Category: giveaway

Amazon
* Apple

* B&N

* Google
* Kobo

 

 

Website
* Facebook *
Twitter * Instagram
* Amazon* Goodreads

Chapter 1

You can leave your clothes on the chair was the last thing Letty Gonzalez expected to hear on
her first day of a new job. When she’d been rather forcefully thrust into starting her own
business, she’d had no idea that nudity would be involved. If so, she’d started the wrong kind of
business. That was more her sister, Elena-the-swimsuit-model’s area of expertise.
Perhaps she was in the wrong place? She’d double-checked the address her new—and
first—client had sent her via e-mail. But maybe she should have had a phone conversation with
the guy first. If so, she would have known that his voice was so deep and angry sounding that it
would send a jolt of electricity straight from her ears into her girl parts. More importantly, she’d
have realized that this wasn’t a run-of-the-mill personal assistant or organizational job—that
sexual favors would have been expected.
“I’m not—um—that’s not what—I think there’s been some confusion.” Her mouth was so dry.
Why was this giant warehouse space in the design district the one place in Miami with no
humidity? And, dear God, why was it so hot? She was glad she hadn’t worn a white blouse,
because it would be pitted out right now.
Everything was hot and dry, except for in her underwear, because her client was insanely
good-looking.
“What’s confusing?” The man sitting on a stool behind a table hadn’t even looked up at her;
he’d just barked at her to enter and told her to get naked. Letty had never had to resort to sex
work to make ends meet—at least not yet—but she wondered if all hooking was this impersonal.
“Take off your clothes and get your ass on the platform.”
“I mean—”
He made an impatient noise through his teeth. Sort of like a growl mixed with a sigh. He
rubbed his temples with the thumb and forefinger on one of his large hands. That’s when she
noticed the bottle of bourbon sitting next to him. And the two fingers of amber liquid in a glass
right next to that.
And the question took her completely off guard. No one was ever aching for her to take off her
clothes, even if that was what she wanted. If they’d met under different circumstances—like at a
bar—she would have fantasized about taking off her clothes for this guy. But, if they were at a
bar, he might totally ignore her, and be demanding that someone who looked more like her big
sister take off her clothes.
The idea that she’d want that with anyone right now—especially someone she worked
with—shocked her almost as much as his sexy voice had. Although she’d spent a lot of time
around artists, they weren’t really her type. Too fucking broody. She was a happy-go-lucky kind
of girl, and someone cutting her mood off at the knees with his constant existential dread was not
something she looked for in a partner. Not that her choice in partners was great anyhow.
Her last choice had been the least winning of all, and he was only art industry-adjacent.
Another reason why she shouldn’t be attracted to her only client so far; getting involved with her
old boss had completely destroyed the life she’d built independent of her parents. And the kicker

