The Forbidden

by Jodi Ellen Malpas

Genres: Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

What do you do when you can’t control your feelings for someone? When you know you shouldn’t go there? Not even in your head.

Annie has never experienced the “spark” with a guy—that instant chemistry that renders you weak in the knees. That is, until a night out brings her face to face with the dangerously sexy and mysterious Jack. It’s not just a spark that ignites between them. It’s an explosion. Jack promises to consume Annie, and he fully delivers on that promise.

Overwhelmed by the intensity of their one night together, Annie slips out of their hotel room. She is certain that a man who’s had such a powerful impact on her must be dangerous. She has no idea that he belongs to another. That he’s forbidden.

Release date: August 8, 2017

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 384

Sample

Chapter 1

I kick my way through the piles of mail on the wooden floor, balancing a box in my hands as the door slams shut behind me. The vibrations dislodge two years’ worth of dust from the picture rails in the empty hallway, the fine particles bursting into the dim light before me and finding their way to my nose. I sneeze—once, twice, three times—dropping the box at my feet to rub away the tickle.

“Damn it.” I sniff, kicking the box to the side and heading down the hall in search of some tissue.

Entering the lounge, I weave through the haphazard boxes in search of the one labeled BATHROOM. I don’t fancy my chances. Boxes piled five high surround me, all waiting to be unpacked. I don’t know where to start.

Circling slowly, I take in my new place—a ground-floor apartment in an old converted Georgian house on a tree-lined street in West London. The window in the lounge is huge, the ceilings high, the floors original. I wander through to the kitchen, grimacing at the stale smell and the layer of grime on every surface. The place has been empty for two years, and it shows. But it’s nothing a day with a pair of rubber gloves and a bottle of cleaner can’t sort.

Suddenly excited, envisioning how everything will sparkle after I’ve attacked it with a bucket load of cleaning detergents, I throw the double doors open into the courtyard garden to let in some air, then head to the master bedroom. It’s a massive space, with a huge en suite and an original ornate fireplace. I smile, backing up into the corridor, and enter the second bedroom, though I have other ideas for this space. I picture my desk beneath the window looking out onto the cute courtyard, and my workbench spanning the back wall scattered with technical drawings and files. It’s mine. All mine.

It’s taken me a year to find the perfect apartment in my price range, but I’m finally here. I finally have my own place, as well as my own studio to work from. I always told myself I’d have my own business and my own home by the time I’m thirty. I beat my target by a whole year. And now I have this weekend to make it feel like home.

As if on cue, there’s a banging on the front door. I dash through my apartment—my apartment—and fling the door open, coming face-to-face with a bottle of Prosecco being thrust at me.

“Welcome home!” Lizzy sings, producing two glasses, too.

“Oh my God, you’re a saint!” I lunge forward, seize the goods, and open the path to her, welcoming her into my new home. I have the biggest grin on my face.

She beams right back and charges in, her short black hair brushing her chin, her dark eyes gleaming with happiness—happiness for me. “First we toast, then we clean.”

I agree as I close the door behind her, following her into the cluttered lounge.

“Holy shit, Annie!” she gasps, coming to a stop at the doorway when she spies the mountains of boxes. “Where did all this stuff come from?”

I push past her and place the glasses on a box, starting to peel back the foil from the bottle of fizz. “Most of it is work stuff,” I say, popping the cork and starting to pour.

“How many books and pens does one architect need?” she asks, pointing to the opposite side of the lounge, where there’s a line of plastic boxes running the length of one wall, all stuffed with various files, textbooks, and stationery.

“Most of the books are from Uni. Micky’s stopping by tomorrow with a van to take the stuff I don’t want to the charity shop.” I hand Lizzy a glass and chink it with mine.

“Cheers,” she says, sipping as she gazes around. “Where do we start?”

I join her, sipping while looking around at the mess that is my new home. “I need to get my bedroom sorted so I have somewhere to sleep. I’ll tackle the rest over the weekend.”

“Ooh, your boudoir!” She waggles suggestive eyebrows at me, and I roll my eyes.

“This is a man-free zone.” Knocking back another glug of Prosecco, I make tracks to my bedroom. “Except for Micky,” I add, arriving in the huge space, mentally moving my bed, my wardrobes, and my dressing table—which have all been dumped in the middle of the room. I hope Lizzy has stretched in preparation to shift all this hefty stuff.

“Your life is a man-free zone.”

“I’m too busy with work,” I point out, smiling a satisfied smile. I love it. My new business has gone from strength to strength. There’s no better feeling than watching the vision in your head come to life, seeing a drawing turn into an actual building. From the age of twelve, I knew exactly what I wanted to do. Dad bought me a rabbit for my birthday, and quite unimpressed with the hutch that he came with, I’d nagged my father into extending it to make better accommodation for my new friend. He’d laughed and told me to draw what I wanted. So, I did. I’ve never looked back. After two years acing my A-levels, four years at Bath University, and seven years working at a commercial firm while powering through my three architect exams, I’m now where I always planned on being. Working for myself. Making people’s dream projects come to life.

I hold up my glass of fizz. “How’s your job, anyway?”

“I work to live, Annie. I don’t live to work. I only think of pedicures, skin, and nails when I’m at the salon.” Lizzy joins me on the threshold of my new bedroom. “And don’t change the subject. It’s been one year, two months and one week since you got laid.”

“That’s very accurate of you.”

Lizzy shrugs. “It was my twenty-eighth.”

I remember the night all too well, though his name escapes me.

“Tom,” she prompts, as if reading my mind, turning to me. “Cute rugby player dude. Jason’s friend of a friend.”

Cute rugby player dude’s thighs invade my mind. I smile, remembering the night I met Lizzy’s boyfriend’s friend of a friend, Tom. “He was quite cute, wasn’t he?”

“Very! So why didn’t you see him again?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “There wasn’t anything there.”

“There were thighs!”

I laugh. “You know what I mean. Sparks. Chemistry.”

She scoffs. “Annie, there’s never been sparks for you in the whole time I’ve known you.”

She’s right. When will a man appear and sweep me off my feet? Bamboozle me? Make me think of something other than my career? The only thing that gets my pulse racing is my job.

“Have you sworn off men forever?” Lizzy breaks into my thoughts. “Because Jason has plenty of friends with friends.”

“I got bored of it all. Dating. The stress. The expectations. Nothing ever…clicked for me,” I say dismissively. “Anyway, I’m too in love with my job and my freedom right now.”

Lizzy laughs, genuinely amused as she wanders into the room, peeking into the en suite. “Your freedom is being seriously hampered by an eighty-hour working week.”

“Ninety,” I reply, and she frowns. “I worked ninety hours last week. And I have the freedom to do that.”

“But what about fun stuff?”

“My job is fun,” I retort indignantly. “I get to design beautiful buildings and watch them come to life.”

“I’ve hardly seen you recently,” she grumbles.

“I know. It’s been crazy.”

“Yes, that posh couple in Chelsea have stolen all your time. How’s it going, by the way?”

“Great,” I reply, because it is. But it’s one of the toughest projects I’ve undertaken. It took months of designs and negotiating to finally come to a compromise with the local authorities to build an ultra-modern, eco-efficient home. The hard work was worth every bit of effort. The cube house on the edge of the common has helped me toward the ridiculous deposit I needed for my new home.

“They moved in last Friday.” I make my way to the double doors that lead into the courtyard garden, picturing the small space bursting with green, a cast-iron table and a couple of chairs outside where I can enjoy my morning coffee. “Isn’t this perfect?”

“It’s great,” Lizzy says, following. “Me and Jason seriously need to think about buying rather than renting.”

“Or building.” I waggle a cheeky eyebrow at her. “I know an amazing architect.”

Lizzy scoffs. “We couldn’t afford you.”

I laugh and make my way inside. “Are you going to help me make my bed or not?”

“I’m coming!” she singsongs, shutting the doors behind her.

*  *  *

Three hours later, after a trip to the shop to restock on Prosecco, we’ve cleaned, polished, and washed everything in sight, attacking the bathroom, too. The old claw-foot bath is sparkling, and Lizzy unpacked all of my toiletries and cosmetics while I made up my bed. It already feels like home. I peek in the mirror as I pass, seeing my dark hair is a knotted mess atop my head. I yank the hair-tie out and let it tumble over my shoulders, combing my fingers through to rid it of knots. I blink my pale green eyes a few times, something irritating me, as I lean into the mirror to remove a few specks of dust from my lashes.

“Don’t forget we’re out next Saturday,” Lizzy reminds me, tying a black sack as she emerges from the bathroom. “Jason’s on a work thing, Nat is escaping John as he’s got his kid that night, and Micky is…well, he’s always free. So I want no excuses that you have to work.”

I wander to my bed and plump my pillows, pulling back the duvet, ready to fall into it once Lizzy has left. “No excuses,” I confirm.

“Great!” She drops the black sack with the pile of others by the door, brushing off her hands. “And what about your housewarming? We need to christen this place.”

“It’s the Saturday after. I’ve invited a few new clients, too.”

“Does that mean no orgy?”

I laugh. “No orgy.”

“Oh, okay. I’ll take care of snacks. You take care of cocktails.”

“Deal.”

She squeals and throws her arms around me. “It’s perfect, Annie. You’ve worked hard for it.”

“Thanks.” I return her hug, breathing in the scent of the millions of candles we’ve lit.

“How long have you given yourself off work?” she asks, releasing me and collecting her bag from the floor.

“Just the weekend.”

“Wow, you’re pushing the boat out, aren’t you?”

I ignore her sarcasm. “I have to get some drawings finalized for my client’s new art gallery. No rest for the wicked.”

“And no play, either,” Lizzy remarks, grinning a little as she pulls her mobile from her bag. “Great,” she mumbles, looking down at the screen.

“What?”

She shoves it back in her bag and forces a smile. “Jason’s working late again. He was supposed to be picking me up”—she glances down at her watch—“like, now.”

“You can stay, if you like.”

“Nah, I’ll get the Tube. You get to bed.”

She leaves me with a kiss on the cheek and an order to sleep well. I’ve no doubt I will. In my brand-new bed, with brand-new sheets and brand-new duvet, I’m asleep before my head hits the brand-new pillow.

*  *  *

I wake the next morning to hard, relentless banging on my front door. Sitting up, I spend a few disorientated moments blinking sleepily as I look around my unfamiliar surroundings.

Bang, bang, bang!

Then my phone starts screeching from under my pillow, followed by more banging, backed up by someone shouting my name. My palms come up to my face and scrub at my cheeks before I feel for my phone and pull it from under the pillows. Micky’s name flashes up at me. Then I register the time. “Oh, shit!” I scramble from under my covers, stumbling my way out of my bedroom.

Bang, bang, bang!

“Okay, okay!” I yell, leaping over a box and crashing into the door. Swinging it open, I come face-to-face with a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed Micky. “Seriously!” I yell, my head drumming with bangs, rings, and shouts.

“Morning, treacle!” He lands a kiss on my cheek and pushes his way past me, oohing and swooning as he starts to explore my new abode. “Nice place!”

I shut the front door and follow him in, frowning at the man-bun he’s sporting. “What’s happened to your hair?” I ask, watching as he inspects every nook and cranny.

“You like?” he asks, reaching behind and feeling at the dark blond bundle. “It’s starting to get in my way when I’m at work.” He kicks a box out of the way and takes a slurp from his Starbucks as he hands me one.

I accept gratefully and head for my bedroom. He’s in his work uniform, namely shorts and a T-shirt. He’s a personal trainer. A very popular personal trainer. His waiting list consists of women. All women. “You working today?” I ask, setting my coffee on my bedside table.

Micky follows me in and plonks himself on the edge of my bed. “Two sessions this afternoon.” He squeezes my thigh as I pass him, and I yelp. “When are you gonna let me at you?”

“Never!” I laugh. “I’d rather shove hot pokers in my eyes.”

“A few squats will do you good.”

I scoff at his suggestion and pull on some jeans. “You have plenty of squatting arses to admire without torturing mine.”

He grins wickedly. “Speaking of which, I just took on a new client.”

I fasten my jeans. “Married?” I ask, pulling off my tank top and throwing a U2 T-shirt over my head.

“Nope.” He grins. “You know I limit married clients to five at any one time. That’s an hour a day that I have to be professional. Five whole hours a week!”

I laugh out loud. The man is an outrageous flirt, but he’s also one of the best PTs in London. Women are lining up to be bent, stretched, and manipulated into position by my oldest friend. For more reasons than achieving physical fitness. “Must be exhausting.”

“It is when they’re tempting you constantly through each session. An innocent brush of my thigh here, an arse thrust in my face there.”

“If it’s that challenging to keep your mind and eyes from wandering, you should just take on single women. Or men.”

“I need a balance of clients. Besides, the married ones try harder,” he says, and my eyebrows jump up. Micky rolls his eyes. “In training,” he clarifies.

“So you’ve never been tempted?”

“Never!” He shakes his head furiously. “I love my legs too much to risk an angry husband breaking them, thanks.”

