Chapter 1

ONE

I was late to my bestie and colleague Shelby's bachelorette party. Shamelessly, inexcusably late.

Over an hour, for Pete's sake. And my reason basically sucked.

My cat had flooded the kitchen floor of my apartment.

Complete with dripping into the unit below me. Freaking great. It had to be Amberly's place right below me, not the barely-make-a-peep Jerry who scurries down the hall when anyone notices him. Nope, had to be Amberly who was now blowing up my phone with texts—in all caps, naturally—that I was ruining her anniversary with her boyfriend. Oh, and he was definitely not going to propose now after I ruined everything.

How was she supposed to have a romantic night with a dripping hole above her bed?

My head was throbbing as I read text after text about how she'd have to rent a hotel room and that was not in the budget.

Would I be reimbursing her? Like now?

Sure. Let me just pull that out of my magic wallet. No problem.

As it was, I'd already had to put my bachelorette gifts for Shelby on my for-emergencies-only credit card. Running a business with my three best friends was amazing most of the time. Especially since Shelby—the bride-to-be—had brought in the big bucks with her fiancé. Except most of the money had gone back into the business to bolster the slow winter.

Now we were scrambling to find new clients since the weather was getting nicer.

However, I was not marrying Mr. Big like she was. I was still making the meager salary we'd agreed upon in our business plan, as well as paying off my student loans, which were trying to put me into the poorhouse. I loved being my own boss—except for the part where I was the one paying for every expense.

Operating expenses were significant due to the fact we were one of the few design firms near Crescent Cove, which was blowing up with new builds. And if the random news articles were right, the Cove was the baby boom capital of Central New York. It seemed like every website and news show had featured the Cove recently. And I did mean every single one. Which was great news for a burgeoning design firm.

Not so great for the designers trying to play the part of upwardly mobile professionals without much capital just yet. Dexter Shaw had definitely given us a leg up with his massive remodel, but now we had to keep up appearances if we wanted to get the big fish.

Enter credit cards. Many cards.

Now my floor was leaking onto Amberly's expensive bedding—naturally, she had put on her bougie sheets to get her freak on for her anniversary. Now her three-hundred-dollar sheets were ruined with ceiling debris.

Who the freaking hell paid three hundred dollars for sheets? We lived in a very swanky apartment building, sure, but we were in the one-bedroom units. We weren't three-hundred-dollar sheets kind of people, dammit. That was the other side of the building.

Where the owner of The Heights lived in his million-dollar loft.

We were the Brooklinen once-a-year sale people. Much like my sheets of the same caliber that I'd scrimped for with a sale and all the coupons I could stuff into my online shopping cart.

Ahem.

Speaking of owners… Ugh. I had a call into the main office about the repairs, but they hadn't replied to me yet. That was going to be a fun meeting. But right now, I had a bachelorette party to get to—after I sent Amberly money to cover a swanky hotel room for tonight's fuck fest.

Also, why was literally everyone getting married all at once? How was I supposed to afford gifts for everyone I knew? I played trivia with Amberly a few times a month and we were pretty friendly.

Was that lower tier registry? I sure hoped so. Had to look at the bright side, I supposed. They certainly weren't very plentiful for me lately.

As I was shuffling around the kitchen floor with a towel under each foot, Shelby texted there was a change of venue for the party. Guess it wasn't so bad that I was late after all. The Spinning Wheel was currently leaking, as well, though not due to a long-haired black and white cat who insisted on turning on the kitchen faucet at inopportune times.

A very cute cat who wasn't supposed to live on the premises, so that would be a fun conversation with our property manager.

Nope, their roof was leaking thanks to that day's endless rain.

The new last-minute location of tonight's festivities was Lonegan's bar and restaurant. Hallelujah, that was right across the street from me. I didn't even have to drag out my car to find parking. Score.

TJ, another of our partners in Designing Women, was Shelby's maid of honor and had done the legwork to find a new last-minute location. As much as I loved Shelby, I was glad she wanted a small wedding, and I didn't have the added expense of bridesmaid and all that entailed. I just had to show up with an inappropriate gift to the bachelorette party, then maybe I could sell one of my many purses to get Shelby a really nice wedding present.

