Chapter One

Aspen

London, Maine

Handling balls isn’t for everyone.

But here I am, playing with the decades-old football that the Golden Fleece keeps around for whenever a Levi enters the pub.

Growing up, I always pretended the honor was bestowed upon us because someone in my family did the world a good deed. You know, something inspiring, like curing a rare disease or establishing a school for god-knows-what or proving, once and for all, that aliens exist and Earth isn’t the sole survivable planet. I don’t know, something monumental, something that carries weight and importance—something more than the truth.

And the truth is, us Levis are notoriously notable for only one thing: football.

The town of London loves us for it. Loves me for it, even though I have two strikes against me. My lack of penis being the first, and my status as a “traitor” trailing behind in a close second place. The minute I eloped with Rick, the general manager for the Pittsburgh Steelers, heads started to roll. My mother’s included.

No New Englander betrays the beloved Patriots like I did and lives to tell the tale.

Luckily for me, Londoners are the sort to forgive, if not forget, a fact I’ve never been more grateful for than when Shawn, the pub’s long-time bartender, flips over a fresh pint glass, fills it to the brim with Guinness, and plunks it down in front of me with a we-knew-you’d-come-crawling-back-at-some-point gleam in his dark eyes.

Out loud, though?

No questions asked.

No snide remarks about how my ring finger is surprisingly bare since we last crossed paths or that I’m already straddling the thin line between sober-and-boring and drunk-and-dancing-on-pool-tables.

It’s probably for the best that the Golden Fleece isn’t a pool table kinda place. It’s the oldest pub in town, built sometime just before the turn of the twentieth century, and the only technology in here is wired to the cash registers, the jukebox blasting Aerosmith like the 90s have risen from the dead, and a massive TV hoisted behind the bar. The bathrooms are hooked up to electricity, too, but that’s to be expected. The rest of the place is a waltz back in time, complete with tapered candles, which sit dead-center on every table, and equally fancy sconces decorating the walls.

I’ve missed the quirkiness of the place.

I sigh into my Guinness. Fifteen years is a heck of a long time to be away.

Catching my eye, Shawn drops his hands to the bar, a damp rag slung over one shoulder. “Never thought I’d see the day when Aspen Levi walked back on in here.”

Might not look like it, I want to boast, but I’m in celebration mode.

Celebrating my return to the motherland, as well as my new teaching job at London High. History isn’t my passion—not like football. Which is why I’m even more thrilled to take over as the new head coach for the Wildcats. The football field is my home away from home. Whistles blowing, refs charging up and down the turf, the sound of bulky pads colliding as players make contact, like modern-day knights hurtling toward victory.

I graze my thumb over the football’s cracked leather laces and breathe through the lingering grief. I’m here because Dad’s not. Not at the Golden Fleece, not at London High, not anywhere. He’d be disappointed to learn about the events that led to my return to London. His baby girl was strong, a badass on and off the field, intensely focused—and I’m . . . divorced, for one. An expert at putting on a brave face and a cheerful smile, for another. Unfortunately, I haven’t felt like a badass in years.

Beneath the football, my knee jiggles up and down. Dad may have passed away three years ago, but it’s Mom who wore me down eventually and convinced me to come home.

You’re not happy in Pittsburgh, she told me almost weekly.

Rick’s a good-for-nothing cheating bastard.

We need you, Aspen. I need you.

Mom hasn’t asked me for anything since I dropped out of Boston College in my senior year. Back when I was the first female kicker in all of the NCAA. Back when the NFL—for the first time in history—was considering drafting a woman to the professional level.

All my life, my parents urged me to rock the boat.

Push at sexist, big boys’ club sensibilities.

Show the world at large that just because I was born with a vagina, that didn’t mean I couldn’t make my mark on a league dominated by cocks and balls. It was nothing but an unlikely pipe dream.

Let’s put it this way: I had the world at my fingertips, and I lost it all.

