Page 16 of Knockout (Whiskey Dolls 2)

“How about that twist at the end, right?” he asked conversationally. “All that time, we thought it was the nanny, but turned out, it was the deranged mother who’d faked her own death the whole time. I didn’t see that coming. Did you?”

I stamped my foot. “Son of a bitch!” That was what I got for assuming it was Bax’s book, since I’d walked into the laundry room at the same time he was walking out. I should have known. He didn’t seem like the type of guy who’d be into psychological thrillers. “Well too damn bad. You’re not getting it back. Now that I know it’s actually yours, I’m setting that bitch on fire.”

He propped himself back on the wall across from me and crossed his long, beefy arms over his chest, looking way too happy with himself. “If that’s how you’re going to react then I probably shouldn’t tell you that I was the one who made that lasagna, should I?”

“Oh come on!”

“Hate to be the one to burst your bubble, princess.” He was so full of shit. He looked all too happy to be bursting my freaking bubble. Like a little psycho boy on Christmas morning who’d just gotten his first BB gun and couldn’t wait to go outside and shoot at the neighbor’s cat. “But that asshole lied to you. Like I said, he’s a douche.”

“How do I knowyou’renot the one lying?”

He pushed off the side of the elevator and took two steps in my direction, and with legs as long as his, that brought him right into my personal space. “You’re more than welcome to come up to my place right now. I’d be happy to show you where I keep my Gram’s recipe.”

I had to have been coming down with something, or maybe the air in the tiny elevator car was pumped with toxic fumes, because I could haveswornI heard innuendo laced through that offer. Which didn’t make a damn bit of sense, because we hated each other, right?

Reaching up, he fingered a strand of my hair, rubbing it gently between his thumb and forefinger like he was testing its softness. “But I’m glad to know you likedmylasagna. And before you try to claim that’s probably the only dish I can make successfully, you should know I’m actually excellent in the kitchen.” His tone suddenly dropped suggestively as he added, “I’m excellent in other places too, just in case you were wondering.”

Well now I was, damn it. Not that I’d admit that to him. “I wasn’t,” I grumbled sourly.

Fortunately, the door opened to my floor in that moment, providing me with a much needed escape. Ihadto be coming down with something, because it felt like the heat had been cranked up in the building and I was being cooked alive. It had to be a fever. It couldn’t possibly be the six-foot-a-whole-bunch-of-inches wall of fine-ass man making me so hot. Itcouldn’t!

“Sure you don’t want to come up to check out that recipe?” Jude called after me as I hustled down the hall toward my apartment.

I lifted my middle finger in the air without turning back. “I hope the cable snaps before you reach your floor and you plummet to your death!”

My threat was met with a boom of rich, velvety laughter that sent a shiver of something not at all unpleasant from my nipples all the way down between my thighs before it was finally—and blessedly—cut off when the elevator doors closed on him.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I didn’t have the first clue, but I worried that, whatever it was, it was potentially life threatening.

As soon as I was in my apartment, I pulled my cell phone from my purse and scrolled to Charlotte’s number. There was one way I could think of to get me back to rights and return my hate-ship with Jude to its proper order.

Charlotte answered on the second ring. “Hey, babe. What’s up?”

“Tell Nona I’ll go on a date with that guy.”

She let out a delighted squeal. “Okay! I’ll call her right now.”

“And Charlotte,” I said in a warning tone of voice, “this guy better be amazing. I’m talking dipped-in-chocolate, gold-plated perfection.”

A moment of silence filtered through the line before she finally came back. “Uh, don’t you think maybe your expectations are a little high?”

“Fine,” I relented grumpily. “But he at least better be nice to look at.”

Let’s just hope I wasn’t making a huge mistake.

8

Layla

Lifting the glass of wine to my lips, I took a fortifying sip. The liquid courage had been desperately needed when I started the process of getting ready for my first ever blind date. It had been nearly a week since I had agreed to go out with a man I’d never even seen, let alone knew, and I still wasn’t quite convinced this was a good idea.

I’d had to talk myself out of backing out countless times over the past few days. To make sure I actually went through with it, my so-called friends—the assholes—had designated Sloane and Asher to be my babysitters, tasking them with the job of making sure I looked my best and forcing me out the door, kicking and screaming if necessary.

“All right,” Sloane called out through the bathroom door, “you’ve been in there long enough. Time’s up.”

I slugged back one last gulp, this one much bigger than the one before, then exited the bathroom, my belly full of butterflies—part nerves, part dread of the evening to come.

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