all that sexy intensity and disapproval, she’d giggled like a drunken hyena (nervous laughter was her cross to bear) and introduced herself.  

His bluer-than-blue eyes had traveled over her in a way that made her think he did not appreciate the fact that she’d dressed up and said, “So, I guess that’s your dog shitting on my lawn?” 

It had taken her a minute to register his words, because his voice was incredible.  Deep and resonate and a little rough and grumbly, it was the stuff of wild, sweaty, dirty fantasies.  

But when his words did seep into her brain, she’d glanced over her shoulder and saw that her Airedale/Irish Wolfhound mix, Sir Fitzsimmons FuzzyButt (Fitzy for short) was indeed taking a giant crap on Finn’s front lawn. 

The nervous giggle had intensified at that moment, because Fitzy had obviously eaten something that disagreed with him. It looked—and smelled—like he was shitting toxic waste. A lot of it, because Fitzy wasn’t exactly a lap dog. He weighed one-ten on a good day, but after he was done emptying his bowels on Finn’s lawn, he was probably down to ninety-five. 

So. Much. Yikes.  

Ridley had somehow managed to stutter out an apology and promised to hose the lawn off—or call a HazMat team…whatever—but Finn hadn’t wanted to hear it. He’d simply muttered something under his breath and slammed the door in her face. 

She’d called him a dick before she realized his living room window was open and he could probably hear her. He confirmed her suspicions by sticking his head out the window and raising a brow at her in a supremely dickish manner.  

She’d flounced away after that, whistling for Fitzy as she went. She wasn’t about to apologize for calling a dick a dick. He could just sit there in his dickishness and…dick.  

Since then, they’d only seen each other in passing. Terse looks were exchanged, but no neighborly greetings. Sometimes she stuck her tongue out at him or flipped him the bird when he wasn’t looking. But other than that, she only thought about him when he was mowing his lawn at 10pm on a Tuesday (what kind of psychopath did that?) or, like now, when she was trying to sleep and he was making enough noise to wake the dead.  

The screen door slammed again. Son of a bitch! 

Ridley threw her converter off in a fit of temper, stomped through the house to the kitchen window where she’d be able to see what the bastard was doing, ripped the shades open and… 

Sweet Mother of Hostess Donettes.  

Satan was naked.  

Never in her life would she have imagined seeing this much of her new neighbor.  

Finn had obviously stripped in his laundry room, and was standing in front of his refrigerator, naked as the day he was born, chugging orange juice directly from the carton. The whole drinking from the carton thing would’ve really offended her—there were clean glasses right there by the sink, for crap’s sake—if she hadn’t been completely transfixed by the most perfect ass she’d ever seen in her life. Michelangelo’s David would be jealous of Finn’s ass. It was that great. 

Then he turned around. 

Fuuuccckkk.  

His abs had abs. And he had the perfect amount of chest hair—not too much, not too little. All that smooth, lightly tanned skin stretched taut over miles and miles of lean muscle…it was a little overwhelming. She told herself not to let her eyes dip any lower. Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t…  

She let her eyes dip lower.  

Now, Ridley was between boyfriends. It had been a long time since she’d been this close to a naked man. And, granted, her last few boyfriends weren’t what anyone would call well-endowed. But even given how out of practice she was, and just how few penises she’d seen up close lately, she was fairly certain Finn was impressively hung. Like, porn-star hung, if she hadn’t missed her guess. She leaned in a little closer to get a better look. 

That’s when Fitzy shoved his cold, wet nose into the back of her thigh. Ridley shrieked and jerked forward, smacking her forehead on the window. “Motherfucker!” 

 She pressed a hand to her forehead, knowing she might very well have a goose egg there by morning, and glanced back into Finn’s house.  

He was looking in her direction, frowning and squinting. Ridley dove to the floor like a live grenade had just been lobbed into her kitchen.  

And that was the story of how she ended up on her kitchen floor at 3:30am, wearing nothing but her panties and ratty sleep T-shirt, with a lump on her forehead, feeling the kind of shame only someone who’d been caught mentally sexually harassing their hot douchebag neighbor could feel.  

