1. Henry

CHAPTER 1

HENRY

They say revenge is a dish best served cold, but I'm going to do it in silver sequined hot pants and a black leather harness.

I angrily raise my fist and prepare to pound on the heavy, dark wood door to a nicely kept-up Spanish-style home. It's a cool January day, and potted rosemary plants scent the air from either side of the stoop.

There are a few things wrong with this picture.

First, it may be obvious, but this white stucco home with a red tile roof is most definitely not a nightclub. Also, I'm not generally the kind to wear booty shorts; they're left over from a trip to SF when I turned twenty-one. Happier times. And most of the time, I'm quite a peaceful person.

Not today, though. I have plans . I seek vengeance. My wrath will be known.

So, a few moments ago, I marched right up to this cute home at two in the afternoon on a Wednesday like I'm an invading marauder. A marauder who makes unusual fashion choices.

Focus, Henry. Remember why you're here.

I'm here because I'm pissed . Kerrigan Fitzpatrick needs to pay. I glare at the door.

Part of me wants to kick it down. The rest of me is having second thoughts. I pause, holding my breath and counting as I hover my fist even closer. On the count of three.

One … two … three.

I exhale so hard my shoulders sink.

Dammit. Retribution really isn't my style.

Neither is this getup. The shorts are wedged up my ass, and my cell phone is shoved inside the waistband, making a weird lump on my hip next to the packets of condoms and lube that are sticking to my skin. Good thing these pants are tight , or I'd be dribbling prophylactics out a leg hole.

Now that I'm taking a moment to think, I'm pretty sure my plan is the worst idea I've ever had—although when I came up with it, it seemed like the best.

Reasons why it's the worst idea mainly revolve around the mortification I'm going to suffer if—as seems likely—this all goes to hell. It'll make my previous most embarrassing moment seem like nothing.

(Which, incidentally, was that time I thought the sexy Southwinds Coffee barista was passing me a steaming pile of trash instead of a warm banana nut muffin wrapped in kraft paper, after I'd washed my hands and everything … so I snatched it from him and swished it like a basketball into a garbage can, then shouted, "Three points!" He handed me another muffin without comment. I go to a different coffee shop now.)

Reasons why it's the best idea: because that motherfucking jackass deserves everything that's coming to him.

And since—as I kept reminding myself on the five-minute drive here—the possibility of payback is beating potential chagrin by a country mile right now, I'm going to go through with this.

Kerrigan Fitzpatrick needs to know how it feels . I can't do what he did; I'm not that awful of a person. And even if I were, we broke up, so I can't cheat on him. But I can do this.

Any minute now, I'll do it.

Just give me a sec.

Anger reignites like a wildfire hot spot as the image of him balls-deep in Ian Davis flashes through my brain. Throwing two years of my life down the crapper.

Then I shiver, because even though my emotions are running hot, it's still kind of cold on the central coast of California in January. My nipples are definitely complaining.

My conscience is raising an objection as well. What I'm intending to do is, I would argue, a very reasonable plan of seduction, but I can't deny it's on the side of evil.

… and I'm now learning I'm not very good at being bad.

Dammit.

Fuck . I suck at this. While I want to hold on to my fury, other emotions like doubt and dread are elbowing their way into my mind, settling in next to my constant companion—anxiety—and making me second-guess myself and whether this plan will work.

It won't.

I let my arm drop to my side, and I study the geometric-pattern sisal doormat that sits on the burnt-orange Saltillo tiles.

Okay, I really need to get out of my head and either execute the excellent plot I concocted in the shower thirty minutes ago … or leave.

Leaving sounds perfect, actually. Even though I'm disgusted at my ex for being awful and at myself for being a wuss, I can't do this.

I'm turning around to retreat to my car when the telltale creak of a door opening makes my feet feel like they're stuck in wet clay. Of course I've been caught. I hold my hands up like a scarecrow. Or a criminal.

A low, sexy male voice says, "Henry? Is that you?"

I grit my teeth, try not to flinch, and rearrange my face to seem relaxed. Might as well continue with my original plan. Everything else in my life has gone wrong, so what the hell? What do I have to lose?

"Hey. Yeah," I say slowly as I face the door again, trying to look casual with my bare chest on display. It's showtime . "So. Hi."

Dropping my arms, I come face-to-face with Keane Fitzpatrick, who happens to be the most gorgeous man I've ever seen in real life. And by real life, I'm including all facets of the internet, all movies I've ever seen, and the airbrushed perfection of every glossy magazine.

In other words, ever. He's the hottest man ever . Six foot four, with jet-black hair and sapphire-blue eyes, built like he could tear apart logs with his bare hands. Bulging biceps. Inverted-triangle torso. All of it. He'd be a cartoon character of the Handsome Leading Man, except …

Except he's real. And he's standing right in front of me.

I know the fact that I've had a crush on him forever is wicked, but he's always been so friendly to me. It's hard not to notice someone who is both gorgeous and kind, even if they were off-limits. But now that the barrier has been removed, I'm taking my chance.

I mean, I'm getting even . That's it.

