Sunday, 29 April 2018

It's release day! Quick & Easy is LIVE! Getting over your ex isn't as easy as getting back under them. #alpha #billionaire #firstchapter

Quick & Easy
Book 2, A Quick Billionaires Novella

On Amazon and FREE in KU


Quick & Easy
Book 2, A Quick Billionaires Novella
Getting over your ex isn’t as easy as getting back under them.
 Heather Alvarez thought she was over Gavin McAllister. After all, he dumped her—on the phone—ten years ago, then vanished from her life and broke her heartBut now he’s back, and all Heather wants is revenge.
 Or at the very least, the breakup sex he still owes her.
 Ten years ago, Gavin McAllister made a choice and lost the one woman he’s ever loved. Now he’s determined to win her back, even if it means telling the truth. He’d do just about anything for another chance with Heather.
 But a one-night stand, no strings, no future? He doesn’t think so. 
 This time he wants forever.

Chapter 1

Wasn’t it supposed to rain at a funeral?
It seemed every movie that had a funeral scene took place in the rain. All the guests wore black and clutched big black umbrellas while the rain masked the tears that slipped endlessly down their cheeks; the gray clouds in the sky mimicked the dark mood in everyone’s hearts.
But it wasn’t raining today. Not even a cloud in the damn sky. What the hell?
Heather Alvarez smoothed down the skirt of her charcoal gray lace dress (she just couldn’t do black, even today) and stepped out of her Volkswagen Jetta. The warm April sun hit her cheeks at the same time a gust of wind ruffled the hair on the back of her neck.
She loved spring.
Her dad had loved spring, too.
“There you are,” said her mother, Rosemary, coming out of their family’s Puerto Rican restaurant, Hola, Amigos. “I was beginning to worry.”
Heather offered her mother a small smile as she swung her purse over her shoulder. “Sorry, Mama. There was an emergency at work. You know how busy tax season can get.” Heather bent down and planted a kiss on her mother’s cheek before following her through the full parking lot to the front doors. “Have you needed my help? Or did Lena and Aunt Florence show up?”
Rosemary’s hand fell to her daughter’s back, bringing the scent of cumin and garlic and very subtle lavender. Her mother always smelled like cumin and garlic from the restaurant and lavender from her favorite shampoo.
She rubbed Heather’s back affectionately, maternally. “We’ve had loads of help. Don’t worry, sweetheart. Besides, you were here setting up all last night. What time did you finally get to bed?”
Heather dismissed the question with a shrug.
Rosemary let out a rattled sigh and glanced up at her daughter. Her pale blue eyes were glassy and her strong jaw tight. “This is what he wanted. He didn’t want anybody crying over him. He wanted a party. So, we’re going to give him a party.”
Heather swallowed past the hard lump in her throat and looped her arm around her mother’s slender shoulders, tugging her in tight. “I know, Mama. We’re going to throw him the best celebration of life imaginable. Blow the roof off the place.”
Rosemary chuckled and pulled open the door to the restaurant. Voices, loud and cheerful, greeted them. She met her daughter’s eyes one more time before tossing on a giant smile. “Show time.”
“Heather!” half a dozen or more people cheered as she stepped inside the bright and spacious restaurant. Tables had been pushed to the side and chairs lined up in rows. A podium stood front and center below the sign for half-price daiquiris on Mondays, and a small table with the picture of Eduardo Luis Gomez Alvarez sat next to it. Food, piled high, dressed the tables, while beer, local and imported, nestled tightly into ice buckets. Yes, her dad certainly knew how to throw a party, even in the afterlife.
Just like her mother was, Heather slowly made the rounds of all the guests, accepting condolences and sympathy, hugs and hand pats. Everyone had a story to tell about her father, all good, most funny. And Heather listened. She nodded. She cried. She laughed. By the time the minister announced the start of the sermon, Heather was exhausted, all cried out and ready to go home.
But she couldn’t.
Her mother needed her. It was just the two of them now, and she needed to take care of her mom, be there for her. Hold her.