It was an epiphany moment for her. This had to stop. It was finally time to have another chat with her grumpy-as-fuck neighbor. How was she supposed to do her job when she couldn’t even get a fucking night’s sleep because he was wandering around his house, making enough noise to wake the whole damn neighborhood, all naked and hot and muscle-y and sexy like that?  

She’d do it first thing in the morning. Ridley grinned evilly at the thought of interrupting his beauty sleep for once.  

Fitzy shuffled over and laid down next to her, resting his big, fluffy brown and black head on her neck. He obviously agreed with her plan and supported her one-hundred percent.  

Finn Doyle was about to find out that paybacks were a bitch. 

You Complicate Me, Book 1, Chapter 1 

In retrospect, the Valium probably would’ve been enough to soothe Grace Montgomery’s nerves on the flight from Los Angeles to Indianapolis. The wine was most likely overkill. 

As was the tequila. 

It had all started innocently enough. “Take one pill an hour before the flight,” her doctor had told her, “and one an hour into the flight. You’ll be completely relaxed. Valium is magic, I swear.” 

“The kind of magic that keeps planes from falling from the sky in a ball of fiery death?” Grace had asked. 

Her doctor’s answering smirk should’ve been a warning. “The kind of magic that makes you not care on the way down.” 

And she hadn’t. Cared, that is. The magic Valium had done its job. 

Until take-off, at least. 

As soon as the plane started rolling down the runway, as soon as she felt the rumbling of the engine in her belly, she started panicking. The man sitting next to her in seat C2, no doubt having noticed the white-knuckled grip she had on their adjoining armrest, had suggested a glass of wine, which she’d requested from the flight attendant as soon as she’d been allowed. But even though she gulped it down in two swallows, the wine was absolutely no match for her anxiety, because she soon started hyperventilating. 

C2 had pressed an air-sickness bag into one of her hands, and a mini bottle of tequila into the other. After breathing deeply into the bag for a few moments, she’d unscrewed the tequila and downed it, too. One swallow that time. 

Grace was nothing if not a quick learner. 

It was then she’d made what she thought was a tragic error. She’d asked for a second bottle of tequila, which she used to wash down her second Valium. The calm that had quickly washed over her was amazing. She couldn’t remember a time when she’d felt so relaxed. 

And warm. She was suddenly really, really, warm. So it only made sense that she’d strip off her sweater, right? 

Sadly, while she was shedding layers, she elbowed the guy next to her in the eye. 

“Jesus Christ,” he’d muttered, holding a hand over one eye. 

That was when she got her first good look at C2. 

Maybe it was the Valium, or maybe it was the alcohol, but holy hell, he was beautiful. 

His inky hair was long overdue for a trim and fell in messy disarray—the kind of messy disarray that hot men achieved naturally and women paid big bucks to a salon to fake—to just above the collar of his white button-down shirt. With his knife-edged cheekbones, strong jaw, and olive complexion, he looked like he could be Hugh Jackman’s younger brother. 

Grace had watched Wolverine four times, and not because the storyline was stellar (or even remotely plausible, really). Her mouth immediately went dry. Other parts of her…not so much. 

“I’m r-really sorry,” she whispered. 

He lowered his hand and she winced at the elbow-sized welt forming under his eye. “Are you always like this on a plane?” he asked. 

“Like what?” 

“Fucking crazy?” 

She frowned at him. “I’m a nervous flyer, okay? Lots of people are nervous flyers.” 

He shook his head and ran his hand through that amazing hair of his. “This isn’t nervous. I’ve seen nervous. You’re a train wreck, lady.” 

He wasn’t lying. Didn’t make his comment any less insulting. “I’m sorry if my fear of falling from the sky and plummeting to a fiery death is inconveniencing you in any way.” 

One black brow winged upward. “Fear all you want. I couldn’t care less. But when you try to blind me with your fucking elbow while you strip down to your underwear…well, that’s when I start to care.” 

Grace glanced down at her white layering tank top. It wasn’t see-through. Minimal cleavage was on display. Perfectly respectable. “I said I was sorry about elbowing you, okay? And I’m not in my underwear.” 

