Ellie from Love N Books.
Shawna from Behind the Writer.
Sarah Ferguson and Social Butterfly PR
All the bloggers who continue to make room for our books!
Heather and Angela for being (not so early) readers. One of these days we’ll be ahead of the game. LOL
All our early ARC readers.
And of course, all our unicorns. <3 Without you we wouldn’t be able to keep doing what we do. This industry becomes more challenging every day, but we push on because we have you in our corner shouting from the rooftops and encouraging other readers to try our work. <3
Be on the lookout for Happy Hour. As with the entire series, our hero, Roarke Baldwin has a lot of ground to make up if he wants to win Hannah Crowley’s heart! Should be interesting!
xo,
Piper & Rayne
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
© 2018 by Piper Rayne
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Cover design: RBA Designs
Line Editor: Gray Ink Editing
Proofreader: Shawna Gavas, Behind The Writer
The perfect man for her is the one she hates most. #gofigure
Dating is hard.
Dating in your thirties is even harder.
Dating in Chicago is harder still.
I haven't given up on finding my happily-ever-after, but in the age of swiping right and Netflix and chill, I'm wondering if everything is as temporary as my marriage turned out to be.
Truth is, there is one guy I can't get my mind off of.
Roarke Baldwin has salt and pepper hair I've dreamed of running my hands through and I'm pretty sure that if I checked he really does have a six pack of abs underneath his suit. And I've always wondered what that stubble on his face would feel like between my thighs.
The problem? He's the one man I hate more than my ex-husband…
His divorce attorney.
Chapter One
What are the worst four words to hear in the English language besides ‘we need to talk?’
‘We overbooked. You’re out.’
Especially six weeks before you’re hosting a gala to pop the cork on the new charitable foundation you started.
Normally, the buzz of the alcohol would’ve lifted my spirits, or at least let me have an ounce of optimism in this shitty situation. There has to be a venue in one of the largest cities in America that has availability on short notice. Weddings get canceled all the time. Not that I’m wishing a broken heart on anyone so I can steal their venue spot, but if I’m being cynical—and I’m speaking from experience here—it’s a lot better to never say I do, than to say it then have half your worldly possessions stolen from you in divorce court.
Let’s all be honest, love fogs up a sane mind more than a bottle of tequila on a Mexican beach. One minute you’re all ‘woohoo,’ licking salt and sucking back limes under a makeshift tiki hut poolside. The next you’re hunched over the trunk of a palm tree with your stomach rejecting the good times you promised.
Love’s bred from the same false high. Except the regret doesn’t always come on the same night. Sometimes it creeps up on you like a long night of drinking expensive champagne. You think you’re having a sweet time, drinking conservatively and keeping away from the hard stuff. Then you pass out on the way home to wake up wondering what the hell you did and where the damn Advil is.
My experience with marriage was the latter.
I’d known Todd my entire life. Grown up with him from our first week at Montessori school together. He chased me around the playground and gave me a locket in the first grade. He asked me to the carnival in third grade. I wouldn’t call what we had kismet. Half the time he annoyed me, but he was kind and considerate. A good guy. Before walking down the aisle, I convinced myself that passion and spontaneity were overrated.
The fact that I predicted his proposal down to the month he bent down on one knee in a public setting proved I was constantly one step ahead of him. If it weren’t for his cheating dick, maybe I would’ve still believed that marriage wasn’t boring and redundant.
“Another round ladies.” Lincoln, our usual waiter at the speakeasy I’m a member of, Torrio’s Table, delivers another round of Vespers for my co-workers and me.
“I know he’s young but damn.” Chelsea’s gaze follows his ass as he walks away.
I admire too, because Lincoln is easy on the eyes. Not even a nun could argue that.
“I’m sure Dean would love to hear that.”
Chelsea sweetly smiles over at Victoria. “You can act like you’re not looking, mama saint, but you’re not fooling anyone. Not to mention, me looking doesn’t mean he holds a candle to my man.”
Both my employees recently found new men in their lives. They’re both willing to give love another try, believing that fate’s GPS somehow steered them wrong the first time with their failed marriages. Well, in Chelsea’s case she just sort of looped back to her ex-husband.
Are they happy?
Definitely.
Will it work out?
I don’t know.
I hope it does.
But I’ve been where they are. Sex until dawn and breakfast in bed. Scary how fast things pivot to masturbation and grabbing a banana while waiting for your Starbucks.
I hope they both have happily ever afters, but right now, I need them to get out of la-la land and find me a venue.
“I have no idea what to do. It’s July. Invitations have been printed which means I have to get them reprinted, but I don’t even have an address. Girls, we need to brainstorm.” I twirl the glass by the stem between my finger and thumb.
“We’ll figure something out.” Victoria’s sweet gaze lands on me.
The door opens into the secluded room and my worst nightmare saunters in with that cocky ass grin on his face. “As if I need anything else bad tonight.”
Chelsea spots the guy she thinks has been soaking my panties for the last few months, turning back my way, smirking.
“Ignore him.” Victoria squeezes my forearm. She’s the sane one out of the two of them.
Roarke Baldwin swaggers across the room and nods and waves to some other patrons like he’s running for fucking Congress. I’m still waiting for an answer from management on how he got his membership to Torrio’s. Before my divorce, he was never here.
His gaze remains on me the entire time he passes our table.
I let a breath leave my lungs once he clears my vision without stopping. Until I feel movement in the booth behind me across my back, alerting me that he can hear our conversation. Chelsea’s eyes stay on the back of his head, confirming my thoughts.