by Alexis James
Copyright ©2017 by Alexis James. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
First Edition First Printing
Cover: Cover To Cover Designs
Editor: Maxann Dobson, Polished Pen
Formatter: Champagne Formats
ISBN: 978-0-9980618-3-2
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other books by Alexis James
For Mark.
My best friend. My forever.
I love you.
“Are all the guys who work here hot?”
I quickly get to my feet. The sultry and all too sexy voice behind me is like my own personal cat nip. I give the brunette a thorough once-over, then do it again because once really wasn’t enough. Between her knockout curves, fantastic rack, and a face most men only dream of, I’m putty in her hands. If the blush tinting her face is any indication, it’s fair to say she’s having a similar reaction to me.
My good friend Mia, who happens to be the on-again, off-again girlfriend of my older brother Cruz, as well as his assistant for our family-owned company, chimes up and breaks through the hot, sexual chemistry with an introduction. “Marco, this is my best friend, Amita Morales. Amita, this is Marco Moran. He’s the CFO here at The Moran Group.”
Amita rolls her sultry brown eyes over me once more. She reaches out her hand and murmurs, “Mr. Moran.”
It’s like sticking my finger in a light socket when I take her hand in mine. The zing of energy that races through me from her touch is tangible. She’s no longer blushing but her eyes widen expressively and she blinks rapidly, telling me she’s feeling the exact same thing based on her semi-shocked look.
“Miss Morales.”
Mia hops to her feet and interrupts us again. “…you need me to let him know you’re here?” I vaguely hear something that sounds like words, but I’m so damn transfixed by this woman standing in front of me I barely know my own name. “Marco, do you need me to let Cruz know you’re here?”
Regaining my senses, I quickly drop Amita’s hand and shove my own, slightly shaky in my pocket. “What? Oh, no … I’ll let myself in. You girls enjoy.” I give the beauty one more trademark Moran grin and drawl, “I look forward to seeing you again, Amita.”
She smiles broadly, showing me a row of perfect, white teeth. “Oh, you will. You can bet on it.”
My family likes to celebrate big. Whether it’s for a birthday, an anniversary, a holiday, or your basic celebratory get-together, we Morans know how to party. Not the token drunk-fest you might have with friends. It’s nothing like that. Sure, there’s plenty of tequila on hand for those of us who choose to partake; I, of course, happen to be one of those who choose to partake … often. There’s also plenty of food, the homemade Spanish kind featuring a bounty of salsas and entrees guaranteed to leave you fat and happy.
Today we’re celebrating birthday number thirty-four for Cruz. Lucky dick that he is, he’s now engaged to his secretary, Mia. She’d kick my ass for calling her his secretary, but it’s my job as the younger (and considerably more handsome) brother to constantly remind the two of them how “inappropriate” their relationship is. Inappropriate and damn near perfect if you ask me.
It wasn’t always perfect. Those two idiots have been circling the wagon for months now. Thank God Cruz finally pulled his head out of his ass and realized Mia was the best thing that ever happened to him. Keeping their predictable and corny theme, he proposed a few weeks ago—Christmas day to be exact. He stood there in his swanky living room, got down on one knee, and slid a large rock on her finger.
The sap.
So here we are in the house (now his and Mia’s house) once again: my entire family, Mia’s Grandpa Tito—who is currently living with them and recovering from a stroke—as well as Mia’s best friend Amita and her boyfriend, Victor.
For the record, Amita is one of the hottest chicks I’ve ever seen.
For the record, Vic is a total and complete asswipe.
After my initial introduction to the gorgeous Miss Morales, I was briefly brokenhearted when Mia informed me she was taken. Since I’m not one to pine after women, I promptly moved on to the next available lady. Doesn’t mean I don’t flirt with her whenever I see her. Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t screw her given half the chance. Amita is a nice girl, and if she wants to waste her life on a guy like Vic, who doesn’t deserve her, so be it. Wouldn’t be the first time.
“Quit staring,” Mia warns, smacking my arm.
“I wasn’t staring.” I so was.
“Yes, you were. And it’s rude, especially when Vic is standing right next to her.”
Like I give one crap what that asshole thinks. “What is that guy’s deal?”
Mia shrugs. “He’s a nice person, but he can be a little intense sometimes.”
Glancing across the room, I give the huge man the once-over … again. I’m a tall guy, but he dwarfs me completely and has at least fifty pounds on me too. He’s all muscles and buzzed hair and tight, square jaw: the perfect ex-military guy at first glance. Truth is he works at a hotel, a slightly less swanky one then where Amita spends her nine to five, which is sort of baffling; he looks like he should be running security at a club or working at a gym, not sitting behind some desk and yammering with hotel guests about the lack of towels in their rooms.
“Seems like a douche.”
Mia chuckles and smacks me again. “Be nice.” She takes a sip of her wine and lifts curious brown eyes to mine. “So, what was going on with you and her at Christmas? You looked pretty cozy.”