"Dammit!" I looked down at my shoes buried in the sopping wet towels and wobbled my ankle. I'd just snapped my damn heel.

I raced around to switch pairs and then gave my cat Gizmo a stern talking to for probably the twentieth time. I dumped the drenched towels into the washer, replacing them with drop cloths to soak up what seemed like endless water. Gizmo hopped on the coffee table, unrepentantly washing his face.

Many puddles remained because I only had a few drop cloths. I'd recently painted the place, but it was only a one-bedroom. Not to mention that obviously sink drainage was a concern, because I'd only been gone six hours this afternoon for a real estate convention.

It shouldn't have flooded to that extent. Something was clearly afoot with the pipes. It was an old building—yes, it had been extensively renovated, but it was old, nonetheless.

And was that my problem? No, it was not. So, yes, Gizmo was a little hooligan, but our share of the blame was only so much. I intended to state that very fact to the office when we finally spoke.

In between begging them not to toss my very cute miscreant out on his furry ear.

I skipped the elevator because knowing my luck today, I'd get trapped in there. Luckily, I was only on the second floor. Thanks the chaos of my life, and in my head, I forgot my umbrella. It was just a quick trip across the street, anyway. The girls wouldn't care if my hair got a little frizzy from the rain.

Davis, the building's maintenance man, called just as I was rushing across Kensington Boulevard to the bachelorette party—because, of course, he would. I paused under the canopy of trees in the median for a little reprieve from the rain. Kensington Boulevard had a lovely walking path between the four-lane roadway. Juggling my bags, I was about to answer when my attention was diverted by a couple enthusiastically playing tongue hockey a few feet away near a hulking silver truck parked in front of Lonegan's.

Must be nice. The last time I'd been kissed like that had been…over a year ago. It had been a surprise for a mortgage consultant to have that much game. Unfortunately, his personality traits had been lacking, as well as his ability to return a text message. We'd fizzled about as quickly as we'd began. I frowned as I realized the man with dark hair currently groping the blond he was kissing was…

Oh hell no.

It was Derek, the guy I'd just gone on two dates with last week. We'd met on the new dating app, HEA, and I thought we'd had an okay time getting to know one another. No sparks, true, but it was early yet. I'd thought there was still time for some sort of magic to happen.

Perhaps he was going to find his HEA, but clearly, it wasn't going to be with me.

Thanks for the heads up, jackass. Granted, we hadn't talked about exclusivity, but part of the perks of the not cheap dating app was finding your true match. Not just a hookup. There were other apps for that sort of thing.

What if I'd had sex with him? He'd definitely tried, but I'd shut that down quick. I wasn't a hookup on the first couple dates sort-of-chick unless the chemistry was unreal. And while Derek looked great on paper—or his profile—the sparks had been decidedly lacking.

Based on that level of tongue activity, the blond didn't feel the same. Jeez.

Guess I didn't need to find a cute dress for our date next Friday, after all.

I prepared to stalk across the street to blast him good so the woman he was feeling up would know exactly the kind of man she was dealing with, but they were already on the move. Talking. Laughing. Having an awesome time while my phone buzzed, letting me know Davis had left me a message.

With a sigh, I glanced down at the transcript coming through on my iPhone. Said transcript indicated Davis was not the least bit understanding about my overflowing sink or my cat situation.

The maintenance team—which we all knew was mostly just Davis—wouldn't be able to fix the mess until at least tomorrow since the flooding on the first floor was priority. And we'd have to discuss my illegal building occupant.

Blah, blah. What part of no pets had I not understood on the lease I'd willingly signed?

And then he hung up, because Davis was great at the maintenance portion of his job, but niceties definitely weren't a part of his genetic makeup.

In short, I was out of luck. In about five different ways at once.

Then I glanced over to the sidewalk in front of Lonegan's, only to see Derek reaching down to palm his date's ass under her clingy red minidress—right there in the open. She giggled and looked upward as the sky opened up once more with a loud crack of thunder as Derek went to work on her neck with a hell of a lot more passion than he'd shown me.

In fact, his kisses in my direction had been quite lackluster. He'd been just as rambunctious when it came to the ass grabbing, however.

My ass was one of my biggest assets, true. I should get something for my gelato addiction, right?

