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  For Debra. You’re the pepper to my salt, always keeping it spicy.

  Prologue: No More Bad Boys

  Amie

  I scan the room, searching for familiar faces—anyone in my department at Moorehead Media who I know well enough to strike up menial conversation with. As I perform my visual sweep, I note a small cluster of men at three o’clock. The cluster effect isn’t unusual. This entire party is made up of human semicircles, half of them wearing fake smiles, feigning interest in conversations, the other half using it as a means to conduct business under the influence of alcohol.

  My gaze snags and catches on one man in particular. He’s not engaged in his semicircle discussion. I know this, because he’s looking at me. Or at least he’s looking in my direction. He’s dressed like every other man in this room—dark suit and tie—but his face, dear lord, is stunning. High cheekbones that belong to a model, strong jaw, plush lips, perfect nose, eyes framed with thick lashes. His dark hair is cut short and styled in a way that reminds me of a 1950s mobster. Clean cut, refined, exactly the opposite of my usual type.

  I keep my hands cupped around my empty glass rather than giving in to the urge to fidget.

  After what feels like far too many seconds of prolonged eye contact, the same heat that caused my cheeks to flush moves through my body, making my scalp, among other places, tingle. I look over my shoulder, just to make sure it’s really me he’s staring at so intently. Behind me is a group of women in their fifties, so unless he’s into MILFs, I’m the focus of his attention.

  A smile pulls the corners of his mouth up, flashing white teeth and popping a dimple. He absently addresses his group and then he’s moving in my direction. I don’t think I know him. I’d remember a face that gorgeous. As he closes in on me I note how arresting his eyes are. A shocking shade of blue, made more vibrant against the dark hair. His patterned tie matches his eyes. I’m sure it’s purposeful.

  He stops when he’s just inside my personal space, the tiniest bit too close to be perfectly comfortable for strangers. His smile grows, his dimples deepening, eyes searching my face with an expression I can’t quite read.

  “Hi.” His voice is a gentle caress that begins at the column of my throat and travels down my body, all the way to the sensitive place at the back of my knee.

  “Hi.” I break the eye contact for a moment, unnerved by his intensity. I take in the rest of him in the seconds of visual disconnection. He’s a big man, broad with heavy shoulders and thick arms. I imagine there’s definition under that suit based on the tapered waist. His dress shoes are two-tone black and white brogues, as if he’s flipping off the pretension of this party with his choice of footwear.

  He chuckles softly, bringing my attention back to his face. He shakes his head, tilting it to the side as his grin becomes sheepish. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . you’re just . . . wow. I’m Lexington.” He extends a manicured hand.

  “I’m Amalie.” The awkwardness seems to cut through the intensity. At least until I slip my fingers into his palm. The jolt of energy that floods my body forces me to suppress a shudder.

  He envelopes my hand in both of his. “Amalie. That’s a beautiful name for a beautiful woman. I’d say the most captivating woman in the room, really. I wasn’t sure if someone had snuck something into my drink and I was hallucinating. I’m very pleased that isn’t the case.”

  Is this guy for real? “I’m sorry, what?”

  He bites his lip and drops his gaze, almost shyly, then glances around the ballroom before turning that smile back on me. I can’t decide if this whole shy thing is part of an act.

  He makes a sweeping gesture, his gaze following his hand. “You’re a knockout. Where’s your date?” Subtle. He’s a master of flirting, that’s for sure.

  “Um, I don’t have a date.”

  “Fantastic. Hard to believe, but great news for me.” He lifts my hand and bends his head. The cuff of his shirt pulls up, exposing a sliver of colorful ink at his wrist. Maybe he’s not quite as clean cut as I first assumed. I wonder how far that ink goes. Alarm bells go off in my head as his soft, warm lips brush the back of my hand.

  The electric snap of lust has me snatching my hand away. My mouth is suddenly desert dry. What the hell? I laugh, but it’s a needy sound. I don’t know what else to do, so I take a sip from my empty glass, the three ice cubes tinkling in the bottom.

  “Let me get you a drink,” he offers.

  “Uh . . .”

  “I’m not asking you to marry me, yet.” He winks. “Just have a drink with me. We can talk. It’ll give me a valid reason to keep checking you out. It’ll be fun for both of us.”

  Oh my God, this guy is full of lines. I laugh again and duck my head.

  “Unless you’d rather cut out of the party early and catch the next flight to Vegas. Get to know each other on the way to our wedding instead? I’m pretty sure we could be back for work on Monday.”

  I’m sure my smile matches his. He’s having way too much fun with this. “I’ll take the drink.”

  “You sure? I can hook us up with a private jet. We could engage in all the wedding night festivities on the way, you know, just to make sure we’re compatible and we’re not making a mistake.”

  “You’ve got this all mapped out, don’t you?”

  “Not at all. Flying by the seat of my pants, really. I was just giving you options since you seemed on the fence about the drink.”

  “I think a drink is a good place to start.”

  “Cautious. I like that. What’s your poison?”

  Men like you. “A vodka-soda would be lovely.”

  “I’ll be right back. Don’t disappear on me.” He winks again and then moves through the crowd toward the bar.