I shrug, knowing she’s already gotten Amita’s side of the story. Those two chicks tell each other everything. “Nothing. Just getting to know one another.” I’m not one to kiss and tell. The only thing happening between me and Amita last month was a whole lot of pining on my part and a whole lot of grumbling on hers. I spent the day listening to her talk, greedily taking in every word out of her very kissable mouth. I knew she was taken even then, but that didn’t stop me from spending time with her. And even though there’s been a certain amount of guilt I’ve shouldered since then, simply from spending too much alone time with another man’s woman, I don’t regret letting her use me as her sounding board. Needless to say I got quite the sneak peek into what makes Vic tick.
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br /> Douche? Absolutely.
“They’ve been together for four years.” Mia’s statement, or rather warning, does little to fend me off. I’ll admit it I am intrigued by her gorgeous best friend and even though she’s strictly off-limits, that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends and I can’t flirt … just a little. Obviously, I know how to do the friend thing right; Mia and I are thick as thieves, much to the chagrin of my grumpy and very possessive older brother.
“I hear ya, babe, no worries.”
She chuckles and gives me stink eye. “Yeah right.”
Cruz strolls up, narrows his eyes like he always does when I’m one-on-one with his gal, and directs his question to her. “What are you two whispering about, belleza?”
Rolling my eyes at my brother’s use of his chosen Spanish endearment, I reply, “We’re plotting our escape.”
He glares at me. “Nice try.”
Mia slides her hand in his and looks at him in a way completely unsuitable when other people are in the room—unless that’s your thing, and then I’m totally on board. “Is the birthday boy enjoying his party?”
Cruz leans over and whispers something into her ear and by the way her face flushes, I have a hunch it’s not exactly a G-rated conversation. I take that as my excuse to find another spot to stalk Amita. “Okay, you two love birds, I’m outta here. I need a drink.”
They are so lost in one another that they barely give me a second glance, and if I was the type of guy looking for something like what they have, I might be jealous. I’m not. Nor am I looking for a fiancée, a girlfriend, or even the same woman to warm my sheets on a regular basis. I’m not exactly a one-woman man. Never have been. I’m more the one-night stand type, or at least I have been since my one and only less than satisfactory relationship in college. I learned the hard way that I’m better off to go it alone than to invest my time—and my heart—in someone who doesn’t deserve it.
Glancing across the room at the dark-eyed beauty I can’t seem to quit thinking about, I have to wonder why she stays with that Vic guy. She admitted to me that they have a volatile relationship, fighting constantly about most everything and generally living in a state of chaos. I suppose that works for some people. I mean the make-up sex has got to be worth the hassle, right? But she doesn’t exactly come across as a woman being serviced properly if you get my drift. Not like Mia anyway, who practically glows she’s so freaking enamored with my brother.
“What’s the story with you and Mia’s BFF?” My younger sister Isabella gives me a narrowed look, instantly suspicious of my less than proper leering toward the other woman … and rightly so.
“No story. Can’t you see she’s taken?” Pouring us each a shot of tequila, I settle in next to her at the bar, glancing across the counter to where our mother is bustling around, putting food together for our brood.
“Oh, I’m well aware of her status. I’m just not so certain that you are.” She lifts a dark brow. “She doesn’t really seem like your type.”
Huh. I didn’t realize I had a type, unless that type included being easy. “She’s not.”
Isabella scoffs, takes a healthy sip of her drink like the pro she is and murmurs, “She has a nice face and decent-sized tits. Your standards aren’t much higher than that, Big Brother.”
I flinch dramatically. “Ouch. You bruise me.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
Here’s the thing about having little sisters: they’ve got you figured out even before they’ve exited the womb. And while she and our baby sister, Sophia, are two of the sweetest gals I know, they have no problem calling me on my shit and giving me hell about my chosen lifestyle. Cruz, they go a little easier on, or they did until he met Mia and shackled himself to her. I assume it’s because he’s the scariest brother out of the three of us. Cold and intimidating when he wants to be and a real hard-ass at the office. My younger brother, Roman, gets it’s the easiest, because he is, after all, the ‘Romeo’ of the group, constantly bringing home one woman after the other and collecting hearts like Cruz collects millions. Seriously, the guy can charm just about anyone.
I take a gulp of tequila and let it burn slowly down my throat as I watch Amita laugh at something Roman is saying. Vic, as usual, looks like he has an eighteen wheeler shoved up his ass, standing there cross armed, looming above all the minions below. I wonder how many hits it would take to knock him out then immediately reconsider. If I did that, regardless of how good it would feel, it would upset Amita. I might have a slight crush on the dark-haired beauty, which will never reach fruition, but I’d never want to intentionally make her unhappy.