Keane's eyes take in what I'm wearing—or what I'm not wearing—then cycle through confusion, amusement, and, if I'm not mistaken, heat, until they settle on concern.

"Are you okay?" A crease appears in Keane's brow as his dark eyebrows knit together. His thick hair shines in the cool winter light. It's cut short but longish, if that makes any sense. Like, it's not down to his shoulders or anything, but it's tousled and you could wrap a lock of it around a finger. If you were that lucky. When I don't respond—because no, I'm not okay; I make a ragey anime character look like a meditating angel—he asks, "Do you need something?"

Now that you ask, I could use a time machine to rewind to thirty-two minutes ago so I could formulate a different plan.

No! I argue with myself. Smile at him. Stick your hip out. Say it.

Seduce him!

All I say is, "Um. Do you mind if I come in?" Really, Henry? That's your line? For fuck's sake. I hide my wince.

"No, not at all. Please do." He steps aside, and his dark gray argyle socks catch my eye. Because of course he has on interesting socks while at home. Keane wouldn't be wearing old sweats and a T-shirt with a stain on it. No, he's in a pair of flat-front charcoal gray slacks and a black dress shirt with the top three buttons undone. He looks like casual elegance, because he is, while I'm clomping in wearing combat boots.

He and I go together like Thin Mints and orange juice.

When I pass by him, I catch a whiff of his scent. Only a hint; it's not overpowering. I'm not sure what it is, since I can't tell my bergamot from my neroli. He just smells good. Clean. Manly.

Ugh. This was such a bad idea. He's so entirely out of my league.

"I'm sorry," I blurt, looking up at him as he closes the door behind us. "You were probably working."

He shrugs, then gives me a genuine smile that makes my heart ratchet up to more beats per minute than are strictly necessary for proper circulatory functioning. "I don't mind being interrupted. You're more important. Come in, have a seat. Let me get you a drink. Then you can tell me what's going on."

Keane shows me into the living room, then strides to the kitchen and returns with two glasses of water, ice clinking when he passes one to me as if I'm some normal guest and not a wannabe rent boy. All his furniture is in the gorgeous Craftsman style, which goes well with his vintage home. He settles in a morris chair, the picture of repose as he puts one ankle on his opposite knee.

Meanwhile, I sit gingerly on the most comfortable couch that has ever existed in all of eternity, feeling like I'm exposing way too much skin, especially when my shorts ride up even more than when I was standing.

The couch is mission-style, dark brown leather with wood trim, and, honestly, couches this pretty should not be comfortable, but that's how Keane's house is. Because it matches him, and he's perfect. It even has a cozy gray throw blanket. I want to curl up here with a cup of tea and stay for hours, but I can't. All I say is "Thanks" as I take a grateful sip.

Then I try to adjust the way I'm sitting so I look more tempting. Only problem is, I'm not sure how to do that, since I'm sitting on my best feature. It's not like I can bend over the arm of the couch and shake my baby cakes at him.

Keane thinks I'm hot. Right? All those times helping him with the dishes, he was checking me out. Wasn't he? I didn't misread this. Did I?

As far as I know, he's available. The story goes that Keane realized he was bisexual in college but ended up marrying a woman. They divorced ten years ago.

Keane refrains from commenting on my garb and instead politely asks, "How's the bed-and-breakfast going? It's been, what? Six weeks?"

My heart does a little leap. He's been paying attention to the happenings of my life, even if I don't see him that often. My mouth moves without my permission, likely because this is a much safer topic than the one I intended to talk about. "Yeah, just over a month. It's tough. Aunt Veronica wasn't very tech savvy, and I'm only just now figuring out how to do things. The parts I'd be good at—like upgrading the website—well, I don't want to do those quite yet, because I'm not ready for more business. So I'm maintaining the status quo until I get things squared away. I've got so many ideas for the future, though I don't know if they'll work in practice."

"You'll figure it out."

"Thanks," I say. His confidence in me feels more like sincere reassurance than a platitude. Especially since I know how good he is at running his own business.

"The hospitality industry can be difficult, but it can also be fun. You just have to think about what the other person wants. How they want to be treated. We try to do that in the tasting room."

Keane's small but successful winery is in town, near my aunt's old Victorian home, which she turned into a bed-and-breakfast. I inherited the place just before Christmas and have been trying to keep it running ever since.

I gulp my water and smile.

"Henry," he says gently, "you look so nervous. It's just me. We don't have to talk about business if you don't want to. Are you in some kind of trouble? Can I help? You're not usually"—he holds his hands out, indicating my garb—"like this. What is it you need?"

Squaring my shoulders, I look my ex-boyfriend's dad in the eye and give him the most seductive smile I can muster. Not sure I succeed, since I don't feel like smiling. I lower my voice to a purr. "I guess I just was thinking about you, and I figured that now was the best time for me to ask you for something."

"Okay …" He draws out the syllables as he raises his glass to his lips.

I dig into my shorts and pull out the condoms and lube, watching his eyes widen. "I want—no, I need —you to fuck me."