His gaze dipped down. “I can tell that you’re cold.” He smirked as his eyes met hers again. “Or turned on.” 

She so wasn’t cold. 

“I’m cold,” she said dryly. “Don’t flatter yourself.” 

His smirk morphed into a full-fledged grin, and Grace fought the urge to fan herself. Jesus, the grin was nothing short of panty-dropping. A smile like that should be illegal. All those straight white teeth and the dimple that carved into his cheek…it was gratuitous, really. 

And his eyes? An amazing oceanic mix of blue and pale green. Men shouldn’t be allowed to have eyes that pretty. 

“Let’s start over,” he said. He held out his hand. “I’m Nick. Nick O’Connor.” 

She was so busy staring at his eyes—and being envious of his thick, dark eyelashes, if she was being honest with herself— that it took her a moment to realize he was speaking to her. She took his hand. “Grace. Grace Montgomery.” 

Something akin to recognition lit his eyes for a moment, making her wonder if he knew her. Had they met before? But she immediately dismissed the thought. If she’d met this guy before, she’d remember it. 

His hand was warm and callused, and dwarfed hers. Her gaze traveled from his hand up his thick forearm, exposed by the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. His biceps strained the fabric of that shirt, as well. If the arms were any indication, a muscly chest and flat stomach were a foregone conclusion. 

She considered then that her judgment might be impaired. No one was this good-looking. Or else Nick O’Connor was genetically blessed in a way that was totally unfair to all other men. 

Tequila goggles. She was wearing a set of tequila goggles. There was no other explanation. 

He cleared his throat, drawing her attention back to his face. He let go of her hand and she fought the urge to grab his again. She knew she was an embarrassment to feminists everywhere, but there was something insanely comforting about having a big, strong guy holding her hand. If she’d grabbed him early on, maybe she wouldn’t have needed the Valium. Or wine. Or tequila. 

“So, Grace,” he said, “have you always been a nervous flyer?” 

She laid her head back against the seat, suddenly feeling a little off balance. “Yeah. I don’t like being closed in. Or depending on people I don’t know to fly the plane. And land the plane.” 

“Uh huh. So you’re one of those.” 

She frowned at him again. “One of those what?” 

“Control freaks.” 

“I am not a control freak.” 

Was it her imagination, or had she slurred that sentence? 

He gave her the panty-dropping grin again. Yep, she’d slurred. 

“Whatever you say, angel.” 

Being called a control freak was kind of a hot button for Grace. It was something her ex-husband never failed to bring up when they’d argued, which had been often. And the fact that this total stranger would agree with her ex pissed her off. She also took exception to him assigning her a nickname. Grace unbuckled her seatbelt and stood up to tell him so. 

And that’s when her memory got a little…fuzzy. 

She had a distinct memory of poking him in the chest, telling him he didn’t know anything about her. He’d told her to sit down. To calm down. She’d refused, colorfully and loudly. She’d tried to badger a man in another row into trading seats with her. The guy had refused, colorfully and loudly. 

Nick had gotten in the middle of that argument and tried to tell her something about who he was, what his job was, but she was too busy yelling about…something to catch all of it. 

The next thing she knew, Nick had forced her back into her seat. He might’ve also threatened to cuff her if she got into any other arguments with passengers, which seemed a little excessive. And…kinky. 

“I’m sorry,” she thought he’d said at that point. 

“I’m sorry, too,” she vaguely remembered responding. 

Then, she couldn’t be sure, but she thought she might have leaned over and puked all over his shoes. After that…there was nothing but blissful, blissful unconsciousness. 

The Has-Been and the Hot Mess, Book 1, Chapter 1

Whoever said sleeping with the boss was a bad idea was wrong. It was when you stopped sleeping with the boss that the trouble really started. 

Kendall Quinn flopped down on the couch next to the battered cardboard box that now represented the remains of her career. Four years as a PR manager with the most prestigious talent representation agency in LA and all she had to show for it was an over-watered Philodendron, a half-eaten container of Tums, and a severance check that wouldn’t even cover her half of next month’s rent.  

