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Ashlee Price

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What have I got myself into this time!?
Agreeing to being auctioned off at the Ambrosia Club.
Desperate for money and for hope.
Luckily, Gavin Scotsfeld can give me both.

He’s cold. Ruthless. And crazy rich.
He’ll do anything to get what he wants and protect what is his.
I’m not supposed to fall in love with him.
But I melt more with each touch and I come alive with every kiss.
I’m definitely under his spell.
I’m also blind to his secrets.
Secrets that I’m discovering could destroy me.
He isn’t aware that I have a big surprise of my own.
I’m carrying his baby.

What happens when I tell him that he’s the father?

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Ashlee Price Books

Chapter One


The mason jar slips from my fingers and shatters on the floor. Drops of melted whipped cream and strawberry shake splatter on my stockings. The rest puddles beneath the ice cubes and glass shards and starts flowing through the gaps between the tiles.


I kneel beside the mess to clean it up as fast as I can. Not fast enough. Footsteps thud into the kitchen. Seconds later, the sole of a black loafer crushes a fragment of glass as a wide shadow looms over me.

I look up to see Ron, the restaurant manager, with a frown sitting over his double chin. His eyes, which are narrow enough even when he’s not in a bad mood, have almost disappeared into their folds now, and yet I can still see the disappointment in them. His arms are crossed over his chest. Thick fingers tap his elbows.

I give him a sheepish grin. “Sorry?”

“That will come out of your pay,” he tells me sternly. “Just like that saucer you broke last week and the prawns you dropped the week before.”

How nice of him to remind me. I still think that broken saucer was the customer’s fault. I wouldn’t have dropped it if his arm hadn’t hit me. As for the prawns, the chef shouldn’t have put them so close to the edge of the plate, especially not when they were dredged in that buttery sauce. For this glass, however, I can’t think of an excuse. Maybe I had oil on my fingers from that pasta bowl I picked up before? Or my hand still hasn’t fully recovered and my fingers suddenly felt weak? Not that any excuse will help.

I lower my head. “Yes, sir.”

It’s all I can say.

“And hurry up with the cleaning so you can get back to work. I’m not paying you to be on your knees.”

With a snort, he turns on his heel. I quickly pick up the shards and gather them in my apron. Mandy, a fellow waitress, kneels beside me and starts to soak up the puddle with a rag.

“I’m fine. You should get back to work,” I tell her as I watch Ron step out of the kitchen. “Or you’ll get on Ron’s bad side, too.”

“I’m already on his bad side, remember?” She picks up the ice cubes.

If she’s talking about that incident last week when Ron tried to throw away her lipstick because he said she was spending too much time reapplying it in front of the shiny fridge door- tried but failed because Mandy pried it away from his fingers and scratched him with one of her perfectly square nails in the process- then yes, I remember.

She dumps the ice cubes into the sink and shrugs. “Frankly, I think we all are.”

And I can’t dispute that, because I’ve never seen Ron praise any of the staff. To be honest, I don’t know how he ended up being a manager.

“Besides,” Mandy adds. “I’m not scared of him.”

Neither am I, but I can’t afford to be jobless right now.

I empty my apron into the bin. “You don’t seem to be scared of anything.”

“Not true.” She puts up a finger. “I’m scared of dying and being put in a coffin… wearing bad lipstick.”

Mandy brandishes her scarlet stick and turns to the fridge door.

I grin. Of course she is.

“Or breaking one of my nails.” She glances at them. “Once, I was scared, too, when I was on this date with this hunk who looked like Channing Tatum. I desperately wanted to have sex with him, so all through dinner, I kept hoping I wouldn’t get my period, because I was due.”

My eyebrows go up. “Okay.”

“I didn’t, but I was fucking scared.”

I’m not sure she understands what fear really is.

Mandy looks at me. “Have you ever felt that way?”

I scratch my cheek. “Well, there was one time I was worried I’d get my period because I forget to bring a tampon with me, but- ”

“Not that, silly.” She comes closer and rests her elbow on my shoulder. “I mean have you ever looked at a man and just had this urge to rip his clothes off? Like you couldn’t wait for the two of you to be alone so you could have your hands all over him, have his hands all over you, have him inside you? Hell, you’d have sex with him then and there if you could, if he wanted, because your brain is so muddled you don’t care what other people think.”

“No,” I answer nonchalantly.

I’ve never been alone with a man, not unless you count a short trip in an elevator with a stranger. I’ve never gone on a date, never been kissed. I was too busy studying and doing gymnastics at school, too busy with chores at home because even when my mother was still around, she was usually too tired to do them. Fun was a luxury I rarely had. Romance? Never.

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