  I exhale a deep breath. I really shouldn’t be encouraging him. I’ve promised myself I’m going to take a break from dating after the last fiasco. One of my most recent mistakes in the man department told me he was in the import-export business. It wasn’t until we were on our way back from a weekend trip to Mexico that I discovered he wasn’t talking about legal imports.

  Twelve hours detained in an interrogation room in a Mexican airport, followed by a long trip home with my irate father had me promising not to make any more of these bad decisions. But it’s been two months of celibacy and movie nights with my best friend, Ruby. A drink and a little flirting can’t hurt.

  “Amalie Whitfield?”

  I glance up to find a handsome, vaguely familiar man standing in front of me. He has sandy blond hair, warm blue eyes, and a straight, regal nose. “Hi. Hello.”

  He leans in, a soft smile on his lips. “I’m here to save you.”

  “I’m sorry?” Maybe there’s a full moon tonight.

  “From my cousin, Lexington. I saw him talking to you a moment ago and I felt I should warn you. He’s got quite the reputation in this circle with women. I wouldn’t want you to get caught up with someone like him.”

  “Oh, uh . . . thanks?” Of course I attract the bad ones.

 
; “I’m just doing my due diligence, saving a beautiful woman from making a terrible mistake.”

  I laugh, disconcerted. The last thing I need is to disappoint my parents again, or almost end up in prison.

  “I’m Armstrong.” He extends a hand and I take it. He lifts it to his lips and presses a kiss to my knuckle. “Are you enjoying my party?”

  I try to hide my surprise. He’s Armstrong Moorehead, son of the CEO of the company. “Oh, yes. It’s wonderful. I’ve met quite a few new people.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you have, although not all of them good.” He gives me a conspiratorial wink. “Would you like to dance with me?” Without waiting for a response, he plucks the empty glass from my hand and sets it on a passing waiter’s tray. Pulling me close, but leaving a respectable distance between us, he settles a palm low on my back and leads me around the dance floor. He’s an excellent dancer, refined, poised. Even less my usual type than his cousin.

  “You’re new to the company, aren’t you?” he asks.

  “Relatively. I’ve been working for Moorehead for two months now.”

  “I thought so. In the magazine branch, correct? I’ll have to make a point of stopping by to see how you’re settling in.”

  “That’s not necessary. I’m sure you’re far too busy for that.”

  “Not at all. I’d love to take you out for lunch, or maybe dinner would be better. It would alleviate any potential time constraints.”

  “To discuss the marketing campaigns I’m working on?” Oh my God. Meeting with the son of the CEO seems incredibly daunting. Especially when our introduction entailed him warning me off his cousin.

  He laughs and smiles warmly. “I don’t want to discuss marketing with you, Amalie, I want to take you out.”

  “Out?” I can’t believe this is happening. While it isn’t unheard of for me to get hit on occasionally, twice in a span of minutes by two hot men is ridiculous. At least this one seems less likely to add to the unending list of bad-boy mistakes. The first one was too smooth to be real.

  “On a date. Surely someone as beautiful as you has been asked on a date before.”

  “Wouldn’t that be considered a conflict of interest since I work for Moorehead?” I have no interest in creating more problems for myself.

  “I have no direct dealings with the magazine branch of the company. I assure you, it’s perfectly acceptable for you to go out with me. Unless you’re already seeing someone.”

  He seems so sweet, and definitely someone who wouldn’t disappoint my family or cause any more scandal. “I’m not seeing anyone.”

  His smile grows wider. “That’s wonderful news. Are you busy tomorrow night?”

  “I don’t think so?” Ruby and I might have movie plans, but I’m sure she’ll be fine with me canceling on account of having a date with someone like Armstrong.

  “Excellent. It’s a date then.” He glances around the ballroom, his smile growing wider as his gaze lands somewhere over my shoulder. When his attention returns to me he winks. “I’m so very glad I could save you from the wolf tonight, Amalie.”

  One: Wedding Unbliss

  Amie

  Ten months later

  This is the happiest day of my life. I allow that thought to roll around in my head, trying to figure out why it doesn’t seem to resonate the way it should. This should be the happiest day of my life. So I’m not exactly certain why the uneasy feeling I associate with cold feet is getting worse rather than dissipating. I’ve already done the hard part; walked down the aisle and said “I do.”

  My husband excused himself to go to the bathroom several minutes ago and, based on Armstrong’s itinerary for the day, speeches are supposed to begin promptly at eight-thirty. According to my phone, that’s less than two minutes from now, and he’s not here. The emcee for the evening is awaiting Armstrong’s return before he begins. And then the real party can start. The one where we get to celebrate our commitment to each other as partners for life. As in the rest of my breathing days. Dear God, why does that make my stomach twist?

  I sip my white wine. Armstrong pointed out that red is not a good idea with my dress, even though it’s my preference. Besides, I don’t want it to stain my teeth. That would make for bad pictures.

  I glance around the hall and see my parents, who are probably celebrating the fact that I didn’t walk down the aisle with a convicted felon. And frankly, so am I. My dating history pre-Armstrong wasn’t fabulous.