I was still fuming about the pawing and the unspoken threat to my beloved Gizmo's residence in Davis's voicemail when I spotted the hulking silver truck that had to be Derek's. It looked just like the one he'd picked me up in last week. I stalked toward it, ignoring the current deluge of rain, as the gifts for Shelby—a fancy bottle of champagne and pink fuzzy handcuffs for use with it—banged against my leg.

Her husband-to-be, Dexter, was hot as hell so I wasn't jealous at all.

Nope.

And I was going to send a strongly worded email to the administrator of HEA's customer service as soon as the party ended later this evening.

What kind of vetting system did they have there? So much for a supposed guaranteed happily ever after if you were matched through the site. Right . It hadn't even been two weeks since I'd been alerted to my perfect match. Sure thing. If I didn't mind a dude who also was being happily matched with other females while he was hooking up with me.

At least I hadn't been dumb enough to take Mr. Ass Grab for a spin.

Granted, my current dry spell was making me less picky than I'd once been. The mortgage guy had been the last one to see my very nice Brooklinen sheets. I'd gotten a little too used to taking care of my own needs.

My vibrator didn't talk back—although it could, if I'd sprung for the optional voice-operated commands option. It even had a selection for different voices and accents. Like a British one, similar to that of Harry Styles, might have hit the spot at certain opportune moments.

Maybe I'd get an upgraded one as a self-care gift.

Fuck men.

Fuck HEAs.

I was happy on my own.

My gaze narrowed on the gleaming silver paint of his truck. I glanced down at my bag and spotted the fuzzy pink handcuffs. I jumped a little as thunder cracked overhead and bright lightning split the dark, threatening sky.

I needed to make a run for the bar. Right about then, I wished I had some rain gear. It had been a very wet spring already and it was just early May. Perhaps a cute pink rain slicker like my neighbor, Naomi, was always wearing. If you had to wear outerwear, at least it should be fun.

A text came through my phone, still in my hand. Scowling, I swiped away the wetness and my eyebrows shot up.

No way.

Derek.

Derek: Hey, babe, I'm gonna cancel our Friday date. My mom's in town. Or she will be then. Sorry. Check ya later.

"‘Check ya later'?" I read aloud. "Are you kidding me, dude?"

When another message didn't come through, I decided he was not kidding me. And I had no response.

Unwise decisions were made that night. I was not ashamed—at least right then. Later would be another story.

I reached into the bag for the fuzzy handcuffs, staring at the flawless, gleaming silver paint of his truck. Purpose burned in my gaze as I rushed forward and settled on the perfect spot to become my version of Picasso—also known as the driver's side door.

The wind picked up as a couple hurrying by shrieked and laughed, giving me a chance to reconsider my ill-conceived actions, but I did not. In for a penny, right? Biting my lip, I cocked my head, furiously blinking away the rain as I started to dig my message into the paint. The scraping noise made me shudder, but it did not make me stop. Nothing could at this point. After the day I'd had, this was the only way I could get some of my own back.

I didn't even know if I'd get to keep my damn cat. Due to his own stupidity, granted, but whatever.

My message was short and pithy. And easy to read since I did it in block letters.

Catch this one later, you troll.

I tried to shake the water out of my hair like a dog. It did not work. But I did it again just the same as I stepped back and tilted my head to view my handiwork once more.

LITTLE DICK

My lips curved as I whirled to go—and smacked into a very hard male chest. My startled gaze flew upward as his brutally strong hands clamped around my upper arms. The only thing I'd been able to coherently absorb in that minute was just how huge he was and that his shaggy hair hid half his face.

"What the hell did you do to my truck?" His deep baritone halted my flight to escape. "And why?"

"Your truck?" My gaze shot to my message. "This isn't your truck."

Except clearly, I had not chosen the correct frigging vehicle. Because why would I? I had the worst luck in the entire world.

Now I was going to go to jail. That would look awesome on my profile for thirty businesspeople to watch under thirty.

The guy held up his key fob and unlocked the truck door. "My. Truck."

"Oh, no." My voice was barely audible over the cracking thunder and the endlessly pelting rain.

My first occurrence of vehicle-induced violence and I hadn't even picked the right truck.

Fuck me now.