Page 1 of Dirty Deeds

PROLOGUE

DANICA MATTHEWS

A banana hasone hundred and five calories, while a single shot of whiskey has only eighty, making Jim Beam the better choice when watching your calorie intake. However, when one shot becomes six and you find yourself practicing your oral skills on the jilted banana you should probably question your choices. In my defense, yesterday was a rough day. I filed for divorce and my emotions clearly impaired my judgement. It didn’t help matters that after a couple of shots, I started wondering what I did that would send my husband to another woman’s bed.

I couldn’t recall the last time I gave him a blow job and that not only had me reaching for the bottle again, but also the banana. Good news, though, it turns out it’s just like riding a bike. Once you learn, you never forget. So at thirty-two it’s safe to say, I can party like a rock star and take a banana down my throat like Jenna Jameson.

It’s the morning after—when I’m wearing a pair of Gucci sunglasses because the light inside the fridge threatens to blind me—that’s the problem.

I grab a bottle of water from the top shelf of the mini fridge and kick the door shut with the heel of my bare foot before straightening to my full height. Another poor choice because the sudden movement causes all the blood to rush to my already pounding head.

Fuck.

Closing my eyes, I wait for the pain to subside before unscrewing the cap of the bottle of water and chugging it down. My cell phone rings forcing my eyes to shoot open and for the first time since I woke up, I survey the damage. A gasp slips past my lips, and I pull the sunglasses away from my face as I stare at my soon-to-be ex-husband’s clothes strewn haphazardly around our boat.

Apparently the shenanigans didn’t stop after deep throating the banana.

Go me.

Spotting my phone, I climb over a pile of clothes to answer it, but I’m too late and before I can see who it was that called, a text message from my best friend, Ro, comes through.

Don’t forget the guy is coming to fix the boards on the top deck so you can sell this hunk of shit.

I smile at the screen. Coincidentally the last time I got this intoxicated, Ro was also my drinking partner. The only difference between now and back then is we were celebrating my last days as a single woman then.

And just like that, my smile vanishes. Reality slams into me and it becomes all too clear that I am once again a single woman. After six years of marriage, I’m starting over and that is absolutely terrifying.

It’s crippling.

“And here I thought this morning was going to suck.”

At the sound of the deep, unfamiliar voice, I drop my phone and scream like a fucking banshee. Did I mention I’m only wearing a pair of skimpy underwear and a tank top that reads“Oscar The Grouch Ain’t Got Nothing On Me”—don’t ask.

I have no fucking idea where the tank top came from.

I also have no clue where my bra is, but I’m certain it’s not covering my tits.

Grabbing the first thing I see, I lift the lamp as a weapon and turn to face the intruder.

Only instead of finding a man dressed all in black with a ski mask on his face like in the movies, a fucking God wearing a toolbelt and a panty-dropping smirk stands before me and in case you were wondering he doesn’t appear to be all that threatened by the lamp I’m clutching over my head.

His eyes rake over me slowly, pausing when they reach my chest.

“Nice shirt.”

Heat creeps into my cheeks and my fingers tighten around the base of the lamp. Unlike the sexy stranger in front of me, I’m not sure where to look. I could follow his lead and stare at his broad chest, or I could let my gaze wander a little north to his shoulders, a yard wide and straining against the fabric of his t-shirt. Of course his ruggedly handsome face is another option. God blessed him with classic features. A strong jaw, dusted with a day’s worth of scruff, a generous mouth, and dark brown eyes that hold the slightest hint of humor. Normally, facial hair is a turn off for me, but somehow this guy makes it work.

A little voice inside my head reminds me this guy is an intruder and instead of ogling him, I should be smacking him upside the head with my lamp.

I clear my throat and he lifts his eyes to mine.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s not polite to stare? My guess is no, seeing as no one ever told you it’s not proper etiquette to barge into someone’s home without knocking either.”

Still grinning, he quirks an eyebrow and loops his thumbs through the toolbelt that hangs low on his hips. I wonder if he has one of the v’s or a happy trail of hair that disappears into his jeans.

“You live on a boat?”

“Well, no…but…” My words trail and I sigh. Am I really making small talk with a complete stranger while dressed in a pair of underwear? Is this what happens when you get divorced?

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