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The door to the New York fashion world shut firmly in her face, Moriah Stanhope’s only option seems to be to return to her small-town home as a failure. At least, she would go home in disgrace, but her car was just repossessed. In front of the hottest guy she’s ever seen.
Travis Madera is supposed to hire an assistant. One with qualifications and experience. Someone who won’t be starstruck by the fact he’s a professional football player. But he never could resist a damsel in distress, especially one with all those curves.
Moriah’s been humiliated in front of guys like Travis before. But as his assistant, she has access to every moment of his day-to-day life, so surely she can stay ahead of any potential problems.
Until the past comes rushing into the present.
Read an Excerpt
“You’re kidding, right?” I sat straight on the leather sofa and gaped at Moriah.
She was grinning, a big cheesing smile that would have turned me on had what she was telling me not been so ridiculous. “Indeed not.”
Damn it. She wasn’t supposed to find humor in my misery.
“I thought you were Team Madera.” I scowled. There was no way this was happening to me. A large chunk of my masculine pride rebelled, and I recoiled as she stepped closer.
Moriah’s giggle was vibrant, rich, and made my groin twitch.
“I am, Travis. But the production company will pay more money if you wear the Speedo—plus, your female fans will be thoroughly impressed.” She pinched each end of a tiny, bright red men’s bikini, stretched it out, and wiggled from side to side with it.
She was taunting me. And despite my horror, I liked it.
Everything stopped, and I fixated on her face. Those flirty lips were plump, ripe. As were other parts of her, I was betting. Things I shouldn’t think about, especially not now and not about her.
She was better than that.
I shouldn’t have hired such a sexy assistant. I’d have been better off with a doting grandma type. A maternal old lady that folded clothes. Definitely not a woman I’d fantasize about wearing one of my jerseys and nothing else.
“Being objectified for cash feels wrong.”
The disdain that dripped from her sizzled all around us. “And yet men have been doing it to women for decades.”
“Fair point. But I’m an athlete, not a model. Hell, I’m covered in ink—not exactly Speedo material there.” I leaned back on the couch. Arguing with her was fun, even if I was going to lose. I’d film for Shark Week, if nothing more than to out-Speedo Gronkowski.
Moriah snorted. “I think the ink is part of the appeal. Women love it—nothing screams bad boy like tattoos.”
She turned away, but not before something like to embarrassment flashed in her eyes and darkened her cheeks.
God, I wanted to make her blush like that when she was naked under me. “You like inked up guys, Mariposa?’ I sure the hell hoped so.
About the Author:
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