Two Wrongs (Love Always Finds A Way #1) Read Online Dani Wyatt

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Insta-Love Tags Authors: Series: Love Always Finds A Way Series by Dani Wyatt

Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)

Grumpy and sworn off love, this hot shot divorce attorney never expected a second chance with the curvy brunette that holds his career in her hands.

Ending marriages has been my life’s focus. I’m an expensive, pay-by-the minute legal predator for my clients wishing to end their former happily ever afters. The work suits me and until I saw the little pin-up princess in the red dress sitting at the bar, I never thought I’d find mine.

As soon as I get eyes on her, I put a period end of the world’s worst blind date and watch her eat a panna cotta like It’s changing her life.

What she doesn’t know is she’s changing mine.

Unfortunately, this brazen beauty disappears before I can secure her into my life or even find out her name. Enter fate. When I walk into my mandatory anger management training the next day, guess who’s calling the shots?

Soon, I’ll be the one with my hands on her and this time, I’ll make sure she doesn’t get away.

Unless, a mysterious vengeful enemy takes away my happily ever after before it begins.

Author’s This over-the-top alpha goes to some extreme lengths to make sure his little retro future bride doesn’t give him the slip a second time. His methods may be less than legal, but he’s full-on focused on the end game. Getting her in his bed, tied to him in every way possible before she can even think of slipping away. Safe, no cheating ever and a happily ever after at the speed of light.

Get in on the first book in the LOVE ALWAYS FINDS A WAY series! This is Tor, the oldest brother’s story. These are short, sultry, summer treats. Enjoy!

Previously published under the same title. This book has been re-edited, additional content added and re-written in some portions but the storyline remains the same.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

Chapter One


Two things in this world excite me.


And not losing.

I’m a single-minded predator who takes no prisoners. I’m not there to bring people together. I’m there to bulldoze proceedings, blow up precedent, and exploit every fucking weakness.

I come at every divorce case like an angry grizzly bear.

The job itself sucks. But the winning? Does not.

I’m driven to right the wrongs of the past, without caring who gets destroyed in the process.

Ninety-nine percent of my clients are women, by my own choice. I like women. And I like fucking over the men who made their lives hell. That’s not to say some of my female clients aren’t equal contributing factors in the demise of their marriages. I’ve just spun my business model in their direction, so they tend to be the ones that seek me out.

I’m a pain in the ass to work with. I know that.

My insane drive to come out on top has made me a shitty colleague. I see it on the faces of the paralegals, assistants, interns, opposing counsel, admins. Fear, mostly.

As managing partner of Hicks, Saman and Blunt, I’m supposed to be setting an example, but turns out I suck at setting examples, except when it comes to my case record. There, I’m on top. Always.

But as for the rest of it? The protocols and politeness and all that shit?

Let’s just say, there have been… complaints. A lot of them. HR hates my guts. And now, after the fifth anonymous complaint called in to our bullshit “Speak Up” program, some cream-centered staff member is fucking with my time.

I’m stuck wasting half my day tomorrow sitting in on an Intensive Anger Management Training session.


I agreed, in order to appease the HR gods at their altar of three-ring binders. I agreed to avoid a potential lawsuit, and trouble with the bar association should things get worse. I agreed to the lesser pain to avoid the bigger one.

But it’s gonna be such bullshit.

Tomorrow, my anger will be managed. Or elevated.

I’m betting on the latter.

Because, in order to appease another God, named Gran, I agreed to go on a blind date tonight.

More bullshit.

I’m in a genuinely shitty mood as I bring the white porcelain cup of steaming Turkish coffee to my lips and glance at the wall where an image of a pepperoni pizza doubles as a clock.

At least I made the date at my sister’s restaurant, so I know the food will be good.

The sous chef chopping on the stainless-steel counter sounds like the rat-tat-tat of a machine gun.

“This is a fucking waste of time,” I mutter as I stare at the clock hands, willing them to go faster. The sooner the time comes, the sooner I can duck out and get back to my life.

How many grandsons have given up a perfectly good evening alone to go on a blind date, just because their grandmother is a master manipulator?

If she thinks there’s any chance I’ll find a wife in the deal, she’s all wrong. She thinks at thirty-six years old, I should have this marriage and family deal worked out, but it’s never been my focus and I doubt it ever will be.

“Tor!” My brother’s voice mixes with the sounds of the busy kitchen.

Cyrus is two years younger and practically my twin, except he got my dad’s dark, soulless eyes while I lucked out with my mother’s. He wins the height contest by just an inch at 6’6”, but I’ve got him on weight by about twenty pounds. And I’m marginally, fractionally prettier, which isn’t saying much because we’re both sporting ill-healed broken noses from our teen years and Cro-Magnon foreheads.

You won’t see us on the cover of GQ, that’s for sure.

I shoot him a glare as I set down my coffee. He throws up his hands, coming through the kitchen with an exasperated smirk.

“Do me a favor. Go start a grease fire. Then I could get out of this motherfucking date.”

He chuckles with a merciless twinkle in his eyes. He’s been busting my balls since the first day he could talk. “Gran would never forgive you. Besides, better you than me, bro. You’re the oldest, so you’re up first.”

“Fuck.” I run a hand over my head to the back of my neck and grip the rock-hard muscle, trying to unknot the tension. “She serves up guilt like Mike Tyson’s left hook.”

He screws up his face, turning over one hand as if to say, ‘Yeah, so? What’s new?’.

“Don’t be so mean, you two. She just wants you to be happy.” My sister Sophia’s sarcastic contribution chimes from over my shoulder.

“I am fucking happy,” I grouse, wondering why everyone is so goddamn interested in my happiness when I am fucking, goddamn happy.

Sophia marches our way from behind the pass, slipping a pen into the sleeve pocket of her chef’s jacket, her ink-black hair piled on top of her head in a chaotic disaster of a bun.