No, that’s a lie—I gave it away.

And all because I met an older man with a slick smile and a magic penis. Scratch that. There’d been nothing remotely magical about Rick’s dick. Just because he was packing below the belt didn’t mean he knew how to use it, but I’d been young and inexperienced and naïve enough to fall for false promises of love and happily-ever-afters.

Stop ruminating and count your lucky stars.

Idly plucking at the laces, knowing that Shawn’s waiting for me to get my shit together and answer, I count out three doses of luck:

I’m grateful for having a job that pays me to do what I love.

I’m grateful for divorcing Rick the Prick a year ago—finally.

I’m grateful to Mom, who ditched her knitting club tonight to watch Topher so I can socialize with people over the age of thirty.

Actually, the last one came from Topher himself, my fifteen-year-old-son, who shouldered on up to me, rapped his knuckles on my forehead, and confessed, “I think you need to adult, Ma. I love you, but maybe I could—I don’t know—play video games tonight without you hovering over my shoulder?”

I think I’m failing at this adulting thing.

The locals are keeping their distance, Shawn is eyeing me like he can’t trust me worth a damn, and at this point in the night, I’ve shared more intellectual conversation with my Guinness than with anyone in possession of a heartbeat.

“Couldn’t imagine staying away forever,” I lie to Shawn, hoping he won’t hear the tipsy tremor in my voice. I balance the tattered football on my bent knee, wishing the Golden Fleece rocked more than candlelight so that I might be able to make out my dad’s signature scrawled across the textured leather. I miss you, Dad. Miss his hearty laugh and the crazy knack he had for staring at a group of players and bringing out the best in every one of them. Holding this football, the same one he caught in the end zone back in 1982, when he played for the Pats, makes me feel a little less lonely.

When Shawn’s silence stretches on uncomfortably, I paste on a happy-go-lucky grin. “Oh, c’mon. I know you secretly missed me. No point in denying it.”

Shawn’s expression radiates all kinds of in-your-dreams vibes. “The last time you stepped foot in here, I served you your first legal drink.”

Wiggling my brows to tease him, I give my pint glass a little swirl. Tap it down on the bar in an informal toast. “If I remember correctly, it wasn’t the first drink you sent my way. How old was I the first time? Eighteen? Nineteen?”

Finally, the tightness around his eyes softens. Internally I rejoice when he lets out his familiar, raspy chuckle. “You ever tell that to your mom and I’ll be dead by morning.”

“If she has it her way, you’ll be dead no matter what.”

“Nah.” He cups the back of his neck with a weathered hand, then swipes the rag from his shoulder. “What? Gossip doesn’t reach as far as Pittsburgh?” With gusto, he wipes down the already polished mahogany bar. “Your mom and I have set aside our differences. I’m nearin’ seventy, Levi. You think I care about what happened fifty years ago?”

I blink. Stare down into my dark stout and wonder if I’m already drunk enough to be hearing things that can’t possibly be true. Then I blink again for good measure because the up and down motion of my head is not doing me any favors.

At thirty-seven, you’d think I’d be a pro at managing my liquor intake, but drinking has never really been my thing.

I press a stabilizing hand to the bar and pray for soberness. “You really want me to believe that Mom forgave you for dumping her at Homecoming?” Everyone knows the story here in London. And if you don’t know the story of how Shawn Jensen declared his love for someone other than my mother at 1971’s Homecoming—that “someone” being her ex-best friend—then you’re one lucky son of a gun. I’ve heard it retold so many times I can recite the night’s itinerary down to the second. Last I heard, Mom went so far as to ban Miranda Lee from joining her popular knitting club a few years back. Some gossip reaches Pittsburgh, it seems. “She hates you, Shawn.”

The muted light emphasizes the silver strands in Shawn’s surprisingly thick head of hair as he snags a cocktail glass from where it hangs upside down from a rack. “Hate’s a strong word.”