Dragging my dark hair into a high ponytail, I chuckle and slip on my flip-flops. I’ve known Micky for centuries. We grew up together. Played mummies and daddies together. Romped naked in the paddling pool together. He even hammered a few nails into the rabbit hutch extension when we were twelve. Our parents were, and still are, best friends.

“So how was your first night?” he asks, patting down my bedcovers.

“I don’t think I’ve ever slept for so long.” It’s a good sign. “C’mon. Let’s get rid of some of this shit so I can start figuring out where everything’s going to go.”

We head into the lounge and I start slapping yellow Post-it notes on everything that I don’t want to keep while Micky follows me around, placing it all to one side of the room. “Hey, I’ll have that.” Micky swipes the Post-it off a miniature set of drawers that used to sit on my dressing table in my old bedroom. “I need somewhere to put my hair-ties.”

I laugh and carry on slapping Post-its on what needs to go. “Your man-bun looks cute,” I say as Micky fondles his new friend with a smile. Truth be told, Micky could shave his hair off and look cute. The man is just cute full stop. His light brown eyes are constantly laughing and his jaw is constantly peppered with stubble. He’s hot, but he’s just Micky to me.

“Thanks.” He bats his lashes.

“Hey, we’re going out next Saturday for drinks. You coming?”

“Of course,” he replies quickly. “Lizzy and Nat coming?” He waggles a suggestive eyebrow.

“Don’t even dare. Both know you’re a tart.” He just can’t help himself. Me, Nat, and Lizzy are the only women in London who are immune to Micky’s charm.

“Ouchy!” he sniggers, getting me in a headlock.

“Get off, you twat!” I wrestle out of his hold and straighten myself out, batting him away when he starts dancing around me, fists held up in front of his face.

“Yoo-hoo!” My mother’s voice sails into the room, followed by the sound of her heels clicking on the wooden floor.

I give Micky a quick jab in the bicep, and he yelps playfully. I follow the echo of Mum’s call until I find her shimmying past the boxes lining the corridor, being careful not to catch her pleated skirt on any of them.

“Oh, look at the high ceilings!” she croons. “And the picture rails!”

I rest my shoulder on the door frame and watch with a smile as she shuffles toward me. Micky joins me, his chest meeting my back.

“Michael!” she shrieks, picking up her pace to make it to us. “Give me a hug!” She virtually knocks me off my feet to get her hands on him. “Let me see your handsome chops.” She squeezes his jaw fiercely, and I laugh. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in weeks!”

“Working hard, June.”

Mum smiles at him, releasing his face. “When are you going to make an honest woman of my Annie?”

Micky looks across to me, just as I roll my eyes. “As soon as she’ll have me.” He grins wickedly, knowing exactly what he’s doing, as he always does when my mother goes off on a tangent about our friendship.

Micky doesn’t want to date me. He’s too busy being a slut, and I’m too busy building my career. Our relationship is purely platonic—something we’re both happy with. There’s never been anything more than friendship between us. No sparks. No chemistry. Nothing. I often wonder whether any man will ever stir anything within me, because if Micky Letts hasn’t, then it’s possible no man will. He has women falling at his feet with just a hint of his disarming smile. Me? I feel nothing. I think I’m abnormal.

Mum tucks her bag neatly in the crook of her arm and produces a carrier bag loaded with cleaning supplies. “I’ve come to help!”

“Dressed in that?” I ask, taking in her cream blouse, pleated skirt, and heeled shoes.

“Always look your best, dear.” She sniffs. “Your father will be here soon with his toolbox. Now, where do we start?”

“I’m out of here,” Micky says, grabbing a box with a yellow sticker on it before dropping a peck on my mother’s cheek and marching out of my door, hands full. He blows me a kiss as he passes.

I grin and turn to find my mother armored up with some yellow rubber gloves and a bottle of cleaner.

“Let’s get scrubbing,” she sings excitedly.

Chapter 2

My nails are shot to bits—the result of a week’s worth of scrubbing and manual labor in between keeping on top of my clients, my e-mails, and my designs. But my new apartment is now a sparkly new apartment. Everything has a home and every room has been painted. All of my reference books have been loaded onto the shelves in my studio, my computer and printer set up, and my desk placed in the window. I bloody love it. And now I am more than ready for a night out with the girls to let my hair down.

My iPod is cranked to the max and I’m dancing around my bedroom in my towel, the windows flung open, while I sing at the top of my voice to Madonna’s “Like A Prayer” and sip wine.