She took her seat in the front row, her mother on her left, her mother’s best friend, Lena, on her right. Her mother’s sister, Heather’s Aunt Florence, sat on the other side of Rosemary, their hands clasped tight. Slowly, the noise in the restaurant subsided as people took their seats, the din of conversation and the scraping of chair legs on tile receding with the clearing of the minister’s throat.
Heather spun around to take in all the people who had come to say “goodbye” to her father, to celebrate him and what he meant to the community. She absorbed their love, allowed it to bolster her own. Her father had meant everything to her, and in the blink of an eye—a heart attack at the dinner table when they were out for her birthday three weeks ago—he was gone.
It was a packed house. Standing room only and well over the legal limit of patrons for the restaurant. But they’d closed it for the day, put up signs and purchased special permits. If Eduardo Alvarez did anything, he did it aboveboard and he did it right. She was just about to turn back to the front when a big body sneaking in at the back caught her eye. The entire atmosphere in the restaurant shifted, and oxygen left Heather’s lungs as she watched him slowly edge his way behind people, sticking to the shadows and the back of the room. He was tall. Perhaps taller than she remembered and bigger, too. His shoulders and chest were broader, and the way his dress pants hugged his thighs told her he still liked to work out and probably ride his mountain bike.
All the moisture left her mouth as she continued to follow him with her eyes. His head was down, and when he accidentally bumped someone, he was quick to apologize and move on. Eventually, he found a safe space next to the bar, quietly ordered a drink, then stood back, leaning the wide expanse of his back against a wooden column. He tipped his drink up, revealing a very expensive-looking watch at his wrist. His suit was tailored to perfection and high quality, too. Heather didn’t know much about fashion or designers, but she knew that thing wasn’t from JCPenney. His impossibly deep blue eyes closed, and his throat undulated on a swallow as he brought the belly-warming amber liquid into his mouth.
Heather swallowed, too. Fuck, he was still as drop-dead gorgeous as she remembered, as she dreamed. He still hadn’t noticed her, so she took an extra moment to check him out. His swath of dark hair was shorter now, tamer, though it still had that unruly wave to it at the front. He never had been able to control the curl. But she’d loved it. Loved twirling her fingers around and around the silky soft strands as he laid his head in her lap and they watched movies. His gaze shifted, and suddenly his eyes lasered in on her.
A gasp escaped her before she could stop it, and immediately Heather spun back around in her seat. Her mother squeezed her hand, then patted the top with her other hand. “You okay, sweetheart?”
Heather swallowed again. “Yeah, Mama. I’m fine.” Even though she was anything but. The back of her neck prickled and heated from his stare. She knew he was staring. Just knew it. His gaze had always been fierce. Had always stripped her bare and made her submit to his will.
I can’t turn around. Willpower, girlie, willpower. Ah, fuck it.
She craned her neck around to catch another glimpse, and sure enough, he was zeroed in on her like a dog with a bone. The corner of his sexy mouth crooked up into a sad half-smile. His head shifted in an almost indiscernible nod.
The minister cleared his throat again, forcing Heather to spin back around. Her chest tightened and her gut knotted. The minister opened up his book and began. But Heather didn’t hear a damn word. She was too focused on the voices in her head, on the memories that involved the impeccably dressed man at the back of the room. Gavin McAllister, the love of her life, and the boy who broke her heart.

Wednesday, 25 April 2018

#Truedeepandforeverpart2 #romcom What happens after love, marriage and the baby carriage?

 True, Deep and Forever: Part 2

Part 1 is NOW FREE!

The story many readers are saying is a refreshing take on romance and love. It's real, it's raw, it's relatable. It's life!


Two hearts… one marriage… an unbreakable bond?

