by P. Dangelico
Publication Date: September 11, 2017
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

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Amber Jones is in a pickle. And when I say pickle, I mean deep do-do. She knew she shouldn’t have gone to her ex’s New Year’s Eve party. And she reeeaally didn’t mean to almost burn down his house. It was the chafing dish’s fault, dang it! Now she needs a good lawyer, stat. But where to find one?

All work and no play make Ethan Vaughn a very sad and lonely lawyer. Not to mention horny. He really shouldn’t have agreed to help his best friend’s wife’s bestie with her imbroglio. Now she’s remanded on bail––and living in his house. The woman is a walking, talking category five hurricane. And considering his track record with women, he needs to stay as far away from this one as possible. Problem is, he just can’t seem to make himself.

Deputy D leads me down a long corridor to a metal door with a tiny glass window. He said lawyer. Camilla couldn’t pull off that act if her life depended on it––too honest and transparent. Which means she found someone on short notice. On New Year’s Eve, no less. My best friend is a holy freaking rainmaker.

I’m bouncing on the balls of my bare feet, craning my neck to look through the small window. All I want to do is go home, crawl under the covers, and not come out for a week while I nurse my battered ego back to health and the promise of freedom is making me antsy. For the first time tonight, I feel marginally better. Until Dipshit unlock the door. Until I get a super clear view of whom is on the other side of it and then I don’t feel better. No. As a matter of fact I feel worse. Just like that the shred of optimism I was fostering a minute ago circles the drain.

Camilla’s husband’s best friend. He’s standing with one hand shoved in the pocket of his perfectly tailored tux. The top of his shirt drapes open, bowtie ends hanging down, eyes glued to the screen of his cell phone.

No, no. God, don’t do this me. I’ll be good. I swear I will.

I blink and blink, hoping and praying, but no, I’m not imagining it. This nightmare is real. I start to back out, and Deputy D slams the door shut behind me, the sound grating on my already inflamed nerves.

“What are you doing here?” My voice sounds strangely high and sharp.

He glances up. His thickly lashed brown eyes skim my face, take note of the black eye makeup which is undoubtedly half way down my face, work their way lower to the ripped edge of my silver mini dress, then descend all the way to my bare feet. My toes curl in reflex, hiding from his scrutiny.

I’m dying a million tiny painful deaths. A million. If there’s a personal circle of hell for each and every one of us, this is mine.

I’m convinced that men like Ethan Vaughn are put on this planet to make the rest of us feel bad about ourselves. He’s too…perfect. I hate that word, I really do, but there’s no other way to describe this dude. A face and body that would make Adonis bristle in envy, successful, impeccably dressed. He’s neat. He’s very neat. It’s past midnight and he’s still pressed and clean. How the fuck is that possible? I bet he rinses his recycling before placing it in the blue bin.

I don’t buy it. I just don’t buy it. My bullshit meter tells me something’s off. Or maybe it’s my black soul. Whatever, one of those two tells me that beneath the picture perfect surface, he may secretly be a homophobe, or rude to waiters, or mean to animals. Who knows, maybe he likes to kick cats when no one is watching.

Mr. Perfect is still staring, and has yet to say a word. Nor does he have to. My skin is burning from his shrewd assessment.

Take a good look you sick, cat kicking motherfu…

“I was under the impression you needed a lawyer.” His deep voice is even and unaffected. Is he under the impression that I need him to get me out of a parking ticket? What’s next, a yawn?

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Cam DeSantis’ life is a hot, steaming pile. How else would you describe losing your husband, your job, and your money all at once? Desperate times call for desperate measures, so when salvation comes in the form of one intolerable a-hole, who just happens to be the starting quarterback for the vaunted NY Titans, she has no choice but to accept his offer as a live-in nanny slash teacher for his eight year old nephew. Now all she has to do is find a safe place in her mind to hide whenever she feels the need to throat punch him into tomorrow…which is often.

Calvin Shaw has zero interest in women. Wait, wait––let me rephrase that. He loves women, he just doesn’t want anything to do with ‘um. Not since his wife, presently ex-wife, got knocked up by the guy she was cheating on him with. Problem is––there’s one living in his house. And he doesn’t know what’s worse, that he promised to be civil, or that he’s attracted to her.

About P. Dangelico

P. Dangelico loves romance in all forms, shapes, and sizes, cuddly creatures (four legged and two), really bloody sexy pulp, the
NY Jets (although she’s reconsidering after this season), and to while away the day at the barn (apparently she does her best thinking shoveling horse crap). What she’s not enamored with is referring to herself in the third person and social media so don’t expect her to get on Twitter anytime soon. Oh, and although she was born in Italy, she’s been Jersey Strong since she turned six.

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