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Overnight Service (Always Satisfied #4)
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Top three reasons why sleeping with the enemy is a bad idea…
1. She’s my fiercest rival.
And yet, I’d like to be up against the wall in a stiff competition to get her to call out my name.
Time to double down on my resistance to her tough-as-nails, take-no-prisoners, sexy-as-sin attitude. The same attitude that I find irresistible.
That’s the big problem, because in this race to nab the client I run into Haven in the hotel, on the beach, in the guest quarters late at night.
Hate sex would be a terrible idea.
Except, it’s the complete opposite, and now we can’t keep our hands off each other.
Trouble is, I’m not so sure it’s hate I’m feeling anymore.
And that’s the biggest reason sleeping with the enemy you’re falling for is a bad idea — my job literally depends on never letting her into my heart.
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Show of hands: sleeping with the enemy—good idea or bad idea?
Wait. Don’t answer that.
I know it’s a motherfucking terrible idea.
As in, shut it down, zip it up, turn around, and run.
Do not pass Go, just run as fast as you can.
Because enemies are enemies for a reason. For all the reasons.
But remembering that can be challenging.
Especially when some enemies are so damn good at tricking you into bending rules until they break one night in her hotel room.
Fine, fine. Maybe going to her room was my first mistake if I wanted to keep her far away.
And I absolutely do.
I have to.
That’s why I’ve laid down a new set of rules for this one foe in particular.
One gorgeous, brilliant, too-seductive-for-my-own-good archenemy.
This is how it needs to be:
Don’t be distracted by her sassy, fiery mouth.
Don’t get waylaid by her sexy-as-sin attitude.
And definitely don’t lose your focus over that absolutely alluring voice; tight, toned body; or long, lush hair.
Enemies can wear all sorts of faces. Mine is disguised as the woman I’m most attracted to in . . . oh, say, the entire fucking universe.
That’s real helpful.
I need autoplay in my brain to remind me: she’s stolen clients, she’s stolen business, and the woman has tried—oh hell, did she ever try—to steal my heart.
But that? I won’t let that happen.
She’s not only the enemy. She’s my toughest competition and my fiercest rival. That means I won’t give in again. I can’t give in another time.
I’ve got the arsenal to resist her. My strategies are finely tested, my approach sharpened. I don’t budge an inch. I don’t play nice. And I don’t let her know how she affects me.
I am iron around her.
Now, a potential client throws out the playbook, and I have to devise a whole new strategy. Because it looks like I’ll be eating, sleeping, and breathing the same goddamn air as the enemy for the next week.
All I have to do is keep my eye on the prize.
And I do, until the night the game changes.
There’s a first time for everything.
Today, it’s for tassels.
I am wearing tassels and rocking a look a few buddies picked out for me: long, golden hair; a luau skirt; and the tassels strategically attached to seashells . . . on my chest.
Fine. It’s a bra. Okay? I’m wearing a seashell bra.
And I’m owning it as I stride down the concourse at Yankee Stadium, along the third baseline. Not going to lie—I’m getting a lot of looks.
Not the New York seen-it-all-before glance, but the whip-the-head-around, is-he-really-wearing-that gawk.
“The votes are in, and it’s unanimous—I am undeniably delectable,” I say to Ford and Viviana, the assholes responsible for picking my clothes. If you can even call this attire clothes. More like strings and doodads.
Viviana slides into full-on faux fashionista mode, setting a long, manicured fingernail against her lips and sidebarring to her husband. “He’s definitely wearing it well, but it’s sooooo 2016, now that I see the ensemble in person. Maybe he needs to wear strappy sandals instead of those flip-flops. What do you think?”
Ford shakes his head. “No way, honey bunny. This getup—a trend I’m going to call ‘embarrass the hell out of your friend’—is always in fashion.”
I hold out my arms, turning in a circle outside a memorabilia stand peddling signed jerseys. “He’s right. You can never go wrong with ‘the dickheads at my office dressed me up’ look.”
Viviana clasps a hand to her chest. “Aww. You called me a dickhead. I’m so honored.”
“You’ve always been a dickhead, Viv,” I say.
Ford arches a brow. “That’s my woman you’re talking smack about.”
“Your woman who I introduced you to. So I believe you meant to say, ‘That’s my woman you’re talking smack about, and thank you for the millionth time for hooking me up with the love of my life.’”
Ford seems to consider this for a moment as we wind our way past a pretzel vendor. “True. I do owe you.”
Viviana nudges him. “But today, Josh owes us.” She turns to me, her green eyes chiding. “You are seriously the worst at bets.”
I shrug, hakuna-matata style. “And I have zero complaints,” I say as we scan the stadium’s aisle numbers, finding our section. Per the rules of today’s hula-girl-meets-a-mermaid look, I bought tickets like a civilian for this game, though I could easily have pretty much any box seat in the house. But the purpose of the bet was to have as many people as possible witness my public embarrassment here at the Yankees’ first game against the Red Sox this season.
Viviana rubs her palms together then flicks her blonde ponytail off her shoulder. “Maybe we can get the Jumbotron to capture a shot of Josh looking so stylish and sexy.”
Ford’s eyes light up. “Yes, let’s go make a deal with the board operator right now.”
I tilt my head in an “aw shucks, guys” false modesty, clasp my hands over my seashell covered heart, and gush, “Aww. You guys are so sweet, trying to embarrass me in front of fifty thousand people. But nothing can get me down today. Not even a shot of moi up on the screen looking fabulous.”