After making my eyes all smoky and smudged, slipping on a little black dress and the highest black heels I own, and pinning my hair into a mess of a low bun, I grab my purse and head for the door, hearing Lizzy knocking as I’m on my way.

“Nice.” She nods approvingly when I answer, though she looks a little vacant.

“You okay?” I ask, stepping out.

“Yeah, fine.” She looks effortlessly gorgeous, her black bobbed hair wavy today, and her brown eyes dramatic with heavy eyeliner. Her bright pink shift dress and leather biker jacket are perfectly edgy and perfectly Lizzy. “You’ve made quite an effort, too,” I observe as I link arms with her and we start down the path together.

“Just threw something on,” she says, waving off my compliment. “Nat’s meeting us there. And whatever you do, tell her you love her hair.”

“Why, what did she do?” I look at Lizzy in horror. Nat’s hair is her pride and joy. Thick, blond, glossy, and down to her bum, it’s groomed better than the Queen’s corgis.

“John’s kid got his bubble gum stuck in it.”

“Oh shit,” I breathe, seeing Nat’s face clear as day in my mind’s eye. It’s angry. Very, very angry. She’s met the man of her dreams, but the man of her dreams comes with an added extra: a six-year-old boy who is a little bit of a handful. Scrap that. He’s a lot of a handful. Nat’s not exactly maternal. “How much?” I wince, waiting for it, and then I gasp when Lizzy’s cutting gesture saws at her shoulders. “Oh no.”

“And I’ve split up with Jason.”

I stagger to a stop. “What?”

She shakes her head, tears threatening. “I don’t want to talk about it tonight.”

I snap my mouth shut quickly and, though it pains me, I refrain from pressing. “Okay.” She needs a girls’ night out, and I’m more than happy to provide. “Wait. Does Nat know?”

She nods and quickly wipes under her eyes. “Let’s just have fun tonight, please.”

“Done.” I grab her arm and march on, determined to distract her for tonight, my mind racing with what could have happened.

*  *  *

It’s a challenge, but I manage not to choke when I clap eyes on Nat’s dramatic, unplanned transformation. Her long locks are no more, and the scowl on her face tells me that she hasn’t come to terms with it yet.

“Tell her it looks great,” Lizzy mumbles under her breath as we head toward her.

“It looks great!” I shriek, resting my bum on one of the tall stools. Everyone falls silent, Lizzy rolls her eyes, and Nat growls at me. “What?” I ask, shrinking.

“I look about fifty,” Nat mutters.

“No you don’t,” Lizzy and I sing in unison, so fucking over the top. She really does look older. Perhaps not quite fifty, but definitely older than her thirty years.

“I love it!” I declare, happy that I sound sincere enough, prompting Nat’s hands to go up to her hair and feel the lack of length.

“Really?” she asks, looking for reassurance.

“Yes, makes you look more sophisticated.”

She smiles, grateful, and Lizzy knocks my arm as she passes me, her way of congratulating me on a job well done. “I’m getting drinks,” she declares. “Who wants what?”

“Wine!” Nat and I chant.

Lizzy heads for the bar, and I take the opportunity to interrogate Nat. “What’s happened with Lizzy and Jason?” I ask, leaning forward over the table.

“I don’t know.” She shrugs nonchalantly, ever the compassionate type. “She refuses to talk about it.”

“But I thought they were solid.”

“Yeah, me too. Apparently not, eh?”

“You sound so concerned.” I give her a disappointed look, and she just shrugs again. Nat’s not exactly the emotional type. She’s a loss adjuster for a huge insurance firm. A real hardball, and she struggles to separate that from her personal life. Most men are intimidated by her. Most women, too, actually. Tall, leggy, blond, and a bit of an emotional retard.

“My hair was massacred,” she snipes, “so I’m moody.”

Our conversation is cut short—not that it was going anywhere—when Lizzy slides a tray on the table, loaded with not only wine, but shots, too. I look at Nat, who nods her understanding. Lizzy is on a mission to total drunkenness. We both accept the shots she hands us and throw them back as ordered. Then I ponder who of my friends is in the most turmoil, therefore needing my attention. You’d think this would be an easy decision, but Nat was probably as much in love with her hair as I thought Lizzy was with Jason. I flick my eyes between them; both distracted. Nat is still stroking her new bob, and Lizzy’s now daydreaming into her wineglass.

It’s no good. I can’t hold back. “What happened?” I ask Lizzy, knocking her knee.

She snaps out of her trance and looks at me, her usually bright eyes dulling. Then they well up, her bottom lip trembling. “He cheated!” she wails, bursting into tears. “And it’s not the first time, either!”

