Junk Mail

It all started with a sexy selfie. Texted to the wrong number. Oops. Not my finest moment—but I have nothing to be ashamed of. She thought I was no better, and I quote, than the knuckle-dragging douche-bags she was never dating again. It was a stupid dare from a girl I'd met online, but since she'd given me a fake number, I didn't feel bad that my interests were suddenly focused elsewhere—on the fiery and sharp-tongued, Peyton that I found myself sparring with over text for the rest of the evening. The following day, my case of mistaken identity came back to bite me in the banana. When I strolled into the office, I was introduced to Peyton as the new client I needed to win over. The Peyton, in case you're not tracking. And let's just say she had my full attention. Brains? Check. Beauty? Oh yeah. And the best part? She hated me on sight. Dear God, do I love a...