She kicked off her heels and tossed her iPhone on the coffee table, not bothering to check for messages. Kyle had almost certainly made sure no one would try to contact her—none of her clients, none of her coworkers. She was well and truly screwed.  

Metaphorically, of course. Because to add insult to injury, Kyle had been a lousy lay. Bastard.  

It wasn’t even like she could turn around and sue him for wrongful termination. Even though he’d all but admitted he’d fired her because it would be uncomfortable for his new girlfriend to have to work with her every day, Kendall had failed to bill the required number of hours for the past two months, which was the official party line for why she’d been terminated.  

And as far as party lines went, it was super credible. Especially since she recently lost her biggest client to the hateful little bitch—her protégé, no less—who’d also stolen Kyle from her, making it nearly impossible to bill the required monthly hours.  

Getting new clients took time, too. Wining, dining, schmoozing, and convincing Hollywood types to trust her with their precious PR, social media, and crises management wasn’t an easy task. It especially wasn’t easy for someone like Kendall, who had very little control over the filter between her brain and her mouth, which was why she’d lost Lynsay Storm, country music’s flavor of the month, as a client in the first place.  

But that wasn’t worth thinking about right now. It was done and there was no going back. What she needed now was a plan for how to recover from this fiasco.  

First and foremost? She needed a new place to live. Kyle had given her a month to vacate the townhouse they shared. The miserable asshole didn’t even have the decency to offer her the place as a parting gift, which was just spiteful, seeing as he was staying with his new fuck toy.  

She also needed to figure out what she was going to do for work. Because apartments in LA didn’t just magically pay for themselves.  

She wished she could pull a Jerry McGuire and try to convince some of her old co-workers and clients to follow her. But the non-compete she’d signed when she was hired by Walker and Patrick PR was iron clad. If she tried to steal any of their clients and employees now that she was a free agent—even though that status had been forced on her—she’d pretty much owe a kidney and her firstborn to the firm’s lawyers.  

Even if she could find a way to weasel out of her non-compete, it wasn’t like any of her clients would leave Walker and Patrick for her. Sure, her clients liked her, but Kendall was sure they loved the firm’s endless resources and connections even more. 

Honestly, until she ran the out the clock on her non-compete (five years, if she remembered correctly), the best she could probably hope for here in LA was occasional consulting work, or finding brand new, awesome, unrepresented talent. 

And finding brand new, awesome, unrepresented talent in this place? Her odds of finding a unicorn with the Holy Grail shoved up its ass were better. Practically every waiter and waitress with a dream and a modicum of talent had representation here in La La Land.      

Sweet crap on a cracker, what had she gotten herself into? Had she really lost her career over a douchenozzle like Kyle Walker?  

It didn’t escape her attention that nearly every mistake she’d ever made in her twenty-nine years of life could be traced back to a good-looking, smooth-talking, dark-haired, bad-boy asshole.  

Losing her virginity at sixteen to a guy who’d told the entire school she’d given him crabs when she broke up with him? Yep. That’d happened. Vance McNeil—quarterback of the football team and hotter than he had any right to be, with hair and eyes the color of melted dark chocolate.  

Then there was the bartender with the deep, grumbly baritone and midnight eyes she’d dated for two weeks. That relationship had come to a screeching halt when she found out he’d stolen her jewelry and pawned it to pay off his gambling debts.  

Kyle was no better. He hadn’t stolen from her or told the entire office she was an STD-ridden whore or anything, but he’d done something much worse. He’d actually tricked her into thinking he was a good, decent guy. The kind of guy who, despite his gorgeous face, olive-toned skin, and wavy chestnut hair, would never fuck her protégé on his desk where anyone could walk in and find them only weeks—WEEKS!—after asking her to move in with him.  

 Gah! Her taste in men was shit. Her next boyfriend would be a blond with absolutely zero alpha tendencies, by God.  

Kendall jumped when her phone rang, then she lunged for it. With any luck, Kyle had realized he’d been a short-sighted jackass to fire her and that there was no way he could keep the agency going without her.   

