Lucas Thorn wasn’t born a cheater. All it took was a single moment—say, a certain disastrous incident on the night before his wedding—and boom. Reputation destroyed forever and always. So now he owns it. He has a lady friend for every night of the week (except Sundays—God’s day and all), and his rules are simple: No commitments. No exceptions.
But a certain smart-mouthed, strawberry-blonde vixen is about to blow that all to hell.
Avery Black has never forgiven Lucas for cheating on her sister. And suddenly being forced to work with him is pretty much a nightmare on steroids. Of course, it does afford her the opportunity to make his life as difficult as possible. But no good revenge scheme comes without payback. Because he didn’t become the Lucas Thorn without learning a few things about women.
Now Avery’s lust for vengeance has turned into, well, lust. And if Lucas stops cheating, it’s definitely not because he’s falling in love . . .
“They’re well aware of the arrangement.”
“And Sundays?” Not staring at him was too hard; therefore, I focused on the cleft in his chin so I wouldn’t look at his perfect lips . . . or the swell of his biceps. When he crossed his arms, I was almost afraid the shirt was going to rip, and it was a nice shirt, soft, white. Okay, Avery, stop staring at the fabric like you want to make babies with it. That’s weird—don’t be weird.
“Sundays are for my sister, Erin.”
He shifted uncomfortably. Was it my imagination, or did those biceps flex beneath the shirt like he was tensing?
As if the tensing wasn’t bad enough, he cleared his throat and blinked way too many times for a man who was being completely honest about his sister.
“Huh.” His shirt really was nice though—stain-free. How did he manage it with all the sex and lipstick? “So you were being honest about that?”
“Honesty,” he said, “is necessary when you casually date seven women, right?”
“Oh please!” I locked eyes with him. “You’re excusing horrible behavior by saying the girls are aware, but the whole sex without strings doesn’t exist. That’s a fantasy like Santa Claus or the Easter bunny.”
“Holy shit! Santa’s fake?” He winked. “And they’re all okay with it. Besides, it’s not like I’m sleeping with you.”
I hated him for saying it.
Because immediately I had a vision of his mouth on mine, clothes on the floor, and every forbidden fantasy I’d had throughout high school flared to life, fanned by the words that he’d just released into the universe, words that would be impossible to take back.
I sucked in a breath, and he licked his lips, his eyes focusing on my mouth.
It was wrong.
And a small part of me liked that feeling, the wrongness of being in my boss’s office, the history, but it was only 1 percent.
Ninety-nine percent of me still wanted to nail him to a wall and use his balls as target practice with a shiny, new aluminum bat.
Lucas took a step toward me. I took a step back.
Rachel Van Dyken is the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling author of regency and contemporary romances. When she’s not writing you can find her drinking coffee at Starbucks and plotting her next book while watching The Bachelor.
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