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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

1.  Why Lightweights Shouldn’t Drink

ASHTON

“Come on, go,” my friend Tressa said, trying to push me out of my chair. “What good is a bucket list if you’re too chicken to do any of it?”

“Zip it,” I said out of the corner of my mouth as I apprehensively eyed the situation in front of me. It seemed like a good idea on paper, but actually committing to it suddenly made me nauseated. I took a long pull of my beer, hoping that would help calm my nerves. “God, that’s disgusting.” I grimaced as the foul liquid poured down my throat. “I don’t know how people drink this crap,” I complained, slamming the bottle back down on the table a little harder than I should have.

“You’re stalling, Ash. Besides, this was your idea. Pick up a random stranger and bang his socks off,” Tressa quipped. “You need to seize the opportunity before someone else does, otherwise you’ll be SOL, and your only choice will be Old Man Jones over there,” she added, making our friend Brittni snort loudly.

“Shush,” I said, elbowing her in the gut. Tressa had one volume level—loud. Her words traveled from our table to the many other patrons throughout the only bar in the sleepy little town of Woodfalls, Maine. Joe’s was the hotspot, and Friday was your only good chance to meet someone if you were single and on the prowl, because Saturday was family karaoke night.

“Ow, bitch,” Tressa said, rubbing her stomach. “It’s not like the grumpy old fart can hear us anyway,” she said loudly in his direction.

“Gahhhh, shush, Tressa. He’s going to hear you,” I said, sliding back down in my seat.

“Chillax, drama queen. He doesn’t even have his hearing aid in. Watch,” she said, shooting me a mischievous grin. “Hey, Mr. Jones, I really want to blow you,” she said loudly.

She managed to get the attention of about a dozen guys with that one, including Mr. Jones, who whirled around, studying us with his beady black eyes. His gray bushy eyebrows came together in a unibrow that looked like a giant caterpillar on his forehead.

Brittni snorted again as she shook with laughter. I squirmed uncomfortably on the hard wooden bench, fighting the urge to point at Tressa like we were in kindergarten and had gotten busted for throwing spitballs or something.

Tressa returned his stare head-on, smiling sardonically until he turned back around.

“Sheesh, girl, you’re lucky he didn’t take you up on your offer,” I said, stifling my own laughter.

“Hey, you never know what he’s sportin’ in those dusty old overalls.” Tressa winked.

“Gross,” I shrieked.

Tressa just shrugged, unconcerned. I couldn’t help admiring her self-assuredness. She didn’t care what people thought about her. She was loud and seriously inappropriate, but hilarious as hell, despite the tight leash her boyfriend tried to keep her on. We’d been friends for only four months, but I had grown quite fond of her in that short period of time. Both she and Brittni had welcomed me into their friendship circle without a second thought. They acted like I belonged. Not because they felt sorry for me or pitied me like everyone else had done for so many years, but because they genuinely seemed to like me. Brittni wasn’t as flamboyant or inappropriate as Tressa, but she had a wickedly dry sense of humor that kept people on their toes. And then there was me. I wasn’t completely sure what I brought to the group, but that was why I was here. Somewhere over the last five years, I’d forgotten who I really was.

“All right, time to stop stalling. Get off your ass and pick up that tall, dark, he-can-have-my-panties-any-day seximist,” Tressa said pointedly, looking at the stranger we’d been eyeing for the last fifteen minutes.

“Maybe I should do something else on my list,” I said, pulling a rumpled slip of paper out of my bag while desperately trying to ignore the butterflies that had suddenly decided to hang out in my stomach. I gently smoothed out the creases as I contemplated the items scrawled on the paper.

“You’re kidding, right? This town has a population of, like, negative ten, and he’s the hottest thing to walk in here in forever. When are you going to have the opportunity to have one night of hot, wild sex with a stranger like that again?”

“That’s my point. Don’t you find it a little weird that we don’t know this guy? This town is pretty much off the beaten path. He could be some mass murderer. How do you know he wouldn’t put my head in his freezer or something?”