was that Simon had been more interested in her parents’ connections than he ever had been in
her—or at least their money. It all would have been much easier had he skipped pretending to
want to be her boyfriend and just asked for access to her parents’ checkbook.
Diana and Carlos Gonzalez were such social climbers that they would have opened up the
coffers without Simon having “lower himself” to date Letty. The shame of him saying those
words washed over her and made it even less likely that she would follow through with this
getting naked with her new boss thing.
No matter how much her girl parts responded to the growly sculptor in front of her.
But a nun would find this guy nearly impossible to resist. Between the shaggy dark hair, the T-
shirt straining muscles of his torso, and the denim-testing legs spread wide, it would take a saint
not to want to slide right in there and put her mouth against his.
She squeezed the strap of her bag with her right hand and wiped the sweaty left palm on her
jeans. The e-mail arranging for the job had indicated that the work might be physical, but she’d
thought it was mostly clean-up and organization.
“You’ve never done this before?” Finally, he looked at her. His green eyes made the cement
floor underneath her dip and sway. They should make a paint color out of that bright, clear green.
She’d seen a couple of pictures of him while doing research to make sure that she wasn’t
showing up at the den of a serial killer. Part of her evergreen efforts to stay sexy and not get
murdered. Of course, after she’d said yes to the job, she’d done a deep Google dive. And an
image search. He was an up-and-coming-sculptor from a local Cuban-American family. But a
photograph couldn’t depict the pure impact of being in the room with him. She couldn’t even
hold his gaze, instead looking at his forearms. Mistake. Thick and roped with muscle from
working clay and other media into abstract figure sculptures, they made her wonder what it
would be like to have him touch her. She wondered what his blunt fingertips would do to her
flesh, the dents it would make on her thighs.
Although she should have walked out the door as soon as he’d told her to take off her clothes,
her feet seemed glued to the swaying floor. “I’m not here for sex.”
His face contorted in confusion. “Of course not.”
“But the clothes?”
“You’re here to model, right?”
A semi-hysterical laugh escaped her mouth before she could stop it. This whole interaction had
been surreal. The idea that—for even a second—this perfect specimen of man would hire her to
have sex with him was ludicrous.
The idea that she’d nude model was even more farfetched. The only times she’d gotten naked
with anyone else in the room, they’d hadn’t seen her. Her college boyfriend hadn’t questioned
her preference to get busy in the dark. And Simon had preferred sex in the dark, especially
since—as he’d shared when breaking up with her—he apparently couldn’t stomach her stomach
rolls. So, the idea that anyone would want to look at any kind of rendering of her—no matter
how abstract—in a gallery or in their home made another crazed giggle bubble up in her throat.
“You’re not here from the agency, are you?”
She shook her head. Under his gaze, even the brush of her hair against the bare skin where the
sleeve of her top ended registered as sensual. With him looking at her, she could feel everything
in a way she’d never experienced.
Definitely not with Simon.
Thinking of her former lover and former boss doused the tingling sensations aroused by Max
all at once. It wouldn’t do to forget that she was out of a job, becoming an entrepreneur, and

close to the end of her savings account. If this didn’t work, she’d have to beg her parents for
help. Or—shudder—move back into their mausoleum of a house.
Maybe she could get over her embarrassment about her body and do what he asked. Just this
once. No one would ever recognize her.
Still, she needed to tell the truth. Too many lies had landed her in this tough spot. “No. I’m
here to organize for you.”
Another confused look.
“You e-mailed my company.” She motioned around the cluttered warehouse studio. “You said
you needed someone to get all your ‘stuff under control.’”
His jaw flexed underneath his thick, black beard. It was an angry gesture, but there was
something so primal about this man that it turned her on. “I didn’t e-mail your company. I’m
organized just fine.”
Her stomach dropped through the cement floor to the pits of hell. Without a reference from
Simon, she’d been blackballed from every gallery in the city. No one was going to hire her on if
the executive director of Art Basel refused to give her a reference. Never mind that it was his
inattention and philandering that had lost them a couple of large sponsorships last year. No one
would believe her. She was a nobody, and her parents were considered tacky.
If she’d just been able to establish herself as a competent personal assistant and professional
organizer—sort of a Girl Friday—for a few local artists, she might have been able to repair her
reputation enough to get a real job. Her plan as soon as she’d gotten the e-mail from Max, or
apparently someone posing as him, had been to parlay working with him to working with his
cousin’s new wife, Maya Pascual-Hernandez. With two clients, she would have been able to get
back into a respectable gallery.
But, this was all just a joke. Max’s bewilderment at her presence meant that someone had
posed as him just to fuck with her. Maybe Simon? But she couldn’t fathom him being that cruel,
not even after what he’d done to her.
Hot tears threatened to flow down her face, but she rolled her shoulders back and pushed the
tears away. She looked down to reach into her purse. The most hopeful scenario was that he’d
forgotten sending the e-mail. In her experience, creative types sometimes got so lost in the work
that things like e-mails didn’t register.
And Max Delgado didn’t even have a website. She could only pray that he was forgetful as
well as a troglodyte.
She quickly scrolled through the e-mail on her phone, found his last message, and walked
toward him, noticing him reaching for his whiskey glass and stiffening his spine as she
approached. Had her whole plan for getting her life back on track not been crumbling around her
ears, she would have giggled again. The idea that a man taller than her, who probably—in a
surprise twist—weighed more than her, would shrink away when she walked toward him was as
laughable as anything that had happened today. He was probably sure she was going to kiss him.
“I just want to show you the e-mail.”
He grimaced. “I told you. I didn’t send an e-mail.”
“Yes, you did.” Her mother had always told her that her stubborn streak would get her into
trouble, but today it was going to save her. She had receipts and he was going to listen to her.
Shaking her phone at him. “Here, read it.”
Given no other choice, he glanced at the phone and read the short confirmation e-mail he’d
sent yesterday. “I didn’t send this.”

