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Never Have I Ever (Always Satisfied #3)
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Falling for the enemy has never been so deliciously complicated in this standalone romance where a sexy single dad meets his unexpected match! Get ready for all the feels!
Never have I ever been so infuriated by a man I wanted to kiss.
The too-good-looking, too-smart, too-effortlessly charming single dad who works down the hall from me has turned getting under my skin into a sport. Call it the battle of wits between the wedding planner and the divorce attorney.
Trouble is, when we’re forced into closer quarters planning an engagement party for our best friends, I start to see his other sides.
And I fear I’m falling for the enemy.
I’m not out to make friends. My goals are simple — fight till the end for my clients, and my family.
The last thing I need is a vibrant, outgoing, snarky, and surprisingly big-hearted wedding planner to spend my precious free time with…except, watching Piper bond with my daughter just might break down the cinder block walls I’ve built around my heart these last few years.
Second chances don’t come around for guys like me…or do they?
NEVER HAVE I EVER is a sexy, frenemies-to-lovers romance in the Always Satisfied series of standalones! The series includes SATISFACTION GUARANTEED, INSTANT GRATIFICATION, NEVER HAVE I EVER, OVERNIGHT SERVICE and the novella SPECIAL DELIVERY, and they can be read in any order.
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Don’t believe what you hear about me.
I’m not that much of an asshole.
Well, maybe I am.
But, in my defense, I’m paid to be.
The thing is, beneath the he-has-no-heart exterior, I swear I’m not a bad guy. I’ll give up my cab for an old lady, I’ll hold the elevator for anyone, and I don’t ever complain that my neighbor has four dogs, even though that’s against the co-op rules.
Because, hey, I like puppies.
So I must be a good guy, despite what some say.
He has a heart carved from ice.
It’s as black as night.
He doesn’t have that beating organ in his chest.
Those rumors made me who I am today. No one comes to my office because they want a soft touch or a shoulder to lean on. I’m not a “there, there” guy. I’m the guy they want beside them when they go into battle.
If being the go-to guy in life’s roughest times makes me an asshole, slap the title on my office door. I’ve been called that and worse too many times for it to bother me.
That’s the problem.
Because suddenly—as in out-of-the-blue, what-the-fuck-is-this-feeling?—it drives me absolutely crazy what one person thinks.
I don’t even want this particular person in my life.
In fact, I want her out of it. She’s the enemy.
But by the time the news about London comes, she’s superglued to my world, whether I want her here or not.
And I don’t want her here. I don’t want anyone. Or anything, ever again.
I swear I don’t want her.
No matter how good she looked that night when I started to see her in a whole new way.
Ten years ago
I have one of those faces that’s easy to forget.
Not ugly. Not beautiful.
Simply . . . pleasant.
Works for me.
I call it the Blender Factor. I’m like that fruit you put in a smoothie and no one quite knows if it’s strawberry or orange or apple. You take a sip, you try to figure out what that taste is, and it’s sort of an everything fruit.
That’s me. I’m the everything fruit.
It comes in handy in all sorts of situations, kind of like a good party trick. Somehow I just fit in.
Like now, at 4:04 p.m. on a Saturday afternoon at the swankiest hair salon in Manhattan, as Adrien finishes Sasha’s hair.
His time-warp-fast hands sweep her platinum-blonde locks into a gorgeous updo that looks absolutely stunning when he adds a jewel-studded comb, one I helped the bride pick out several weeks ago at Katherine’s flagship jewelry shop on Fifth Avenue. She only tried on seven types of hair accessories, so all in all, that was easy as pie to find.
“The pièce de résistance,” Adrien declares, with all the particular panache a silver-fox hair stylist to the chicest brides in Manhattan possesses. After he secures the comb, he kisses his fingertips then blows the kiss to Sasha’s hair.
“Wishing you luck. Though of course you don’t need it.” He swivels the plush leather chair toward the scalloped mirror, giving the bride a view of her finished hair.
I clasp a hand to my chest. “You look beautiful,” I tell her. She tilts her chin up and flashes me a pink-glossed smile. “Do I really?” Nerves are stitched tightly through her tone.
I nod vigorously, squeezing her elbow for emphasis. “One hundred percent. Wait. No. You are one hundred fifty percent beautiful and one hundred fifty percent stunning.”
She smiles, sighs contentedly, then looks to Adrien for his reassurance too. “What do you think?”
He parts his lips to speak, but a boisterous redhead from one booth over cuts in. “Sasha-bear, you look so damn perfect they’re going to need a new word for beautiful fucking bride.”
Tania’s still slurring her words a touch too much for my taste. No surprise. Tania required the most babysitting at the bachelorette party last night, I was told.
“Yes. She does look magnifique,” Adrien adds, sliding into his native French.
Tania slashes a bridesmaid-knows-best hand through the air. “No. She’s more than magnificent. Sash, you’re the most gorgeous bride I have ever seen.”
Here’s the thing. Sasha looks amazing, but there’s a fine line to walk with brides, and Tania blundered right over it. Never tell a bride she’s the most beautiful ever. They know that’s bullshit.
Sasha senses the exaggeration, rolling her eyes. “You’re so sweet, Tania-loo, but that’s impossible. I can’t be prettier than Beyoncé.”
Tania stumbles, trying to walk that back. “But I didn’t think we were counting Beyoncé.”
Sasha shakes her head. “You can’t not count Beyoncé. She was the most stunning bride ever, and likely will be until one of the royal boys marries.” Sasha looks to me. “Wouldn’t you say?”
I’d say there’s nothing I want more than to see a royal wedding. Unless it’s to be invited to a royal wedding. Or better yet, be hired for a royal wedding by a royal bride. Well, not true. I want Harry or William to invite me. Better yet—I want whoever their brides are to hire me.