Is it?

I have a whole list of things that I hate. Pickles. The band Journey. Drivers who don’t know how to navigate a four-way intersection. Ex-husbands named Rick.

“Has she baked you her famous casserole pie yet?” I ask, swishing the beer in my glass before taking another heavy gulp. Mom is an absolute sweetheart, but apologies aren’t really her thing. She prefers to gloss over I’m sorry with homemade casserole and a good amount of booze.

Shawn’s bushy brows knit together. “Casserole?”

“Yup.”

Hand-delivering a (store bought) casserole to my mom’s front door was the first order of business when I moved back a month ago. As expected, she’d laughed, ushered me inside, then promptly informed me that I had shit taste in men.

No surprise there.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news but . . . without the casserole”—I shrug, feeling only slightly evil about messing with Shawn—“you’re not in the clear yet.”

“What the hell do you mean, I’m not in the clear?”

“The casserole is the gateway to forgiveness.”

His thin lips flatten—all the better to play the role of grumpy old bartender—even as his dark eyes light with humor. “That might be the stupidest shit I’ve ever heard.”

Before I have the chance to respond, a guy three stools down from me summons Shawn with an empty glass hoisted in the air.

I wave Shawn off with the promise to behave.

“It’s not your behavior I’m worried about,” he tells me, his tone as dry as the Sahara. “In case you haven’t noticed . . . no one’s come to welcome you back into the fold yet.”

No need to rub my lackluster reality in my face quite so bluntly.

Ugh.

Peering over my shoulder, I meet the eye of an older gentleman who used to sit front row at my high school football games. He hasn’t changed at all—aside from his shiny, bald head and the Wildcats T-shirt that’s been swapped out for a flannel button-down. “Him,” I say, just short of pointing at the man as I swing around to look at Shawn, “I remember him. What’s his name again?”

Shawn grumbles under his breath. “Elia Woods. Don’t initiate conversation.”

Don’t initiate conversation?

Sounds like a challenge if I’ve ever heard one.

I stare at Elia a little harder, keenly aware that I’m balanced precariously on the edge of my bar stool. “What? Does he have fangs now? Claws? Some sort of air-transmitted disease?”

“Heya! Shawn! I need a refill, man!”

Shawn taps me on the top of my head with his knuckles, the same way he did when I was a kid waltzing in every spring to sell him Girl Scout cookies. “Not Elia, Levi. He’s had it rough the last few years.”

That’s great. Okay, not great. But that gives us something to talk about. I have my divorce and shitty ex-husband and he has . . .

Well, time to find out.

I slip off my bar stool and land on my sneakered feet without a hitch.

Around the pub, unwanted attention swivels in my direction. Elia himself lifts his head from where he’s drawing in a notebook—on second thought, it looks more like a crossword puzzle—and stares at my face.

Oh, goody.

Eye contact.

Giddiness (and Guinness) swims in my veins. We’re off to a great start.

My hand finds the back of the chair opposite Elia’s and, below the gravelly undertones of Steven Tyler belting his heart out from the jukebox, the wooden legs screech like a banshee as I pull the chair out.

Be friendly. Smile big. Be the girl they all used to love!

Riffing off my mental pep talk, I wave at him like a lunatic even though I’ve already invaded his space. “Hey there! Elia, right? I’m not sure if you remember me. I used to play for the Wildcats years ago.”

I sit down.

Elia promptly stands up, confirmed crossword puzzle in hand, and moves two tables over.

Like I don’t even exist.

The tiny hairs on my arms stand up in a melee of dejection and embarrassment.

Tipsy me thinks it’s a great idea to try again, but just as I clamber to my feet to make my move, a deep voice calls out, “Figures you’d only come home when it was time to take your dad’s old job.”

Oh, boy. I should have known news would travel fast.

I find the source of the voice, then rack my brain for the accompanying name. Stuart. Stewart? