Little did he know when he woke up this morning that a short redhead would destroy his perfect, Maserati driving world.
Those were the first words I said when I set eyes on the hot-as-sin rock star’s long, wide…car. It was beautiful. Hunter Six was gorgeous. He may be rich, famous, and one of the most talented singers of this century, but that didn’t mean he could get away with what he did to my mom.
Willa Jones just played you, bro.
That’s what my brother said to me after a beautiful woman ripped apart my life with a little piece of chalk. Let me preface that with a fact: The image she drew of a specific part of my body was a whole lot bigger in real life. Despite her ridiculously inaccurate depiction of me, she tricked me into taking my picture. My days of living in obscurity, taking a break from the rock-star life, were numbered, destroyed by a fiery redhead.
When she finally threw the chalk to the ground, I watched a particular part of her body sashay away and knew I’d never get her out of my head.
Hunter shifted and leaned on his elbow, facing me. It was a sexy pose, and I was thankful my fake fur jacket wouldn’t reveal how hard my nipples were as his deep voice ripped apart my excuse.
“Let me guess, you want something from me. Money or you got a demo you want me to hear.”
That sexy heat vibe that got my body worked up instantly changed to a different type of heat—anger. I pushed off the counter and turned to him, pointing my finger into his chest. I didn’t care how hard it was or that this small touch was confusing in a sexually frustrating way.
I was mad.
“Is that what you think of me? Someone who only wants money from you? If I wanted that, I would have sold that picture I took of you last week. The one with your devastating smile. The smile no one in public has ever witnessed. I’d get top dollar for that.”
Then he did it again. The fucker smiled and it was just as heart-stopping and nipple-hardening as before. The guy had a superpower—his grin.
That wasn’t fair. He was rich, sexy, talented, and could cause women to orgasm with only a grin.
What was my superpower? Get fired. Call people inappropriate names in chalk. Possibly fall victim to a psycho killer who poses as a rock star just to lure women into eating baked goods so he can bake them into a pie.
The last one was a stretch, I know, but with my luck, I wouldn’t be surprised if it came true.
I lowered my finger and bit my lip. “I didn’t say that.”
“Yes, you did.” His voice went up a few octaves and he danced around in front of me, flapping his hands. “Oh, Hunter, you are so sexy. I’d do anything for you to smile at me. Your grin causes me to orgasm right on the spot.”
I snorted and quickly covered my mouth. Pursing my lips, I tried to remain mad, but it was difficult. “You look ridiculous, and I don’t sound like that. Nor is any of that true.”
“You’re telling me that you didn’t just orgasm in front of me?”
“No. Of course not.”
“How about if I tickle your elbow?” He wiggled his eyebrows like this was the best idea in the world.
“What sort of weird fetish do you have? Niki told me rock stars could be eccentric, but I never thought tickling was your thing.”
“Who’s Niki? Your boyfriend?”
He did it again. He caused my heart to twist as he shoved his hands into his front pockets and lowered his gaze to the floor. Hunter was being shy and sweet and not subtle at all about finding out if I was single, and it was the most adorable thing to witness.
“No, you met her. The blonde who was with me in the Hella Ella parking lot last week.”
She helped me find Hunter. She called her agent, who also happens to be Hunter’s agent’s sister. There’s some sibling rivalry there that Niki swore could be used in our favor. It took a few days, but I finally got the address this morning—exactly a week since the parking lot fiasco.
Most things I do end with the word fiasco.
He nodded. “That’s good.”
“Why would Niki not being my boyfriend be good?”
“Because, Willa . . .” He lifted his blue eyes to mine and moved so close that I gasped, but in a good way. Not in a he’s-going-to-kill-me kind of way, either—which I was now ninety percent certain he didn’t want to use my body as ingredients for his pie recipe. “I want to kiss you.”
Elizabeth Lynx writes romcoms with a lot of steam and characters you’ll be mad aren’t actually real. She has worn many hats in life: mother, wife, photographer, graphic designer, executive assistant, and used to print pictures for the White House. For the past several years, she’s decided to put down on paper all the crazy voices in her head. Surprisingly, those voices did some really naughty things.