Eat, Play, Lust (Entangled Flirts) (6 page)

Acknowledgments

Thank you to Shanan Kelley, Kama Blasing, Lynda Beauchamp, Chip Booth, Randall Barna, and anyone else who’s taught me the fine points of yoga, standup paddleboarding, or some combination of the two.

Thank you also to all my fine foodie friends who’ve supported my culinary neuroses, gourmet snobbery, and cookbook-hoarding habits, especially Larie Borden, Lindsay Landgraf, and Jessica Corra. You ladies make life more delicious. That sounded filthier than I meant it to.

As always, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my amazing critique partners and beta readers, Cynthia Reese, Linda Grimes, Linda Brundage, Bridget McGinn, Minta Powelson, and Larie Borden. I’m also grateful to Dixie and David Fenske for the love, encouragement, and not grimacing too much when I talk dirty.

Big thanks to Heather Howland and the rest of the Entangled team for whipping my story into shape without whipping me (not that a girl can’t enjoy the occasional flogging).

I’m eternally grateful to my amazing agent, Michelle Wolfson, for knowing this story was exactly what I needed to write. You do, indeed, give the best pep talks.

And thank you to Craig Zagurski for being the best kitchen accomplice, wine co-taster, and outdoor playmate I could ask for. We should probably sanitize the kitchen counter now.

Additional Titles for Entangled Ever After...

One Night in the Spa

“I could start listing the muscles of the scalp,” he said as he worked, “but you’d be bored to tears. Let me just tell you what you need to know: you’ve got a headache. You probably always have a headache, but you’re so used to it, you don’t even notice.”

She wanted to argue with him. She wanted to tell him that if she didn’t notice the pain, then it wasn’t important. But apparently it was important because the moment his fingers started easing the tension, everything in her world started to get better. Suddenly she didn’t feel so beaten down. She breathed easier, and she even felt taller. Stupid when she was lying down, but what he did was like water to a dying plant. All of a sudden, she was beginning to perk up. And she never wanted it to stop.

“Do all your clients melt into a puddle on your table?”

“Only the best ones.”

Then he started moving lower, slipping his hands beneath her and using her body weight to produce the pressure. He went from her scalp to the base of her skull, then to her neck and shoulders. Every push of his fingers, every deep circle had her opening up to him. Not just in body, but in mind. She began to trust him in a deeper way than ever before. Which was strange because over the past three years, he’d been an integral part of every day. He knew more about her than anyone. And yet, at this moment, he became more to her. He could probably ask her to give over state secrets and she’d whisper them without a second thought. And if he asked her anything more personal—like if she’d fantasized about the two of them together—then she’d tell him that too. Thank God he wasn’t asking.

Take Me

The solid surge of desire caught her off guard. This was supposed to be a game—a way to teach a lesson to the man who’d automatically jumped to nasty conclusions about her. The very same man who spoke about women like they were stoplights instead of human beings. She wasn’t supposed to want him. It was time to finish it and go home. Alone. “You know what I think?”

He ran his fingers through her hair, his touch feather light. “No, but I think you’ll tell me.”

“I think…” She lifted her face to his, their lips no more than a breath apart. The desire to close the distance, to see if he was a good kisser or not, consumed her, but she stayed on target. “That you smell good.”

And he did.

His fingers flexed on her and he moved in for the kiss. She pulled free and slid a finger in between their mouths, denying him the kiss he sought. He moved back and looked down at her in surprise, which then faded away into frustration. “What are you doing?”

She placed a hand on his shirt, curling her fist into the fabric and pulling him just a little bit closer. For a second, just a tiny second, she debated keeping him there. Debated forgetting about revenge, and instead getting a fabulous orgasm out of this man.

“I’m thinking,” she flicked her tongue over his lips, “that next time you call a woman a stripper, you should be absolutely sure she is one first. Have a good night with your hand, sweetheart.”

She shoved him back in the booth, stood up, and left. She couldn’t resist stealing another look back at him. And what she saw shot little thrills of anticipation shooting up her spine, then back down to twist her stomach into knots.

He was looking at her like she’d just declared war on him…and he intended to win.

The Countess’s Groom

OCTOBER 2, 1762

Will Fenmore, horses’ groom to Rose Quayle, Countess of Malmstoke, watched his mistress as Creed Hall came into view on the hilltop. It jutted from the dark trees, a grim building of gray stone.

The Countess’s horse halted as its rider’s hands tightened on the reins. Will stopped, too. He saw tension in the Countess’s shoulders, in the stiffness of her jaw. One more night, he told her silently. You can do it.

The Countess didn’t move. The seconds lengthened into a minute.

Will wanted to reach out and touch her arm, to give reassurance. He curled his hands into fists to stop himself.

Another minute passed, and still the Countess sat motionless, staring at Creed Hall.

Is this it? Will she break today? The gelding he rode shifted restlessly, sensing his disquiet.

“He’ll be gone tomorrow,” Will blurted.

The Countess turned her head to stare at him.

Will didn’t look away, as a servant should. Instead, he met her gaze. You can do it, Countess.

“Yes,” she said. “He will be gone.” She urged the mare into a trot.

At the great iron-studded door he dismounted and helped the Countess to alight. She took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and entered Creed Hall.

Will watched the heavy door swing shut. Someone needs to rescue you, my lady.