They say that in marriage there’s a seven-year itch. Where the passion fizzles, the arguments take over, and the kids are all-consuming. Amy and Garret Banks are seven years into a love so raw, so real, so incredible that when things start to go south, they’re both left feeling as though they’re treading water with weights on. That they’ll never find their way back to the surface and be able to rekindle the passion they once had for each other.

Secrets and lies, exes and bitter rejection plow through this once-perfect union, wreaking havoc on the couple’s fragile happiness and leaving them vulnerable to a threat that will put their whole family in danger.

Can Amy and Garret find their way back to each other, restore their trust and reignite the fire before the flame goes out and they’re both left singed, scarred and all alone?

Chapter 1

Ah, Christmas, a time when we eat too much, drink too much and look for any and every excuse imaginable to eat chocolate and drink eggnog. For me, it’s all about the chocolate, of course, while the idea of having to spend any amount of time with my colder-than-a-snowman’s-left-nut sister-in-law, Annalisa, made me want to have more rum than eggnog in my glass. But it was Christmas Eve, and for now, I was sister-in-law-free. We’d decided to forgo meeting up with James, Emma (the good sister-in-law), her family and my parents in Belize on my brother’s private island for the holidays and instead hunker down at home in cold and gray Vancouver.
It wasn’t our first Christmas as a family of three, but Garret and I had discussed it at length and decided that it would be better all around if we didn’t go away for the holiday and instead took the week off between Christmas and the New Year. We were both bagged from work, working on our relationship after my autumn of secrets and lies and looked forward to wandering around in our pajamas and just relaxing with our little boy. Ever since Garret had discovered I’d been working with Dax, my ex, things in my marriage had been tedious, to say the least. He wasn’t mad anymore, per se, but he was definitely a bit pricklier than usual and seemed to upset easily. My husband had always been a jealous man, and the fact that my ex-boyfriend was the new artist featured at the art gallery I worked at, and was the buzz of the Vancouver art district, did not sit well with Garret. He didn’t believe things were over now that Dax’s show was over. He figured my ex would be popping in and out of my life for the foreseeable future.
Needless to say, we needed a week to focus on our family and focus on our marriage, because even though I loved only Garret and I knew he loved only me, things were rough. We needed some time without work or family interfering to smooth things over. The past six months had tested our relationship, and certainly our marriage more than ever. I’d fucked up, he’d fucked up, there was a lot of fucking up. But one thing that we agreed on unanimously was that no matter what we’d always face the fuckups together. We were treating this week off work as a time to connect again and focus on us. Work on our marriage, our family and our trust.
But that didn’t mean we couldn’t and wouldn’t take part in some festivities in our own hometown. Since the first year after they’d brought Maggie home from Haiti, Justin and Kendra had been throwing a big Christmas Eve bash in their lavish North Vancouver mansion, inviting dozens of people and their children into their home for some yuletide cheer and eggnog. Justin dressed up as Santa Claus, getting right into the role and handing out presents to any person who still believed in St. Nick.
So the plan was: We were going to spend Christmas Eve at Kendra and Justin’s and then have Christmas morning in our own home, followed by an incredible spread of turkey and leg of goat (Garret’s dad, Fredrick, loved goat) and all the trimmings at Garret’s parents with Glenn and Annalisa. I was just stoked that I didn’t have to cook.
“Ready to go?” I asked, coming up behind Garret in our bedroom. He was busy pulling his sweater over his head. Henry played with his belt and some rolled up socks on the floor.
Ah, toddlers, they’re so easily entertained with the weirdest objects.
Garret’s dark, shiny bald head emerged through the hole in his sweater. “You bet.”
I bit my lip and let my eyes roam his body. “You look really nice.” I leaned forward and took a whiff. “And smell good, too.”
His arms snaked around my waist and he pulled me close, growling before his mouth fell to the crook of my neck. “It’s all for you, baby.”
“Should we skip the party and just hang out here. Put Henry down at his regular bedtime and have our own Christmas celebration?” I asked, letting my eyes flutter shut when his teeth raked along my jaw. I hadn’t been interested in sex these past few weeks. Life had been hella-stressful and neither of us had the energy or drive, but right now I was ready to tear off my husband’s clothes and have my way with his sexiness.
Garret growled again before releasing me. “Hold on to that thought, woman. We promised Justin and Kendra we’d go. But we’ll make an early exit and come home and celebrate. Santa really needs to come down the chimney. If you get my drift?” His brows bobbed salaciously over his grass-green eyes before he scooped Henry up off the floor and tossed him onto the bed. The tyke giggled and wriggled, sitting up and asking for more. Damn, my husband made it even harder for me to want to leave him with any clothes on when he was acting all super-dad like.
I made a mock pout before smacking his butt and heading to the closet to find my shawl. “You’re on. Though, don’t forget about Mrs. Claus’ needs too. She wouldn’t mind coming down the chimney, either. Maybe more than once.”
His rich, hearty laugh, combined with the squeaky giggles of our son chased me into the closet. “You got it, Mrs. Claus.”