Shaking off the uncomfortable and admittedly foreign thoughts, I toss back the rest of my drink and promptly refill it. Tequila is my go-to drink for everything from a cure-all for a bad day at work to fending off thoughts that I consider too deep. I’m not what you’d call a deep guy. I like to work hard, party even harder, and occasionally enjoy a willing woman in my bed. You don’t have to look very far to get a good read on who I am.
“What is with her boyfriend anyway?” Isabella whispers into my ear, reaching behind me for the basket of corn chips. “He seems too intense to be with someone as sweet as Amita.”
I shrug and casually steal the chips from her hand. “They’ve been together a long time.”
Never one to be fooled, she shoots me a dark look and murmurs, “So that’s his excuse for acting like such a dick?”
“How the hell would I know?”
I admit I’m not convinced that Amita and Vic are a great love story. In fact, I wonder what the hell drew them together in the first place. She’s spunky and outgoing and easy to be around. He, on the other hand, comes across as overly impressed with himself and annoyed with just about anything that comes out of her mouth.
See … this is the reason I’m anti-relationships. At the end of the day, all we really want is someone to occasionally share a meal with and maybe have some good conversation. More than anything we all just want someone to fuck now and again. Leaning more toward the now, rather than the again. Why people believe that spending a lifetime with the same person is a good thing, I’ll never know.
You’d think with the example my parents have set that I’d be a firm believer in romance and monogamy. They’ve been married for almost forty years, and to this day they continue to act like lovesick teenagers. It’s pretty gross, I must say. I mean, who wants to see their mom and dad macking on one another on a daily basis?
Speaking of macking … there they are, going at it again. Horny little bastards. Right in the middle of a birthday party to boot. It’s hard to give them crap like I used to, especially after the scare we had a few months back with Papa. A few go-rounds with clogged arteries will sure as hell make you reevaluate your life. Ever since he got home from the hospital, the two of them have been joined at the hip—even more than they were before. I guess love and fear go hand in hand.
“Get a room,” I holler, and as usual they come up sputtering and laughing, both talking at the same time.
“God, they are so gross,” Isabella whispers, giggling and rolling her eyes.
Mama shoos Papa out of the kitchen and starts to pull dish after dish out of the oven. Like birds to the nest, Mia and Amita stroll into the room, asking what they can do to help. With a look that says I-don’t-really-want-to-help-but-I-will, my sister joins the flock. I’d much rather sit here and sip tequila and ponder just how fine Amita’s ass is in those tight jeans, but I force myself off the bar stool and settle on the couch next to Papa. Not once do I miss the hard look Vic sends my way.
The evening progresses like all celebration dinners do: lots of glass raising, “Happy Birthday” singing, and cake indulging until we’re all busting out of our clothes as Mama grins with pleasure over the fact that she’s once again given us all an excuse to visit the gym. Isabella and Roman have made a quick getaway, claiming they were both tired, which I know is a crock since I heard my brother making late-night plans with h
is girl of the week. One by one, everyone else moves toward the door. I offer ol’ Vic a head nod that he probably interprets as “nice to meet you,” when in actuality I mean it as “go fuck yourself.” I toss Amita what I hope is a charming, friendly smile.
Cool chick that she is, she grins wide and says, “See you around, Marco.” Yep, I interpret that as “I can’t wait to get into your pants.” Clearly, I have issues.
“Could you please tone it down,” Cruz warns once we’re alone. “She’s Mia’s best friend for crying out loud. Have some class.”
“That guy is a tool,” I reply, seeking the tequila once again.
“So what if he is? He’s her boyfriend. Have some respect.”
Glaring at him, I toss back the shot and slam the glass down onto the table. “You’re not my father or have you forgotten?”
Cruz takes a step forward, looming over me in that powerful, dominating way that would make lesser humans shiver. “You’re a grown man, not a high-schooler. Or have you forgotten?”
Fuck. I hate it when he’s right. I have been acting like my long-ago self, posturing and puffing up around the hot girl and getting into a pissing contest with her boyfriend. Her long-term boyfriend, I remind myself. “Yeah, I’m sorry, man.”
Mia wanders toward us, wrapping her arms around Cruz’s waist. “Sorry about what?”
“Being a jerk.” Leaning over, I drop a kiss on her cheek and slap Cruz on the shoulder. “See you guys at the office.”
The drive from Key Biscayne to Miami gives me plenty of time to contemplate why the hell I acted like I did. Sure, Amita and I don’t know one another that well, but from our first hello, we’ve had an off-the-charts connection. We might have shared some nice conversation at Christmas, but had she not been on the outs with her man, I doubt she would have given me the time of day.
Then again, maybe not. The easy way we drifted toward one another was sure as hell no accident. She came up to me and started a conversation, then casually asked if I wanted to walk out onto the dock. Granted, I didn’t exactly play hard to get. I more than gave her the green light to spill her guts, which she did. In fact, she talked non-stop for thirty minutes before she eventually looked at me and apologized, face red with embarrassment.
