It’s all fun and games…until someone’s heart is broken.
They’re not kids anymore, but Milo Caro is certain that Colton Mathews will only see her as his best friend’s little sister for the rest of their lives. After all, he made that clear the night before she left for college. But four years later, her brother is getting married and Colt’s the best man—and guess who is the best man’s last-minute date?
Milo vows to use the wedding to either claim the smoldering firefighter’s heart or douse this torch for good. When Max—her best friend from college, who may be carrying a torch of his own—crashes the party, they devise a plan to make Colt see what he’s missing. But after Colt catches on, he decides to cook up his own revenge.
Now it’s personal. Colt and Milo are at war, and between Max’s questionable acting methods, an unfortunate trip to jail, and a maniacal fiancée, what could possibly go right?
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Max gave me a tender shove. “We were fine until you started stepping on my foot and elbowing me!”
Milo vows to use the wedding to either claim the smoldering firefighter’s heart or douse this torch for good. When Max—her best friend from college, who may be carrying a torch of his own—crashes the party, they devise a plan to make Colt see what he’s missing. But after Colt catches on, he decides to cook up his own revenge.
Now it’s personal. Colt and Milo are at war, and between Max’s questionable acting methods, an unfortunate trip to jail, and a maniacal fiancée, what could possibly go right?
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Max gave me a tender shove. “We were fine until you started stepping on my foot and elbowing me!”
“You were hitting on my mom!”
“She’s a beautiful lady!” he argued.
“Oh, my gosh.” I fell into one of the chairs and moaned. “This is a catastrophe.”
“Not true.” Max shook his head. “You just have to be more believable. I mean, would it kill you to find me screw-worthy?”
“Screw-worthy? What does that even mean?”
“That’s it.” Max grabbed my hand and pulled me down the hall. “Where’s the bathroom?”
“Uh . . .” I pointed.
With a jerk he had me in the bathroom under the stairs and closed the door. Words and sounds were coming out of his mouth but I couldn’t make anything out. Max pushed me against the door and pointed his finger in my face. “I’m going to kiss you, damn it, and you’re going to like it. And I’m going to take off my shirt and you’re going to manhandle me, and you’re going to stop being so damn nervous or so help me God I’m going to bend you over that sofa in the living room and spank your sexy ass.”
Shocked, I was paralyzed in place. “Where did that come from?”
“Inside.” Max looked at me and smirked. “I have lots of feelings and I’m sick and tired of you looking at me like I don’t have a penis. I may be used to your innocence but for my own pride at least try to be attracted to me. Now close your damn eyes.”
“Stop cursing at me.”
“Stop being difficult! I’m trying to help you. And stop squirming. Shit, take a Xanax or something.”
“Max.” I closed my eyes and huffed. “This isn’t going to—”
My hand was on something hard.
I blinked my eyes open.
Since when did he have a six-pack?
I tilted my head, you know, to get a better look. His skin was really smooth but bumpy, each muscle defined so much that there was enough of a ridge for my hands to play with.
“Oh, look, he’s a man after all,” Max said, sounding bored. “I’m not your sexless friend. I’m not your damn brother. I’m not your gay friend. And I sure as hell am not thinking about anything right now except that your hands feel really good against my skin. So I’m going to kiss you, and you’re going to respond like the idea of my mouth on yours doesn’t make you want to cry—and you’ll like it.”
“I’ll like it,” I repeated.
“There’s my girl.” His eyes flashed, and then he was kissing me again, only this time his body was on fire as it pressed against me. I felt every ridge of his abs; the length of his body was beyond devastating.
Rachel Van Dyken is the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling author of regency and contemporary romances. When she's not writing you can find her drinking coffee at Starbucks and plotting her next book while watching The Bachelor.
She keeps her home in Idaho with her Husband and their snoring Boxer, Sir Winston Churchill. She loves to hear from readers! You can follow her writing journey at www.rachelvandykenauthor.com
“She’s a beautiful lady!” he argued.
“Oh, my gosh.” I fell into one of the chairs and moaned. “This is a catastrophe.”
“Not true.” Max shook his head. “You just have to be more believable. I mean, would it kill you to find me screw-worthy?”
“Screw-worthy? What does that even mean?”
“That’s it.” Max grabbed my hand and pulled me down the hall. “Where’s the bathroom?”
“Uh . . .” I pointed.
With a jerk he had me in the bathroom under the stairs and closed the door. Words and sounds were coming out of his mouth but I couldn’t make anything out. Max pushed me against the door and pointed his finger in my face. “I’m going to kiss you, damn it, and you’re going to like it. And I’m going to take off my shirt and you’re going to manhandle me, and you’re going to stop being so damn nervous or so help me God I’m going to bend you over that sofa in the living room and spank your sexy ass.”
Shocked, I was paralyzed in place. “Where did that come from?”
“Inside.” Max looked at me and smirked. “I have lots of feelings and I’m sick and tired of you looking at me like I don’t have a penis. I may be used to your innocence but for my own pride at least try to be attracted to me. Now close your damn eyes.”
“Stop cursing at me.”
“Stop being difficult! I’m trying to help you. And stop squirming. Shit, take a Xanax or something.”
“Max.” I closed my eyes and huffed. “This isn’t going to—”
My hand was on something hard.
I blinked my eyes open.
Since when did he have a six-pack?
I tilted my head, you know, to get a better look. His skin was really smooth but bumpy, each muscle defined so much that there was enough of a ridge for my hands to play with.
“Oh, look, he’s a man after all,” Max said, sounding bored. “I’m not your sexless friend. I’m not your damn brother. I’m not your gay friend. And I sure as hell am not thinking about anything right now except that your hands feel really good against my skin. So I’m going to kiss you, and you’re going to respond like the idea of my mouth on yours doesn’t make you want to cry—and you’ll like it.”
“I’ll like it,” I repeated.
“There’s my girl.” His eyes flashed, and then he was kissing me again, only this time his body was on fire as it pressed against me. I felt every ridge of his abs; the length of his body was beyond devastating.
She keeps her home in Idaho with her Husband and their snoring Boxer, Sir Winston Churchill. She loves to hear from readers! You can follow her writing journey at www.rachelvandykenauthor.com