“Sweetheart, after a night with him, you’ll want a freezer to cool you off,” Tressa said, eyeing him with open admiration. “Besides, if you don’t make your move, I’m totally claiming him,” she added, adjusting her shirt so the tops of her ample breasts peeked out from the thin camisole she was wearing under her button-up see-through shirt.

“So, you wouldn’t mind that you don’t know him and that he could very well chop up your body into a million pieces? Not to mention what Jackson would say if he found out,” I said, reminding her of her boyfriend.

“Wow, seriously, chill, Ash. She’s just trying to give you a spark. Besides, you were a stranger here once too, and you didn’t show your true crazy for a couple days,” Brittni teased. “Now get up there and sex that possible serial killer up.”

“You two are a riot,” I said, choking down the last of my beer, which tasted like elephant piss, or at least what I would assume elephant pee would taste like. “All right, wish me luck,” I added, finally sliding out of the booth. “If he chops me up into little pieces, neither of you gets those boots of mine you want so bad,” I threatened. I made my way up to the counter, where the object of our interest was perched. Considering my shaky legs, I wasn’t exactly as subtle as a prowling jungle cat. Tressa was right. The chance of finding a perfect candidate for a one-night stand was slim to none in a town the size of Woodfalls. Strangers were few and far between. Couple that with the fact that he was drop-dead gorgeous, and his sudden appearance was like a gift from God. Not that good-looking was a prerequisite. The only requirement I had set was that he know nothing about me or my past. I wanted one night where someone wanted me for me, not because they felt sorry for me.

“Hey, Joe, can I get a shot?” I asked, sliding onto the bar stool next to the tall, dark, panty-dropping-worthy hunk.

“Sure thing, Ashton. How’d you like your beer?” Joe asked, drying a small shot glass with a cotton towel he had tucked into his apron.

“It tasted like pee,” I confessed.

Joe threw his head back as a loud roar of laughter erupted out of him. “Drink a lot of pee, do you?” he asked.

I opened my mouth to answer him sarcastically when the object of my fascination let out a low rumble of laughter. Seizing my opportunity, I gulped down the bourbon Joe had placed in front of me and swiveled around to face the stranger next to me. The liquor burned its way down my throat, leaving a fiery trail all the way to my belly, but it was eclipsed by the liquid fire that burned through me when my eyes finally met his.

“Can I get you another?” he asked softly in a radio-DJ-like voice that you would hear on a lonely Saturday night, encouraging listeners to call in with their favorite weepy love songs.

“Sure.” I eyed my empty glass as my body responded to his sexier-than-sin voice. I was a sucker for a deep voice—or an accent, especially British or Australian accents. Neither, though, could compare to the richness of his voice, which seemed to vibrate through me. I realized in that instant that I had left a crucial item off my bucket list. Having an intimate conversation with someone with a voice like his should have topped my list.

“You all right?” he asked, looking bemused as Joe placed another shot in front of me. I started to answer his question and mentally kicked myself when I realized I’d been staring at him like he was a tall glass of water on a hot summer day. Matter of fact, I was about 99.9 percent sure I might have licked my lips in anticipation.

“Absolutely. How ’bout you?” I asked, trying for a seductive throaty voice that just went wrong. “Thanks for the drink,” I added, sucking down the liquid confidence in an attempt to calm my frazzled nerves.

His bemused expression turned to outright amusement as he took in my watery eyes, which had resulted from my quick gulping of the whiskey shot. “Another?” he asked with raised eyebrows.

“Why not,” I answered, though the room was already tilting slightly. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d actually had a drink before tonight. They all centered on the time my life had slipped drastically off course. I’d gone hog wild for a couple of weeks until I realized drowning my sorrows in alcohol only made me sick and didn’t solve anything anyway. After that it wasn’t a viable option. Needless to say, my time in high school and college had been pretty lackluster.

Tall, Dark, and Dreamy chuckled softly beside me as he flagged down Joe for another round. Holding up his own shot glass, he waited until I raised mine to meet his, and then winked at me as we clinked glasses. “Damn.” My breath hitched. I was a sucker for winking too. Something about it made my stomach tighten up in anticipation and my breath quicken. Not to mention, having Mr. Seximist behind the wink made other areas tighten up too, while a certain other area began to throb. It took me a moment to distinguish the throbbing as desire. My one and only sexual encounter had been four years ago, after prom, and it didn’t last long enough to ever cross over into the desire category. It was the means to an end. I had wanted to feel normal just for one night, and by the end of the dance, I finally coaxed Shawn Johnson into ending my virgin status once and for all. He’d resisted the idea at first, but my constant touches and whispered comments finally muddled his brain enough that he caved. The actual act lasted less than two minutes and hurt like a bitch, but in the end, I was glad I’d gone through with it.