“Oh my God!” I cry, jumping down from my stool and taking her in a hug. She shakes and blubbers all over me, finally losing the ability to hold it together. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“When it happened before, I forgave him,” Lizzy sniffs. “Thought it would just be a one-off, and I knew how you’d all react. I didn’t want you to think bad of him, and I didn’t want you to think I’m a walkover.”

I look across Lizzy’s head at Nat, giving her a guilty look. She returns it, knowing that’s exactly what we would have done. Bastard, I mouth, and she nods, her lip curling.

Lizzy howls some more, making our tangle of limbs vibrate. “It’s been going on for months,” she sobs. “Some tart in the office. He’s been working late more and more, and I found text messages on his phone.”

Me and Nat scowl at each other, but neither of us say anything, probably because we have no idea what to say, leaving Lizzy to go on and dish the sordid details.

“She’s twenty-one!” she howls into my chest. “Twenty-fucking-one!”

Ouch!

Nat’s face is a picture of horror, and I expect mine is, too. “Let’s drink,” I suggest, now willing to get plastered on Lizzy’s behalf.

*  *  *

One hour later…or it could be two—I’m not sure—we are all pretty tipsy, but no one is crying so our inebriated states can only be a good thing. Micky has arrived, and doesn’t Lizzy know it. He looks gorgeous, his man-bun perfect. She’s all over him like a rash, and it’s not a problem for Micky. Though he does keep flicking wary eyes at me, waiting for the warning. It won’t come. Not tonight. Besides, Lizzy needs distracting and I’m too tipsy to care. A bit of harmless flirting won’t hurt.

Polishing off yet another wine, I look around for Nat. I find her on the dance floor, all by herself, swaying to a bit of Moby. A few drinks inside her and she belongs to any dance floor, no matter where.

I shimmy over to the bar to get more shots, since we’re clearly not drunk enough. Ordering four Slippery Nipples with a grin, I bob to the music while I wait for the barman to get our drinks. I slip him a twenty. “Do you have a tray?” I ask.

“All out,” he calls as he walks away with my money.

I look down at the four shot glasses, pondering what to do. There’s a simple solution, but I’m on my way to total drunkenness and it’s not coming to me, so I start to negotiate the tiny glasses between my fingers, confident I can manage them all in one go and save me an extra trip to our table…which is twenty feet away. “Damn,” I mutter, knocking one and spilling the stickiness all over my hand. I start to lick at my fingers, lapping up the creamy concoction, set on minimal waste. Then I take the remainder of the shot and knock it back, reducing my carry to three glasses. Far more manageable.

If you’re totally sober. Which I’m not. I accept my change when the barman slides it across the counter to me. “Thanks,” I call, starting to collect the three remaining glasses in my hands. Another one goes over, and once again I lick the mess from my hand.

“You’re not doing very well there, are you?”

The amused voice pulls me around, my lapping tongue around my fingers slowing to a standstill, my eyes widening at the sight of the man standing next to me at the bar.

Holy…shit.

I’m not often rendered speechless. Never, in fact. Now I’m making up for it, and I can’t figure out if it’s too much alcohol or the awe I’m in. So fucking hot! I take in every teeny tiny piece of him, from his shoes—which, it should be noted, are very stylish tan Jeffery West brogues—to the very top of his beautiful head. I say beautiful. I’m not sure it’s complimentary enough. Classically handsome, maybe? Jaw-dropping? Stunning? Nothing seems adequate. He has scruff. Yummy scruff that I guess is a result of not shaving for at least five days, and his gray eyes are ridiculously twinkly. Like little stars are popping in their depths. His hair is cut close to his head at the sides, but longer on top and manipulated to the side. Just long enough to hold on to…

I gulp down my wonder. The man can dress. Casual. Easy. A lovely fitted shirt, collar open, sleeves rolled up, loose and hanging out of his fitted Armani jeans. Did I mention he had good shoes?

“Need a hand?” he asks, eyeing me with…what is that?

A hand? Where would I put that hand? I tilt my head in silent contemplation, now staring at his hands. Big, capable hands, one wrapped around a bottle of beer. Then my eyes are lifting, following that bottle until it reaches his lips. His mouth opens. I catch sight of a sliver of his tongue, and his lips wrap around the bottle, his head tipping back. The throat. Holy shit, the throat. The swallow. The quiet gasp.

The colossal blast that’s just . . .