  The sheer number of people in attendance spikes my anxiety. Speaking in front of all of these people makes me want to drink more, which is a bad idea. Tipsy speeches could lead to saying the wrong thing. I check my phone under the table again. It’s after eight-thirty. The longer Armstrong takes to return, the further behind we’ll get. The music playlist, devised by Armstrong with painstaking efficiency, leaves no room for tardiness. If we don’t start on time I’ll have to take out a song, or possibly two, to compensate for his delay and he’s selected the order in such a way as to make that difficult, and that will annoy him. I just want today to be perfect. I want it to be reflective of my decision to marry Armstrong. That I, Amalie Whitfield, can make good choices and am not a disgrace to my family.

  “Where the hell is he?” I scan the room and take another small sip of my wine. I should switch to water soon so I don’t end up drunk, especially later, when all of this is over and we can celebrate our lifelong commitment to each other without clothes on. I’m hopeful it will last more than five minutes.

  Ruby, my maid of honor and best friend for the past decade, puts a hand on my shoulder. “Would you like Bancroft to find Armstrong?”

  Bancroft, or Bane for short, is Ruby’s boyfriend who she’s been living with for several months. Recently I find myself getting a little jealous of how affectionate they still are with each other, even after all this time. Cohabitation hasn’t slowed them down on the sex or their PDA. I have hope that Armstrong and I will be more like Bane and Ruby now that we’ll be sharing the same bed every night.

  I’m about to tell Ruby to give him another minute when a low buzz suddenly fills the hall. It sounds like a school PA system. I start to panic—they can’t start the speeches without Armstrong at my side. What’s the point of speeches if the groom isn’t present?

  I’m halfway out of my seat, ready to tell the DJ, or whoever is behind the mic, that he needs to wait, when a very loud moan echoes through the room. The acoustics are phenomenal in here, it’s why we chose this venue.

  I glance at Ruby to make sure I’m not hearing things. Her eyes are wide. The kind of wide associated with shock. The same shock I’m feeling.

  Another moan reverberates through the sound system, followed by the words, “Oh, fuuuck.”

  A collective gasp ripples through the now-silent crowd. While the words themselves are scandalous among these guests, it’s the voice groaning them that makes me sit up straighter, and simultaneously consider hiding under the table.

  “Fuck yeah. Ah, suck it. That’s it. Deep throat it like a good little slut. Fuuuuuccckkkkk.”

  My mouth drops and I look to Ruby to ensure I have not completely lost my mind. “Is that—” I don’t finish the sentence. I already know the answer to the question, so it’s pointless to ask. Besides, I’m cut off by yet another loud groan. I clap a hand over my mouth because I’m not sure I’m able to close it, my disbelief as vast as the ocean.

  Ruby’s expression mirrors mine, except hers is incredibly animated since she’s an actress. “Oh my God. Is that Armstrong?” Her words are no more than a whisper, but they sound very much like a scream. Oh no, wait, that’s just Armstrong on the verge of an orgasm. But these sounds are nothing like the ones he makes when he’s in the throes of passion with me.

  I clutch Ruby’s hand. The next sound that comes from him is a hybrid between a hyena laugh and a wolf baying at the moon. And every guest at our wedding is hearing the same thing I am. Our wedding. Someone other than me is blowing my husband at my own wedding. My mo
rtification knows no end.

  I grab the closest bottle of wine and dump the contents into my glass. Some of it sloshes over the edge and onto the crisp white tablecloth. It doesn’t matter. There’s plenty more where it came from. I chug the glass, then grab Ruby’s.

  People lean in and whisper to each other, eyes lifting to the speakers. A few people, the ones who are probably just here for the social-ladder-climbing potential, question who it is.

  “Is the DJ watching porn?” That comment comes from a table full of mostly drunk singles in their early twenties.

  Several eyes shift my way as I carelessly down Ruby’s wine and someone asks where the groom has disappeared to.

  The grunts and groans grow terrifyingly louder. This is nothing like what I’m used to in bed with Armstrong. The dirty words aren’t something he ever uses with me, mostly it’s just noises and sometimes a “Right there” or “I’m close,” but that’s about it. He’s never talked to me like he is to the woman currently providing oral pleasure. And I’m very adept at oral. Although with Armstrong it’s very polite, neat oral, with no sounds other than the occasional hum. Slurping is uncivilized and a definite no-no.

  I reach past Ruby for the bottle of red since I don’t really give a flying fuck about purple teeth right now. As I sink low in my seat I pour another glass of wine, surveying the people in the ballroom from behind the cover of the centerpiece. The centerpieces are huge and excessive and I don’t like them at all, but at least they provide a protective barrier between me, the guests, and my disgust, which I’m certain they must share. He sounds like a wild animal rutting. It is entirely unsexy. I have no idea who he’s getting intimate with, but I’m suddenly very glad it’s not me.

  And doesn’t that tell me more about our relationship than it should.

  It’s only been about thirty seconds—the most humiliating thirty seconds of my life—before Armstrong comes. How do I know this? Because he says, very clearly, “Keep sucking, baby, I’m coming.”