It was ironic that one wink by Mr. Voice had me crossing my legs in an attempt to distill the ache that was slowly beginning to radiate between my legs. He’d managed to excite me more in three minutes of flirting than Shawn had done in an entire evening of slow dancing, grinding, and sloppy kisses.

I was pulled away from my thoughts by a low chuckle. Son of a bitch, not again, I thought, blanching inwardly. He’d busted me gawking at him like a lovesick teenager again. Okay, pull it together, I reminded myself. Focus on why you’re here. I welcomed the warm buzz from my shot of bourbon and the uncharacteristic confidence that came with it. Licking the last drop of amber liquid off my bottom lip, I watched with satisfaction as his eyes settled on my lips. I could do this.

“You know, you keep winking at girls like that and one of them is bound to take it as an invitation,” I said.

“Sweetheart, I only wink at the girls I’m interested in,” he answered smoothly, tipping his own glass to his lips.

The desire I had been trying in vain to control unfurled inside me, making my nipples harden beneath the black lace bra I’d had the uncanny foresight to don that evening. The dull ache between my legs morphed into a steady throbbing that even my crossed legs could not ease.

“Is that so?” I asked, arching my eyebrow in what I hoped was a seductive manner.

“It’s a fact, sweetheart,” he whispered close to my ear.

I clamped my lips together so I wouldn’t embarrass myself by moaning out loud as his warm breath rustled the hair at the nape of my neck. I resisted the urge to sweep my long dark hair out of the way to give him more access.

“You’re pretty cocky,” I said as he signaled Joe for another round. My head was already spinning, but I figured another one couldn’t hurt.

“Not cocky, sweetheart, confident,” he answered huskily, reaching for our drinks with one hand when Joe brought them over.

I reached over to relieve him of my glass, but before I could retract my hand with my drink in it, he snagged my pinkie with his. Looking at our now-linked hands, I watched as he slowly raised my hand to his mouth. I gripped the glass tightly as he brushed his lips across my knuckles before releasing my hand.

Suddenly, the drink felt ten times heavier with the sudden absence of his hand. The small shot glass slipped from my fingers, spilling the contents over the bar in front of us.

“You okay?” he asked as I swayed on my bar stool, taking in his slightly blurred features

“Absolutely. I do this all the time,” I lied.

“I’m sure,” he mocked.

“You can bank—” My retort was cut short when my cell phone chirped in my purse.

“I need to use the ladies’ room,” I breathed, rising unsteadily to my feet as the floor tilted slightly beneath me. “I’ll be right back.”

“Do you need some help?” he asked, cocking his eyebrow at me.

“Um, I’m pretty sure I know how to pee on my own,” I answered, feeling flustered.

He chuckled. “I meant getting to the bathroom. You looked like you were a bit unsteady there.”

“I’m good,” I clarified before strutting away. It took all my willpower to keep my gait steady as I made my way across the scuffed wooden floors to the bathroom. Tressa and Brittni were leaning against the bathroom counter waiting for me when I entered. It was all part of the plan we had set up. They were here for the status update.

“So, is he a serial killer?” Brittni asked as I headed for one of the stalls.

“Hold on, I really do have to pee.”

“He looks like he’s into you,” she added, switching on the faucet so I could pee in peace.

“Of course he’s into her. She’s smoking hot,” Tressa interrupted. “I bet he’s already suffering from a case of blue balls,” she added, laughing as I heard the smacking of flesh.

“Do you always have to be so crude?” Brittni asked, disgusted, as I flushed the toilet and opened the stall door.

“He’s not the only one,” I muttered, filling the palms of my hands with soap before sticking them under the faucet, which was still running.

“Ooh, things a little damp downstairs?”