And as a bonus! If you haven't started this funny, sexy, refreshing and relateable couplet yet, Part 1 is NOW FREE. Grab it NOW!

Monday, 23 April 2018

#MenageMonday: DOUBLE DARE (Dare Menage Series, Bk 1) by Jeanne St. James #MMF #Menage #LGBTQ

Double Dare
The Dare Menage Series, Book 1

By USAT Bestselling Author Jeanne St. James

Genre: Contemporary Erotic Menage, MMF Menage, LGBTQ


What could be better than waking up next to a hot guy? Waking up sandwiched between two of them.

Quinn Preston, a financial analyst, is not happy when her friends dare her to pick up a handsome stranger at a wedding reception. What better reason to give up men when her previous long-term relationship had not only been lackluster in the bedroom but he had cheated?

Logan Reed, a successful business owner, can't believe that he's attracted to the woman in the ugly, Pepto-Bismol pink bridesmaid dress. And to boot, she's more than tipsy. After turning down her invitation for a one-night stand, he finds her in the parking lot too impaired to drive. He rescues her and takes her home. His home.

The next morning Quinn's conservative life turns on its ear when Logan introduces her to pleasures she never even considered before. And to make things more complicated, Logan already has a lover.

Tyson White, ex-pro football player, is completely in love with Logan. He has mixed emotions when Logan brings home Quinn. But the dares keep coming...

Note: This book in the series can be read as stand-alone. It includes an HEA ending. It is intended for audiences over 18 years of age since it includes MMF scenes between all three characters.


