A fun, sexy new stand-alone from New York Times bestselling author Aleatha Romig.
He's sexy and confident, the kind of man every woman notices. You know, the one with the to-die-for body and panty-melting smirk. And then there's the way his designer suits drape over his broad shoulders and big...well, we've all heard the rumors, the ones that say he's up for any challenge.
But I can't see him that way. He's my boss—technically one of the owners of the company where I work—and definitely not in my league. Men like him don't notice women like me, and they don't date them.
And I don't date men like him.
Until that one time that I catch him in a compromising position when I'm also in need of a last-minute date for a wedding...and then it's not real. It's blackmail.
For one weekend, he's my plus-one.
Beautiful and unobtainable.
From the moment she walked into my office with those stunning blue eyes and crazy sensual curves, she's been on my mind. Three years and never once has she acted interested in me. Usually I flash a million-dollar smile and women fall to their knees, some literally.
Then on the occasion that I agree to let another woman do that—fall to her knees—guess who happens to catch us?
It may not be the most conventional way to get on her radar, but I didn't get this far in business without knowing when to seize an opportunity. If this sexy little firecracker with perfectly kissable lips thinks she can blackmail me into attending her cousin's wedding, I'm going to jump at the chance to be her plus-one.
You love her darker side. Now it's time to meet Leatha, the lighter side of Aleatha, as she trades her renowned twists and turns for laughs and love with this sexy new stand-alone romance, PLUS ONE.
I push the thought of my mother's call away and concentrate on my friend, Shana. As I do, the slippery napkin escapes my hold. Quickly, I slide from my seat to retrieve it. "Excuse me," a deep voice says as black leather loafers stop precariously close to where I'm now kneeling to rescue my napkin. Seeing the shoes, I look up and suck in a deep breath. Towering above me are long legs covered in tailored trousers. As I follow them up, they lead to a trim waist, a black belt, and a white shirt that buttons over a broad chest. I barely swallow the lump in my throat as I recognize the wide shoulders covered with the matching suit jacket. Seizing the napkin, I stand, suddenly face to face with one of the owners of the company where I work. My face burns with embarrassment as his shimmering green eyes narrow and head tilts. Inches away from me is one of the handsomest men I've ever met. He should be on the cover of GQ, not gracing the halls of Buchanan and Willis. His firm lips form a tight smirk and cheeks rise in amusement. "Miss Jones." Staring into the sea of emerald, I try to pretend I wasn't just on my knees in a chic restaurant in front of Duncan Willis. "Mr. Willis," I respond, my voice cracking. Nervously I take a step backward. As if the moment weren't awkward enough, I wobble, teetering precariously on my high heels. Swiftly, he reaches out, grabs my elbow, and steadies my footing. Though he just saved me from making an even bigger fool out of myself by falling face-first into what I can only imagine is a hard, defined chest, my mind is suddenly consumed with the electricity of his touch. The energy heats my skin as his grasp lingers.