“Oh my God, Tressa, seriously?” Brittni said, taking another swipe at her.

“That’s one way to say it. Put it this way, he’d slide in pretty damn easy right now, if you know what I mean,” I giggled, bracing my hands on the counter as the floor beneath me continued to sway.

“You okay, slick?” Brittni asked, really looking at me for the first time since I’d entered the bathroom.

“Fine,” I answered, moving my eyes from the slow-rolling floor.

“She’s buzzing,” Tressa crowed, taking in my glassy eyes and flushed cheeks.

“I sure am.” I cracked up, not entirely sure why I found it so funny.

“Are you sure you’re up for this, you lightweight?” Brittni asked, placing her hands on my shoulders so she could study me critically.

“I’m fine, Mom,” I teased. “I just decided to take the liquid courage route.”

“So, you’re going through with it?” she asked, looking worried.

“Duh, that was the plan,” Tressa chastised.

“I know, but I thought she’d chicken out,” Brittni retorted, like I wasn’t even there.

“Hey, standing right in front of you,” I said, waving my hands exuberantly in front of them like I was trying to land a plane or something to that effect. “Besides, I have to do it, it’s on my list,” I pointed out.

“Right, it’s on your list. I still think it’s ridiculous for someone our age to have a bucket list.”

“I told you a million times. It’s for a study I’m doing for the master’s program I’m hoping to get into,” I lied, smiling brightly at her. “It’s a study on living life to its fullest in a limited time frame.”

“So you’ve said a hundred times. I just think a study on males that have the best pecs or dreamiest eyes would have been more productive.”

“That’s so cliché and overdone. Having a nice six-pack usually translates to ‘conceited asshole,’” I answered, sweeping the lip gloss Tressa handed me across my lips. “Thanks,” I told her, handing the wand back. I tried not to focus on the irony of my new friends having no qualms about sharing their makeup with me. Back home, most people refused to touch anything I had touched. They were all assholes. What I had wasn’t contagious.

“You better get back out there before Mr. Blue Balls thinks you ditched him,” Tressa interrupted, giving my back a light shove toward the bathroom door. “Text us if he turns out to be an asshole.”

“And make sure he bags his junk,” Brittni piped in.

Giggling at their advice, I twisted around before exiting the bathroom and threw my arms impulsively around both their necks. “I love you guys,” I said, knocking their heads together from my exuberance.

“Okay, we love you too,” Brittni complained, trying to extract my arms.

“Yep, she’s toasted,” Tressa commented, rubbing her head where it had knocked against Brittni’s.

“Maybe we should hang around to make sure she doesn’t embarrass herself,” Brittni mused.

“No way, you guys promised,” I reminded them. “If I’m doing this, I’m going in without a safety net.”

“Fine, but your scrawny ass better text us first thing tomorrow morning, or we’re sending out the armed forces to take down Mr. Seximist,” Brittni warned, giving me a quick hard hug.

“Don’t worry, Brit, he looks harmless enough. Besides, I’ve taken at least twenty pictures on my phone. We’ll nail that bastard’s ass to the wall if he hurts her,” Tressa said from behind me as I pushed open the bathroom door.

“Don’t worry, my head will make a beautiful mantelpiece,” I threw over my shoulder as I sashayed across the room toward the bar.

“Hey, stranger,” I said, boldly sliding onto my bar stool.

“Whoa there,” Mr. Hotness said as my ass misjudged the middle of the seat and teetered on the edge, making the legs of the stool wobble. Hotness reached over and grasped my arm to steady me.

“You’re hot.”

“Why thank you,” he said, chuckling.

“I mean, your hands are hot . . . no, I mean, your touch is hot . . . shit. Never mind,” I mumbled as he chuckled next to me.

“It’s not the first time I’ve been called hot, sweetheart.”

“Vanity isn’t a virtue,” I pointed out, picking up the shot glass that had magically filled itself in my absence. “So, what do you do, Mr. I Know I’m Hot?” I asked, realizing that in all our flirting we’d neglected to exchange names.

“Nathan,” he answered, holding out his hand for me to shake.

“Ashton,” I parroted as his hand engulfed mine. His touch was sure and sensual at the same time, making my poor hand feel bereft once he let go.

“I’m a freelance journalist.”

“Freelance journalist? What does that entail?” I asked, intrigued.

“Lots of traveling and a knack for being able to dig out the truth. I’ve been fortunate enough to be able to pick my assignments,” he answered, turning on his bar stool to face me. His knees knocked against mine, which my body was keenly aware of as our legs settled, intimately touching each other. “I’m actually on my way to my next assignment. What about you?”

“Right now, I’m working at Smith’s General Store over on the corner of Main and Stetson,” I answered defensively, waiting for his judgments. I didn’t bother to mention the barely dried ink on my BA in human psychology, or the fact that up until four months ago, I had been planning my internship at the local hospital back home. Those were need-to-know facts that he didn’t need to know.

“I think I met the owner when I arrived today. Fran, right? She’s quite an old card,” he replied warmly, surprising me.

“Yeah, she is. Don’t let her age fool you. She’s sharper than people a quarter of her age. That store has been in her family for more than a hundred years. Each generation it’s passed down to the next. Fran should have passed it down, like, fifteen years ago, but she claims hell will freeze over before she allows her ‘sniveling, no-good, lazy nephew to run it into the ground.’ She says she reckons she’ll stay until she breathes her last breath or her nephew finally decides to man up. She says she won’t be holding her breath on the latter . . .” I rambled on. Obviously, the multiple shots had turned my tongue into a nonstop chattering mess.

“That sounds like the person I met,” he said, chuckling softly. “So, have you lived here all your life?” he asked.

Running my finger around the small base of the shot glass, I weighed his question, contemplating how I wanted to answer. “No. I moved here four months ago after my dad died,” I lied, giving him the standard answer I’d given everyone else when I moved to town.

“Really?” he asked, studying me critically.

I was slightly taken aback by his response. I’d been greeted with nothing but sympathy when I’d let the lie slip on previous occasions. I always felt a twinge of guilt over it but knew in the end it was necessary. “It was quite sudden,” I answered defensively.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he replied, finally offering up the words that I had grown accustomed to hearing.

“Thanks,” I said, not sure if his sympathy was genuine. Maybe he really was some psycho who traveled through small towns collecting heads and storing them in his trunk. I sucked down the contents of my glass once again. My brain was teetering on the edge of remaining focused on the noticeably rock-hard pecs beneath his shirt and becoming drowned by the liquor party that was flowing through my bloodstream. My tongue became numb while the buzzing in my head intensified, making me wish I could rest it on the bar. I contemplated climbing up on the bar so I could lie down, but even that seemed like way too much work. Instead, I tried to focus on my last coherent thought, knowing it had something to do with my head.

“Are you going to put your trunk in my head?” I asked, finally able to make my tongue work.

“Excuse me?” he asked, amused.

“Wait. I mean, are you going to put your trunk in me?” I asked, though the question still seemed slightly off.

“Is that what the kids are calling it now?” he asked with open amusement.

“Wait. What did I say?” I asked, shaking my head in a feeble attempt to clear it.

“Well, darling, you asked if I was going to stick my trunk in you. Is that an invitation?”

“Well, shit. I meant, are you going to put my head in your trunk?” I asked slowly, making sure the word placement was correct.

“Just your head?”

“Unless you keep the whole body, but won’t your trunk get full if you keep the whole body?” I reasoned, pleased that I was able to form a coherent question even if it was related to my decapitation.

“I’m more a breast kind of guy,” he said, smirking.

Laughter bubbled up out of me. “So, your trunk is full of boobies?” I asked, giggling uncontrollably.

“Boobies?” he snorted. “I haven’t heard that word in, like, twenty years.”

“Twenty years? How old are you?” I asked, giggling again at the idea that my one-night stand would be with an old man.

“Twenty-nine. What about you?”

“Twenty-nine? That’s not old.”

“Who said I was old?”

“Didn’t you?” I asked, confused over why I had thought he was old.

“I only said I haven’t heard them called ‘boobies’ in twenty years. It’s actually closer to sixteen years, to be precise.”

