This is what I get for having a one night stand.
Five years ago, Wyatt Dawson was the bad boy every girl wanted.
Now, that angsty dude is buried under posh suits and old money topped with a panty-melting killer grin that grabs me right in my girly parts like the lowest of blocks.
And I want it.
The money, not the killer grin or the girly-part grab.
Been there, done that.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not the kind of woman to use a guy for his money.
But I am the numbers girl who can talk circles around even the staunchest tightwad.
Give me ten minutes and I can sway a banker to loosen the tentacles on their dollars.
Especially when it means having something of my own.
Something to share for a lifetime with my sisters from the track.
Now, to convince the cocky Wyatt to ease his grip on the cash.
But keep a tight rein on his womb broom.
After all, he’s a rich cognac and I’m a trusty IPA.
Different worlds, different classes. And I’m cool with that.
Marty Hayes, in the defiantly glorious flesh.
Five years ago, the urge to flee vibrated off her in tumultuous waves the minute I told her I came from money.
Until that moment, we were one and the same.
Two people, neither of us satisfied with where we were, neither of us sure where we wanted to go.
Five years later and she seems to have figured it out.
Yet here I am, seemingly comfortable tethered to my family obligations, and still wishing I’d kept my mouth shut.
One look at the fire in her eyes when she lays out her risky loan proposal resurrects that seed of discontent I buried a long time ago.
The banker in me knows it’s high risk. She’s high risk.
The man in me, the one who can still taste Marty on the tip of his tongue, doesn’t care.
I wonder which one of us will come out on top.