Chapter One

Logan Reed jammed a finger into the neck of his white oxford and pulled. He needed some fucking air.
What the hell was he doing here anyway?
As he surveyed the church, a bead of sweat popped out on his forehead. His breathing had become shallow and quick. He was going to hyperventilate right there and pass out, making a fool of himself in front of everyone.
With a start, he realized one of the ushers was speaking to him. “What?”
“Bride or groom?”
Bride or groom? Did he look like a bride?
All he wanted to do was strip off his stiff shirt, strangling tie, smothering jacket; throw on a soft, worn pair of jeans and one of his comfortable shirts; sink into his couch; toss his feet on his coffee table; and chug a nice frosty beer.
Now that was a fantasy!
But here he was, standing in a monkey suit in a church, about to be struck down by lightning at any second. He blew out a long breath to settle his thumping heart.
Logan stared at the confused usher. Unfortunately, he understood the feeling. “Neither.”
“Are you okay?”
Logan had vowed to himself to never do this again. Never be in a church again.
He reminded himself he was only there to observe. He didn't have to participate. But it didn't help. Anyone with as many sins as Logan should’ve been barred from religious houses. That should’ve been a law. But it wasn't.
For fuck’s sake, he had to get a grip. This was a wedding, not a crucifixion.
He had promised his sister he would be here. And even though Logan was a sinner, he never broke a promise. Never.
The usher cleared his throat.
Logan pinned the suddenly flushed, sweating kid, whose suit looked two sizes too big, with a glare. “Dude?”
He watched the teen's Adam's apple bob up and down a couple of times before he felt a whoosh of air against him, and someone grabbed his elbow. Hard.
“Logan! How nice of you to get here on time.” The female voice was singsong and syrupy sweet. And it held a lot more meaning in the tone than in the words.
Logan turned to face his sister. He had to look down because she was nearly a foot shorter than him. “Hey, Shorty. Good timing.”
The petite brunette gave him a tight smile. “I see that.” She turned to the usher. “We're with the bride,” she said sweetly. “We'll just seat ourselves. Thank you.”
The usher looked relieved, and Logan almost felt bad. Almost.
The grip on his elbow tightened, and without warning, his sister dragged him down the aisle and over into one of the pews on the left.
Sit down,” Paige said through gritted teeth, even though her face held the biggest smile.
He sat.
She smoothed her dress and tucked it ladylike as she settled into the pew beside him.
“Jesus Christ, Shorty. What the hell is your problem?”
Logan watched her plastered smile falter.
“Logan, you’re in a church, for God's sake. It's not the best place to take the Lord's name in vain. And if you keep doing that, I might have to move to another pew so when lightning strikes you dead, I'm in a safe spot.” She smoothed her done-up do and gave a pacifying smile across the aisle to the older couple staring at them, mouths agape.
“Hey, I didn't want to be here in the first place.”
“I ask you for one favor—”
“One? Hmm. You must have a short memory.”
“Okay, okay. Knock it off. Believe me, I appreciate your coming.”
“And the thanks I get is a bruised elbow?”
“Sorry, I thought you were going to make that guy piss his pants.”
“Well, shit, he called me dude.”
“Oh yeah, that's so much worse than you calling me Shorty.”
“I thought you liked it—” Paige elbowed him in the gut before he could say anything besides “ooof.”
The wedding march started, and the double doors opened to reveal the bride.
His sister owed him big-time.
Quinn Preston almost choked on her Alabama Slammer when her friend elbowed her in the ribs. “Ooof.”
She saved her drink before it could spill all over her ugly bridesmaid dress. Yeah, that would have been a shame: to ruin such a nice, frumpy, pukey pink taffeta dress. One the bride had said she would be able to wear in the future. Like to a cocktail party. Or maybe her own funeral. Yeah, right. No one in their right mind would want to get caught dead in this thing.
Ruining the dress wouldn't have been a loss, but losing her drink would have. She was drinking Slammers for a reason—to get good and drunk.
Lana nudged her again. “You see that?” She nodded her head toward the back of the room.
“What?” Quinn really didn't care what Lana was excited about. She just wanted to get this day over with. She was tired of watching the happy couple. She was tired of pasting on a plastic smile for the photographer. And she was really tired of listening to the sappy congratulations. All things she might never have—the wedding, the husband, the bridal bliss. Something her parents never failed to remind her. Especially now that she was in her early thirties. And single. Again.