“So, someone hacked you and hired someone to help you clean up your studio and design a
website?” That was almost as unbelievable as someone thinking that she should be a model.
“No. Not someone.”
“What are you talking about?” It was though they were speaking an entirely different
language. Even though his speech revealed a subtle accent, something that made the cadence of
his voice all the more appealing, she could understand his words, just not their meaning.
He made the growling sigh again and pushed her phone back into her hands, careful not to
touch her. Somehow, the disappointment of that sunk in even though her panic was near total.
“My grandmother.”

Followthe tour HEREfor exclusive content and a giveaway!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Wyatt Thorne was sotraumatized by his mother’s abandonment he didn’t speak until he
was six. At 26, he’s still the quiet type—strong and silent, most
comfortable with a hammer in his hand and work to do. But the
reassuring rhythm of his life is interrupted when his brother Beckett
decides to pay forward their unused office space to a needy start-up.
Enter Rhia Hollis, flighty, impulsive, and outspoken—everything
that drives Wyatt crazy. Only this time in the sexiest, most
irresistible way . . .

Rhia is determined to
disprove her reckless, party girl image by making her new company,
Seize the Day, the premier event planning firm in Raleigh. She has
big dreams, and the Thornes’ offer of a free command center is a
huge help. But Wyatt’s gruff, stubborn resistance to her presence
is an annoying hindrance. They’re as different as night and day,
yet when they begin to meet in the middle, the sparks fly hot. Is
this a case of opposites distract—or the beginning of a beautiful
long-term project? . . .