“So, ‘boobies’ is a thirteen-year-old-boy word?” I snickered again, not surprised at all. I’d been known to crack up over word choices for years. It was official. I had the mind of a thirteen-year-old boy.

After that, the conversation took on a hazy quality. I lost track of what my thirteen-year-old mind said, but I was pretty sure I asked Nathan to put his trunk in me again, which was what I was going for before the booze messed it up.

2.  The Big Head Versus the Little Head

NATHAN

I couldn’t help contemplating my actions that evening as I carried her motionless body into the small cottage in the woods. If lightning struck me at that moment, I could see where it was justified. The moment I entered the bar, I seemed to ignore every rule I’d ever set. My rules were simple enough that a fucking two-year-old could follow them. Find my target, evaluate the situation, contact the parties concerned, find my target, evaluate the situation, contact the parties . . . I never deviated from this routine for a reason. I had a job to do. A job I was good at. A job free from personal attachments. It was a routine that suited me well. Of course, the delicate brunette I held in my arms contradicted all of it.

I shifted her slightly in my arms, suppressing a chuckle as she let out a loud snore when her head rolled backward over my arm. I pulled her more securely against my chest as I carried her through the only doorway into the cottage. I didn’t want to admit to myself how much time I’d invested that evening thinking about what she would feel like pressed against me. Of course, carrying her like this wasn’t the kind of pressing I’d had in mind. Her delicate frame made it easy to shoulder her weight, and she had a firm body; I could feel that even through her clothes. It’d be embarrassing as fuck right now if she woke up and saw the hard-on I had just from holding her. Unable to resist, I inhaled her heady perfume one last time before gently placing her on the bed. For a brief crazy moment, I considered crawling into bed next to her. It had been years since I’d felt the urge to actually stay in a bed with a woman any longer than it took to have sex with her. You couldn’t call it “making love” since it was never intimate enough for that. Hell, it wasn’t even “fucking” since even that required emotion. It was just sex. Nothing but two bodies coming together to scratch an itch.

I backed away from the bed and left the room before I could cave to the urge. She was an assignment, not a means to scratch an itch. Besides, it was a dick move to mix business with pleasure, and a threshold I never crossed. It was time for me to leave anyway. I had made contact with my target, and by tomorrow my job would be done. Instead of heading for the front door, though, I walked to the far side of the room, where a small functional kitchen was located. I’m not sure why I bothered going to the trouble, but I filled a glass with water and palmed the bottle of aspirin off the top of the refrigerator where it was sandwiched between a bag of powdered mini doughnuts and a stack of magazines. I focused on remaining professional as I returned to the room where the spitfire temptress was still snoring. Helping her through her hangover would only make my job easier in the morning. It would help expedite the job. Glancing down at her unconscious body, I decided I might as well make her as comfortable as I could, so I set the water and aspirin on the nightstand and got to work pulling off her jeans and shirt. You’re not a perv, I kept telling myself. You’re just trying to make her more comfortable. Of course, tell that to the other particular part of my body that was responding to her creamy smooth skin and brutal curves. With one last reluctant look and an apology to my painfully throbbing boys, I pulled the quilt over her and exited the room.

I locked the cottage door behind me and headed purposefully toward my trusty Range Rover before I could change my mind and climb between the crisp sheets with her.

The drive back to my hotel was short, given the town’s size. Two stop signs after pulling off the dirt road that led to Ashton’s small but charming cottage, I pulled into the parking lot of the only hotel in town. It was actually more of a motel, but I guess they figured slapping the title of Hotel onto the sign made it more legitimate. As long as the room was clean and the staff stayed out of my way, it suited my purposes. The last thing I needed was for some nosy maid to riffle through my papers and find out why I was really in town.

The hotel was cemetery quiet as I climbed out of the Range Rover and locked it behind me. The late hour combined with the stillness around me provided a ghost-town-like aura. It felt strange to be out here in the middle of nowhere. Ever since I arrived here I’d been wondering why a rich girl like Ashton had picked this town to hide. I would have expected the glitzy lights of New York or the party atmosphere of Chicago to appeal to her, but instead she’d chosen Woodfalls. I’d seen her type over the years: rich, easily bored, with big-time diva complexes. Woodfalls was too tame for someone like that.