“Not what. Who.”
“Huh?” She sucked on the dainty little straw the bartender had put in her drink. Hardly anything would come out of it. Maybe it was designed just for stirring. She pulled it out and threw it onto the bar. She really needed one of those giant straws that came in those fancy frozen drinks.
“Him. Over there.” Lana grabbed Quinn by the shoulders and turned her around to face whatever had caught her friend's attention.
“Oh, him.” She took a deep draw of the punch-like drink, only there wasn't a bit of punch in it. Not the fruit kind anyway.
“Yeah, him.” Lana dragged out him like she was sucking on a maraschino cherry and enjoying the sweetness on her tongue.
Quinn didn't even take a good look. Men were on her shit list at the moment. She didn't care how hot they were. The potent drink in her hands was all the company she needed. She smiled into her glass; it was the best date she'd had in a while.
Another pink taffeta blur whirled up to them, out of breath.
“Jeez Louise. Did you see that hunk of man meat?” Paula, another victim of the wedding fashion nightmare, was flushed and had a bead of sweat running down her chipmunk-like cheeks. “Do you think he's single?”
Quinn raised one shoulder in a half shrug and turned back to the bar. It was bad enough when the three of them had to stand next to each other at the altar, then throughout the grueling pictures, followed by having to sit beside each other at the head table. All in that awful pink froth. But now that it was all over, and they had done their duty for their friend Gina, there was no reason they all had to stand there looking like someone threw up Pepto-Bismol.
She leaned into the bar and asked the semi-cute bartender the time. When he answered that it was six, she gritted her teeth. They had only been at the reception for an hour. It was way too early to bail.
With a sigh, she turned back to her friends. They were still ogling the male eye candy across the room.
Paula's sigh drifted over her. “I wonder if he likes women with a little meat on their bones.”
A little meat? She opened her mouth to correct Paula, but shut it quickly. Her friend didn't need to be on the receiving end of her miserable mood.
“Quinn, I bet he'd make you forget Peanut.”
Quinn winced and took another long draw from her drink. She loved the flavor and the tanginess on her tongue. And she was trying to forget Peanut. She hated the nickname her friends had called her ex-boyfriend, Peter. Once they had actually called him Peanut in front of his face—by accident, of course. Right. It had taken her a while to brush that one under the rug. He had never liked her friends after that.
On the other hand, her friends had never liked Peter from the beginning. Unlike her parents, who loved the bastard. Probably more than they loved her.
“Yeah, Quinn, he could probably fuck your brains out, and you'd never remember that douche again.”
Quinn frowned at Paula. She noticed her friend's string of pearls hiding in the skin around her neck. Quinn's hands automatically went to her neck to finger a similar necklace—a part of the stupid wedding costume. Ugh. She hated pearls!
She hated taffeta. She hated pink. She hated frilly dresses.
She took a long swig from her glass.
And she hated Peter. The asshole.
His gift to her last Valentine's Day wasn't an engagement ring. Oh no, after five long, wasted years of dating the shit, he couldn't have gotten her a ring. Nope. Instead he sent her a text message.
That was it.
A stupid little text message. Two simple lines.
This isn’t working anymore. I’ve found someone new.
She deserved more than that. Something better. After all those years of loyalty, standing by his side, being the “good, proper” girlfriend. As Peter had expected. As her parents had expected. The girlfriend any decent man would want on his arm. Right?
Not even a sorry. Not even an explanation. Nothing.
And the next day, FedEx had delivered a box with all the things she had left over at his apartment during the last half decade.
Quinn emptied her glass and turned back to the bar, blocking out her friends' chattering over that man.
She needed another man like she needed a hole in the head.
She slid her glass over the bar top, and before she could ask for another, a deep voice washed over her.
“Put her next drink on me.”
Dumb ass. The drinks are on the house. She turned to ream out whoever it was, and stopped. Her mouth opened, but nothing escaped.