Amazon* Apple
* B&N
* Google
* Kobo

Rhia
“Uh oh.”
“No. No ‘uh oh.’ You swore on your stack of Scientific Americans that this time your
experiment would be fine. You assured me this trial had zero chance of failure.” Steph had also
pulled the older sister guilt trip on me. Don’t be a baby, Rhia. Besides, you owe me for helping
you pass organic chem in college.
“Just because you’re showing signs of anaphylaxis, doesn’t mean my experiment is a
failure.” She frowned as she examined my face.
“Anaphylaxis? Don’t forget we had a deal. I agreed to help you if we swung by the
Business Expo after. It closes in an hour, and I need to go apply for the ‘Pay it Forward’ grant.
Today’s the last day for applications.”
“Why in the world did you wait until the last day?” Of course, I got the older sister
eyebrow quirk from her. Because my sister, Steph, my whole family really, had no idea what it
was like to second guess yourself. They came into the world with confidence, an agenda, and a
to-do list.
“I wasn’t sure if I was ready to make that big of a commitment.” That was a lie. I was so
ready to jump at the next step in my new business endeavor. What took so long was tackling my
inner doubts first. And getting past all the doubts of my family.
“I don’t think you know what commitment is, Rhia. You only stuck out teaching
English, what? Two years?”
See what I mean? I taught for two long years. In college, I’d kept my options open with a
double major in business and English, but I tried my hand at teaching first. Turned out I wasn’t
made for teaching. I fell for every excuse my students gave me. I was a sucker for a sob story.
And once the kids figured that out, I lost control of the classroom.
I didn’t let myself get discouraged, though. No, ma’am. Instead of wallowing in my
failure, I remembered I was the “go-to” person in my sorority for planning all the parties and
events. In fact, I was the Event Planning Chair for two years running.
That’s how I came up with the idea of starting my event planning business, Seize the
Day. I felt good about it. Like maybe I’d finally found something I could succeed at and feel
passionate about. Just like the rest of my family. I was excited and inspired. Until I ran the
numbers.
“You should have majored in one of the sciences like the rest of us,” Steph said while she
jotted something down on her clipboard. She set her paperwork aside and moved up close to peer
into my eyes. “Your pupils look normal. Maybe if you’d gone into a STEM program, you’d be
employed right now.”
Or maybe not. “You do remember those agonizing hours of organic chem tutoring, don’t
you?”
Steph winced at the memory. “Painfully so, but there were science degrees that didn’t
require organic chem. Plenty of less rigorous programs even you could have managed.”
Even you. I only flinched a little at that. I knew my sister hadn’t meant it as an insult. It
was simply a fact in my family.
“Besides, I do so have a job. I’m self-employed.”
The long-standing joke that I was adopted stopped being funny by middle school when my
average grades became a source of friction in the family. If only you’d apply yourself, Rhia. Ifonly you’d try harder, Rhia. Rhia, stop daydreaming and focus. Oh, I tried. But my brain simply
wasn’t wired like the rest of the Hollis clan.
So, no, I’d never really fit in with my brilliant family. But that hadn’t stopped me from
trying. I was tired of disappointing everyone. Especially myself. That’s why I was determined to
make my event planning business a success.
“How’s your airway?” Steph placed her fingers on my wrist and glanced at her watch.
“Breathing feel okay?”
Was my breathing okay? My family always told me I was overly dramatic, but I don’t
know, maybe my throat did feel a little closed up. I swallowed to check. No. My throat felt fine.
Must be that whole power of suggestion thing.
“I thing I’m othay.” Wait, what? That didn’t come out right. Probably because my
tongue suddenly felt too big for my mouth.
“Uh oh. Open your mouth and stick out your tongue.” My sister’s face slid into her
serious scientist expression, and she spoke into her mini handheld recorder. “Test subject number
one is showing signs of glossitis and uticaria—one-inch diameter, bright red with a pale center.”
“Whath’s glossithith and uthitharia?” Dammit. My speech slurred even worse. And my
head felt like it had last New Year’s Eve when I’d imbibed too much champagne. A giggle
escaped past my thick tongue. Ha! Imbibed. “Imbibed ith a funny word, don’t you thinth?”
“Test subject is showing signs of slurred speech. Possible intoxication.” She clicked off
her recorder and peered closer at my face. “Still breathing okay?”
“Yeth but I’m ithy.” I scratched a spot on my cheek and then noticed the same feeling on
my forearms. I held my arms out in front of me to look. “Yithes! I’m going to thill you,
Sthephanie. You promithed I’d be fine thith time. Promithed!”
“Apparently, I miscalculated on the formula. This is a great data set.” She spoke into her
recorder again with way too much excitement. “Decrease amylase dehydrate by fifty percent for
second set of trials.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. Except, I only had to narrow one eye because the other was
already half swollen shut. “Fixth thith.”
“Right.” She searched through the drawer in her desk, coming up with a bottle of
Benadryl. After shaking two out, she slapped them in my hand and handed me a bottle of water.
“Take these. You’ll be back to normal in six to eight hours.”
Six to eight hours? I glared at her with my one good eye. And I kept on glaring at her as I
swallowed down the antihistamines. I could kill my sister and hide the body somewhere here in
her lab, but I needed her to drive me to the expo, since I didn’t trust driving under the influence
of both whatever she tested on me and antihistamines. Plus, I loved her, dammit.
I picked my purse up from the top of a stainless steel storage bench with a sign Warning:
Radioactive Waste Only and snatched out my phone and car keys. I tossed the keys over to
Steph, catching her by surprise so that she juggled them before having them firmly in her grasp.
Then I texted her, since my tongue now felt incapable of forming any actual words.
We need to head to the expo. Now. Before the Benadryl knocks me out.
“Or before you blow up like a polka-dotted puffer fish.”
I texted an angry smiley face emoji to stress my pissed off-ness in case my swollen eye
and hives was disguising how upset I was with her. Although I should have known better. It was
only a few months ago when the last trial she’d guilted me into had fried my taste buds.
Everything had tasted like cardboard for a week.