She sighed with disappointment when she realized it wasn’t Kyle calling. But hey, at least this caller was a blond. Maybe her luck was starting to turn already.  

“Hi, Ray,” she said, trying not to sound like a defeated, pathetic, desperate loser. “It’s not a good time. Can I call you back later?”  

After I’ve eaten the giant bag of cheese puffs I bought on the way home and washed it down with a cheap bottle of wine?    

She could practically hear Ray rolling his blue eyes heavenward. “Oh, please, Ken Doll,” he said. “I know you’re about two seconds away from carb-loading and binge-watching The Great British Baking Show. You have nothing better to do than talk to me.”  

“Rude,” she grumbled. True, but rude, nonetheless. “And don’t call me Ken Doll. You know I hate that.” 

“Whatever you say, pumpkin.”  

Pumpkin was only marginally better, but she’d allow it. “I was fired less than an hour ago, Ray. How do you already know about it?” 

“Your ex-protégé,” he said. “I called your office because you weren’t answering your cell and she spilled the beans. Gleefully, I might add. She has absolutely zero discretion.” 

“Yeah, I kind of figured that out when I caught her banging Kyle on his desk yesterday at lunch,” she said dryly. 

And she’d only caught them because she’d felt bad when he told her he had to work through lunch, so she’d picked up his favorite sandwich—chicken salad on rye—from Joe’s deli where they usually ate lunch together. 

But apparently all he’d really needed for lunch was Tiffany bent over his mahogany desk with her skirt shoved up to her waist and her thong around her ankles while he fucked her from behind as hard as he could manage with his pencil dick. Asshole.  

 Ray let out a disgusted sound. “Ugh. I knew I hated that guy as soon as he said The Rise of Skywalker was the best Star Wars movie ever. There is no one on earth less trustworthy than a straight white guy who loved that movie more than The Empire Strikes Back and The Last Jedi. Dumb motherfucker.” 

Kendall knew better than to engage in a Star Wars discussion with Ray. It was a never-ending rat hole that often led to him asking if she knew anyone who could get him a meeting with JJ Abrams so that Ray could kick him in the shins.  

So instead, she just sighed and said, “I should’ve known Kyle was too good to be true. Tiffany, too. It was at least partially my fault for trusting the wrong people. Again.” 

“I knew neither of them would last.” 

“And now you’re psychic? Great,” she said, her voice completely devoid of emotion. She held up her middle finger. “Tell me what I’m thinking right now.” 

He chuckled. “Oooh, feisty. I like ‘em feisty.” 

“That would be great for my ego if I didn’t also know you like ‘em male.” 

This time he let out a sharp laugh that actually made her smile. But only a little. “Baby,” he said, “if you were a dude, I would’ve married you by now.” 

Now that one hurt a little. The closest thing to a marriage proposal she’d ever had, and it was from her gay best friend. “Good to know that if I only had a penis, I’d be married and employed.” 

“’If I only had a penis’…the forgotten song lyrics that never made it into the final cut of The Wizard of Oz,” he quipped.   

Kendall shook her head. “Funny. You’re a funny guy, Ray.” 

“Oh, buck up, buttercup. It can’t be as bad as all that. Why did the asshole fire you, anyway?” 

“The real reason? He thought it would be awkward for his new fuck toy to have to keep reporting to his old fuck toy every day. The made-up reason? I lost the Storm account.” 

“Well,” he said, “you did call her a brainless twatwffle. On national television.” 

Kendall threw a hand up in frustration. “Just how many times do you have to flash the paparazzi before you start wearing underwear, huh? It’s not rocket science, for fuck’s sake. And she completely ignored the script I gave her and said, on camera, that she didn’t usually participate in children’s charities because kids are gross. She said the sick kids in the cancer ward were gross, Ray. How am I supposed to spin that? She is a brainless twatwaffle.” She sniffed indignantly. “It’s just my unfortunate luck that I said it within earshot of so many hot mics. It was an honest mistake that could’ve happened to anyone.” 

