Best Friend Rule #1: never want the guy’s sister
Trent Salway is one of San Francisco’s hot up-and-coming-under-thirty bachelors. A highly successful mutual fund portfolio manager, a workaholic, and a ladies’ man, he’s got everything he could possibly want…except one thing.
Physical therapist Kelsey Quaid dumped her ex-fiancé six months ago because she was tired of not even being a distant second to his career. Which is why despite secretly crushing on her big brother’s best friend for as long as she can remember, there’s no way Kelsey can go there. One workaholic in her life is more than enough, thank you very much.
Before Kelsey’s brother leaves on his Navy SEAL mission, he asks Trent one simple request: make sure Kelsey isn’t dating any assholes while he’s away. As Trent does his best to do just this, he and Kelsey spend more and more time together. Sparks fly, as do a few items of clothing, and the next thing they know things are getting physical between them. Now, Trent has to decide what to do about the woman he’s falling for—the one whose brother would take him down faster than he takes down the enemy. And Kelsey will have to decide if Trent is just another workaholic or if he’s decidedly off limits.
Warning: Contains naughty uses for silk ties, forbidden sex, and enough profanities to make a sailor proud.
Quick, name the top ten sounds you never want to hear while in your car—especially when said noise happens on the way to your best friend’s parents’ anniversary party.
Willing my car to cling to life for a few more feet, I pulled over to the curb. Cars, trucks, and SUVs rushed past, racing to get home for the weekend. The moment I made it to the side of the road, my car abandoned its will to live. The once purring engine took its final purr—well, more like a groan—then I was met with a deafening silence.
“Fuck.” Because, really, is there a better word?
I think not.
The car stuck behind me honked. My poor baby didn’t care if Impatient Guy had somewhere more important to go. She wasn’t going anywhere. I might not have known anything about cars, but even I could tell that much.
I checked over my shoulder at the busy lane next to me. I could have escaped via the driver’s side—if I didn’t mind risking my life and becoming roadkill.
Since neither was currently on my daily to-do list, I went with Plan B. I flipped on the hazard lights, stretched my leg over the gearshift, and tried to climb onto the passenger seat. Tall Victorian houses stood sandwiched together along the street. If they were human, they would have been snickering at me.
The hem of my short dress scooted up my thighs, and that sadly neglected part between my legs accidentally brushed against the gearshift. Naturally, it wasn’t too thrilled that this was the only action it would see. Which was a helluva lot more than it had seen for the past 460 days.
But who was counting?
Still awkwardly straddling the gearshift and doing my best not to dry-hump it, I performed a graceful face-plant onto the passenger side. My knee landed on the seat; my face almost smashed into the window. On the bright side the sidewalk was empty of pedestrians. No one had witnessed my moment of humiliation.
I shifted my body and opened the door. With my skirt still hiked up my thighs, I performed a complex move of climbing out while shimmying the hem back into place. The Russian judge would have given me a 2.5, mostly due to lack of technical skills…and well, grace. But at least this time I didn’t land on my face.
Why I climbed out of my car was anyone’s guess. To scowl at it, maybe. That was about the extent of my mechanical skills.
Since Erin—my best friend—and her husband were already at the party, I called AAA and pleaded for them to send someone. Preferably now.
Apparently, 5:00 p.m. on a Friday afternoon was NOT a good time to need AAA. The soonest they could send someone was in four hours.
The sun peeked from behind a cloud, reminding me there was indeed always a bright side. The party wasn’t far from here, and AAA would phone me when the cavalry was on the way.
Now, I just needed to get to the party.
In romance novels, this was the moment when the hero pulled over and offered to help the heroine. In thrillers, this was the moment when the serial killer pulled over and added another notch in his…well, whatever serial killers added a notch to.
A familiar black BMW pulled in front of my car and option B would have been favorable at this point. I inwardly groaned as Trent Salway exited his vehicle.
“Hey Kels, you need help?” Six-foot-plus of dark-haired male hotness in a black business suit walked up to me, and the ache between my legs let out a dreamy sigh. Clearly it hadn’t forgotten how I had been crushing on my best friend’s big brother for as long as I could remember—only for him to see me as nothing more than a little sister. More specifically, his best friend’s little sister.
For my latest book news, you can subscribe here for my newsletter. XOX
Come join me in STINA’S SWEETHEARTS (my Facebook reader fan group).