“You look like a fish out of water with your mouth hanging open like that.” When he smiled, the lines around his eyes crinkled. He was tan, an outdoorsy tan, not a manmade one. And he had beautiful green eyes. Shit. She had never seen such beautiful eyes on a man. His nose was a little crooked, like it had been broken, and it made him even more beautiful. No. Not beautiful. He was… He was…
Quinn closed her mouth and swallowed hard. He was so unperfect, he was perfect. His hair was a dark brown with natural highlights, more proof he liked being outdoors. It was long and pulled back into a neat ponytail.
She hated long hair on men. But it was right on him.
He had a beard that wasn't a beard. It was like a longer five-o'clock shadow.
She hated facial hair.
He had a strong, corded neck that disappeared into a stiff dress shirt. The collar had been already released and one more button undone below that. The knot of his tie was loose and hung crookedly from around his neck.
The sleeves of his crispy white shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and his forearms were tan covered in dark hair. His hands…
Oh. Damn.
His hands were large. Working hands. Not soft and pampered, but calloused, thick and strong.
Capable. Capable of doing all kinds of things.
Quinn's nipples hardened under the scratchy taffeta.
His hands could do all kinds of dirty, nasty things.
Things Peter had never wanted to do…
Quinn ripped her gaze from him and spun back around to the bar, bracing herself against it for a second to catch her breath. She grabbed her fresh drink and took a gulp.
“Whoa. Slow down there.”
Pressing the cold drink against her forehead, she attempted to cool herself off.
She needed to go change her panties, she was so freaking wet.
She could feel his heat next to her; his body was like a furnace. She wanted to plant her hands on his chest and feel how hot he really was. Her fingers convulsed around her glass.
“Are you okay?” The deep timbre of his voice sent a shot of lightning through her body, landing right in her core.
Quinn could only nod her answer.
Palming her bare shoulder, he turned her to face him. He stared down into her eyes, his lips widening into a smile.
His lips. Oh man. Those lips probably could do all sorts of things to her, with her. Lips that were made for more than kissing…
Holy shit. That was the kind of yes she blurted when she was in the midst of an orgasm. At least from what she could remember. It had been so long since she'd come… with a partner, anyway.
Heat crawled up her neck as she stepped back, breaking the contact.
“I… I'm fine.” She cleared her throat. “Thank you for the drink.” She took another sip before raising the glass to him in thanks.
“It was nothing.” When he laughed, her knees almost buckled. “Enjoy it.”
He stepped away and then paused. But it looked as though he thought better of whatever he was contemplating, and he continued on his way.
Quinn leaned back against the bar and let out a shaky breath.
She was suddenly flanked on either side by her friends. She had been so distracted, she hadn't even realized that they disappeared.
“Oh. My. God!”
“I told you he was hot!”
“Oh! I wish I weren't married already.”
“I wish he liked chubby chicks.”
Quinn couldn't take any more. She raised her palms in surrender. “Stop. Enough.”
“But, Quinn—”
“But nothing,” Quinn answered Paula.
“You're just going to let him walk away?”
“Paula, he isn't going anywhere. Unfortunately, I'm not going anywhere. We have to be here for two more hours, at least.”
Lana said, “Are you going to let Peter ruin the rest of your life? All men aren't assholes like him.”
Quinn snorted and took another sip of her Slammer.
“Why don't you at least dance with him?”
“Why not?” Lana asked.
Why not? Because if she did, she might come right on the dance floor. Because she might end up in a puddle of her own juices. The picture in her head shocked her: it was of her lying in a heap in the middle of the dance floor in the throes of an orgasm. Surrounded by all the wedding guests…
This drink was stronger than she thought.
“Because no one is dancing yet.”
“Sure they are. Look.”
Quinn glanced over at the area cleared for dancing, and sure enough, a crowd of people were out there shaking their groove thing. Quinn had been too busy trying to get her drink on to notice.
From the looks of the participants on the dance floor, a few of them had been partaking in the open bar also. Even the bride and her new husband were bouncing and shimmying in the crowd.
At least they were a happy couple.
Quinn took another drink.