“Agreed. But that doesn’t make you any less fired. Anyhoo, I’m bored with feeling sorry for you. Let’s talk about me.” 

She blinked. That was abrupt, even for Ray, who was not known for his tact. “Wow, thanks for the sympathy, pal. You’d think that losing a boyfriend, my career, and my townhouse in one day would earn me the right to wallow at least a little.”          

Ray made a disgusted sound. “Kyle was a shitty boyfriend with a tiny dick who cleared his throat every eighteen seconds and said ‘irregardless.’ No loss there. And you’ll have another job before this phone call is over.” 

She frowned. “Once and for all, Ray, I’m not going to dress up like Betty Draper and pretend I’m your secretary.” 

He scoffed. “No, silly. I mean a real job. Although I don’t know what you have against Mad Men. You’d look just like January Jones all dolled up in a flouncy little skirt.” 

She was so not going to have this conversation with him today. “What job?” 

Ray took a big dramatic breath. “I’m about to tell you something I’ve never told anyone in LA.” 

Anyone who didn’t know Ray would probably be intrigued by the gravity of his tone. But Kendall knew him better than that. “Is this about the time you saw Ashton Kutcher at Starbucks?”  

A pregnant pause on his end was followed by, “Dumbass, I told everyone that. I said I was going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone in LA.”          

True enough. She’d heard the Ashton Kutcher story at least twelve times. “OK, so spill.” 

“I have a brother.” 

“Great. Is he blond and single?” 

She heard him slap a palm to his forehead. “Damn it, Kenny, I’m serious.” 

So was she. At least a little bit.  

Ray then said the magic words. “He was a bit famous a few years ago.” 

Kendall leaned forward, suddenly very serious. “Why am I just now hearing about this?” 

“Because I’ve seen you go after celebrities and it’s like watching the shark swallow that little boy in Jaws. And he wasn’t ready to be in the limelight again. If you’d convinced him to hire you when we first met, today he’d be the biggest name in the business, because you’re incapable of half-assing anything. And he just wasn’t ready.” 

“But he’s ready now? So, what, is he some kind of washed-up child star looking to make a comeback?” 

Kendall practically salivated at the thought. Washed up child stars were her specialty. If she’d been around to convince David Cassidy to sign with her, he would’ve had his own number-one-rated reality series or been the host of a top-tier talent competition instead of that Vegas residency he did. 

“No. And I’m not telling you anything else. Not yet, anyway. I want you to meet him before you make any snap judgments.” 

She pursed her lips in frustration. “I don’t make snap judgments.” 

“Puh-lease. You’re Snappy McSnaperson, mayor of Snappytown.” 

“Well, that’s just childish.” A little true, too. Not that she’d admit that to him. “You have to give me something here, Ray. How do you even know I’ll want to work with him after I’ve met him?” 

“One, you love a challenge like no one I’ve ever seen in my life. And two, you don’t have a choice, Kenny. You have posh taste, high-maintenance hair, and a shoe fetish. You need the job. Plus, you have little-to-no savings.” 

“How do you know I have little-to-no savings?” 

He snorted. “Hel-lo? Not only am I a CPA, I’m your CPA. Did you forget that? So, unless you have an account in the Caymans I’m not aware of, you’re damn near broke.” 

“It’s not like I blew all my money on hair product and shoes, you know,” she grumbled.  

“I know, I know. You paid off your student loans and your parent’s house like a good little girl. Oh, come on, sweetie. What do you have to lose?” 

Thanks to Kyle, a whole helluva lot of nothing. Her name would be shit in this town by tomorrow. If it wasn’t already. “Tell me this mystery brother doesn’t already have an agent, and isn’t in LA,” she said.  

“No agent. And he is hell-and-gone from LA.”  

And he was Ray’s brother, so chances were good that he was a blond, not some hot, dark-haired, alpha jerkwad that’d be her Kryptonite. Again. A blond paying client who wasn’t in LA sounded pretty really good right about now.  

Besides, she hadn’t met a client yet she couldn’t handle. Drug addicts, sex scandals, has-beens and never-were’s—she was a publicity goddess who could deal with them all.  

How bad could it be?