“Okay, let’s go. And don’t give me that face.” She pointed at me as we exited the
building. “We’ll make it in plenty of time for you to fill out the application and make a good
impression.”
“A good imprethon?” It was my turn to give her the raised eyebrow, because I sounded
like a drunk with a lisp. As soon as I let myself into the passenger seat and buckled in, I flipped
down the visor to look at the damage.
“Ack!” The face staring back at me had leprosy. Or the plague. Or sadly and too true to
be funny: I looked like I’d been created in a lab by a mad scientist. Just like Frankenstein.
I sent a text to myself. Stop saying yes to family.
And then I pulled out my concealer and did the best I could trying to cover the bright red
hives on my face and neck. When we parked at the Raleigh Convention Center, I made Steph
trade shirts with me, since hers was long-sleeved and covered the hives on my arms.
“I don’t like putting on a strip show for any perv walking by, Rhia.” Steph grumbled but
complied, giving my shirt a disgusted loook before pulling it on. “Honestly, your wardrobe looks
like the result of a sheep mating with a box of neon crayons.”
I might have rolled my eyes while I slipped on my sister’s neutral beige blouse. First,
because that didn’t even make sense. Second, what was wrong with liking color? Bright colors
made me happy. Except of course these bright red hives. Those made me unhappy. And very,
very itchy.
Okay, yes, this situation was less than ideal. I’d done my research on Six Brothers
Construction, the company offering the free office space for a year, and had planned on talking
with them for a few minutes to highlight my passionate, goal-oriented, future-focused, tech-
savvy personality. (All qualities listed in the book, Entrepreneur to Mogul in 37 Easy Steps.)
“Let’s go, Rhia. You have five minutes to fill out the application, and then we’re out of
here.” Steph slammed the door and beeped the locks behind us. “I’d like to get out of here before
someone sees me looking like My Little Pony threw up on my shirt.”
Like the necessity for swapping shirts was my fault? I seriously contemplated knocking
my sister over the head and pushing her into one of the display model Jacuzzis usually set up at
these shows. I’d pick one without water of course. The fact that I might need her to speak for me
if they asked any questions helped me stifle that impulse. Barely.
“Fine. Leth’s do thith.” My eye was swollen shut, the full body hives itched like I was
wearing fabric woven from poison ivy, and my tongue was still unable to form words discernable
to a human ear. It was fair to say my confidence about getting this grant had decreased by about
a thousand percent in the last hour.
Steph grimaced, her eyes avoiding mine. “It’ll be fine. Just fill out the form. I’ll do the
talking if they have any questions. What kind of business is it again?”
Wonderful.
Once inside the building, we rode the escalators up to the exhibit space. It was packed
with every trade in the building industry pimping their wares like a modern-day bazaar. Rows
upon rows, booths laid out into a giant maze throughout the immense space. There were home
builders, interior decorators, garage door suppliers, roofers asking passersby how old their
shingles were and were they interested in a low-maintenance, metal roof.
I brought up the map of the business expo on my phone to locate the SBC booth. Left
side, halfway down over in the general contractor section. Jerking my head to direct Steph to the
left, I maneuvered through the press of people in search of the lifeline I needed to secure my
future.

Followthe tour HEREfor exclusive content and a giveaway!

a Rafflecopter giveaway