I pushed the motel room door open with my foot after sliding the key into the lock, making sure the Do Not Disturb sign remained on the door. Once I switched on the lights, Ashton’s face greeted me from the multiple images hanging on the wall. Each image depicted her in a different setting and pose, all courtesy of my client. Studying the pictures of her smiling, I couldn’t help noting how the images didn’t do her eyes justice. They couldn’t capture the same sparkle I had witnessed earlier that evening. Just remembering how she’d smiled at me with her bright shiny eyes made me want her even more.

“This is ridiculous,” I thought, shaking my head in disgust. I backed up to the edge of my bed and sank down onto the sagging mattress. What the hell was I doing? Lusting after a target was unacceptable. I was hired to make contact, observe, and report back to my client. That was it. I wasn’t hired to sniff at her ass like a dog in heat—no matter how appealing that might be.

Striding to the bathroom, I stripped off my clothes in aggravation and cranked the shower to its coldest setting, hoping a cold shower would shock my system. Five minutes later, I stood with a towel around my waist, glaring at the traitor between my legs. It wasn’t like I was sexually deprived. Something about Ashton just appealed to me. Well, not just something. It was everything. She was smoking hot.

My cell phone vibrated on the nightstand, pulling my mind from the gutter I couldn’t seem to get out of. It was a little late for this call, but considering I’d neglected to check in today, I wasn’t too surprised.

“Yes, sir,” I answered.

“Did you find her?” the voice on the other end asked, offering up no greeting.

The words of affirmation were on the edge of my tongue, but I surprised myself by answering negatively. “Not yet, sir. I have a lead, though. It should only be a matter of time before I locate her.”

“You gave the impression the last time we conversed that you were following a lead.”

“It’s the same lead,” I lied. “It’s only a matter of time before I pinpoint her location.”

“The sooner, the better,” he grumbled, hanging up without any further words.

I returned the phone to the nightstand and slid back against the pillows. That was unsettling. I’d never lied to a client before. For three weeks I’d been on Ashton’s trail. I should have been happy to finally close up the case and head back to my condo in Tampa for some much-needed R&R. Just that morning I’d been dreaming about taking several months off to catch up on some fishing and scuba diving. This case was ready to be wrapped within twenty-four hours, but now, suddenly, I was dragging it out. All for her. From the moment I’d laid eyes on Ashton I’d been acting like a complete jackass, letting my little head outthink my big head. As soon as I’d walked in the bar tonight, I was taken in by her. I’d scanned the smoke-filled room, spotting her with her friends, joking and carrying on in the far corner. It was obvious the moment they noticed my presence because their voices came out in short bursts of excited chatter followed by whispering. I figured it was only a matter of time until I was approached. Bar scenes didn’t get their hookup stigma for no reason. Eight years ago, it would have been my buddies and me in the far corner of the bar playing the game. All of us banking on getting laid that night. More times than not, we’d all gone home alone. We were young, dumb, testosterone-crazed maniacs that most chicks wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.

Then I met Jessica and fell head over heels in love with her. She was poised and polished and challenged me to be better. Jessica wasn’t into the whole club scene, so I gave it up, without a fuss. My buddies were pissed, claiming I was pussywhipped, but I didn’t care. What did I need the clubs for anymore? I’d found the perfect girl. A year later, I realized perfection was nothing but an illusion. She’d shredded me to the point where I swore I’d never let a woman have that power over me again. I jumped back into the bar scene a changed man. I couldn’t have cared less about trying to get any girl’s attention. Instead, I made them come to me. The guys thought I was crazy, but my aloof attitude worked better than any of the stupid one-liners or any other shit we used to do. I always laid my rules out in the open to avoid any future complications, and most of the time, the relationship would end amicably. Only one had called me a bastard, but I held steadfast to my rule. No attachments. Take it or leave it.

I’d kept my eyes on the trio in the corner through the mirror over the bar, waiting to see who would make the first move. I had several game plans in place. If I was approached by one of them, I would suggest buying a round for her and her friends so I could get close to my target. If they chickened out and never made their move, I’d order a round anyway and see if I could strike up a conversation that way. One thing was certain: I would not have walked away tonight without making contact.