Lana frowned at her. “Are you just going to drink tonight, or are you going to do something about your situation?”
“Situation? What situation?”
“Getting laid.”
Quinn checked over her shoulder to see if the bartender was listening. He was. He had a big grin plastered on his face. Great.
The father of the bride came up and asked for a gin and tonic. While he was waiting, he turned to them. “Hi, girls. Enjoying yourselves? You look great in those dresses. My wife picked them out.”
Oh joy. Quinn would have to remember to smack—she meant thank—her. She couldn't wait to rip the scratchy, ugly piece of shit off.
All three women gave him a smile but bit their tongues. Eventually he wandered away, and Lana and Paula jumped right back to harassing her. Good thing they were her friends.
“C'mon. It's not going to hurt to have a one-night stand. Look at him.”
“I already saw him.” Holy crap, she knew they meant well, but they were getting on her last nerve.
“Yeah, and we saw how you were drooling, too.”
She had not drooled. Her hand automatically went up to her mouth.
Paula said, “He probably isn't interested in you anyway.”
“Yeah, you couldn't get someone like that. You attract losers like Peter,” Lana said.
If they thought their reverse psychology was going to work, well, it wasn't.
“Looks like he's with Paige Reed, anyway.”
Quinn's gaze shot over to the corner of the ballroom where the tall man stood next to the petite, dark-haired beauty. Paige Reed. Figures.
“I thought Paige was dating Connor Morgan,” Quinn mumbled.
She must have mumbled loud enough, because Lana answered her. “She is. Connor had to fly back to Australia for something to do with his job.”
“So why is she with him?” Quinn asked. Why was she so curious all of a sudden? Why did she care?
She didn't. She nursed her drink. After one and a half Alabama Slammers, she was starting to feel pretty tipsy. She wasn't used to drinking. And when she did drink, she usually had wine, not hard liquor, and especially not such a hard-hitting mix of liquors.
Paula leaned into the both of them and said in an exaggerated whisper, “Maybe he's an escort,” like it was a scandal, and then laughed.
Maybe he was an escort.
He was probably worth every penny, too.
His back was to them now, but that just gave Quinn the opportunity to study how broad those shoulders were in his dress shirt. When he moved, the fabric bunched and pulled with his muscles.
Lana gasped, jerking Quinn out of her thoughts. “He's not an escort! That's Logan Reed, Paige's brother. I haven't seen him since we were kids. Holy shit, did he grow up.”
“I'll say.” Paula agreed. “Quinn, I dare you to go ask him to dance.”
“Not interested.”
Lana joined in. “Yeah, I dare you too. Don't be a wuss.”
If she were a wuss, she wouldn't have come out in public in this pink atrocity. And the matching shoes were killing her feet. The last thing she needed was to be dancing. She'd be crippled.
“That's a double dare, you know, with the two of us daring you.”
Oh, boy, a double dare. She would definitely do it now—not. “You're crazy.”
“No, you are, if you pass up this opportunity.”
“How do you know he's available?” Quinn asked them.
“You don't know until you ask him,” Lana said. “But if I remember correctly, his wife left him a while ago. There had been some rumors…”
There had been some rumors about her and Peter too, but rumors were just that: rumors. She didn't take any stock in them.
Paula suddenly shouted, “Truth or dare?” making Quinn jump. It was like they were teenagers all over again.
Lana quickly said, “Truth.” And bounced on her toes like she was fifteen.
Jesus, would someone please put a bullet in my head? Quinn needed to be put out of her misery.
Paula asked Lana, “Do you shave or wax?”
“Shave. Okay, Quinn, your turn. Truth or dare?”
Quinn was not playing this juvenile game. It was stupid; she was not going to fall into what was clearly a trap.
“How bad was Peter in bed?” Lana asked.
Damn. She wasn't going to answer that one. Even as drunk as she was. She didn't want to relive their vanilla, boring sex life. And she definitely didn't want to admit it or talk about it.

There was only one thing left for her to do.

About the Author:

JEANNE ST. JAMES is a USA Today bestselling erotic romance author who loves an alpha male (or two). She was only thirteen when she started writing. Her first paid published piece was an erotic story in Playgirl magazine. Her first erotic romance novel, Banged Up, was published in 2009. She is happily owned by farting French bulldogs. She writes M/F, M/M, and M/M/F ménages. Want to read a sample of her work? Download a sampler book here:

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