by Lori Foster
Cole announced to the reporters that since he was soon to be a married man, next year one of his brothers would serve as escort for the winner. That brought about some bawdy comments from the women customers and some hearty groans from his brothers, who pretended to be terrified by the prospect but who nonetheless preened under the weight of feminine attention.
Sophie stood by Cole’s side, elegant and serene and beautiful. He felt like the luckiest man alive. The contest really had been the perfect idea for both of them, even if they’d each indulged in ulterior motives.
He glanced up and saw the contest photo on the wall. As per the contest stipulations, Sophie had posed with all the Winston men. Their much bigger bodies crowded around hers, dwarfing her petite frame. She was laughing, and all the men looked smug.
In his nightstand drawer at home was a different photo, the one he’d taken of Sophie while her hair was still tousled and her cheeks flushed from his loving. But that one was private, for his eyes only. Forever.
Next year, he thought, grinning as he watched his brothers give one interview after another, the contest might work out as the perfect idea for another Winston man. He wondered which of them would be the lucky one. Then Sophie nudged his side and he forgot about everything but her. He led her to his office where solitude awaited—along with a carafe of hot chocolate and a can of whipped cream.
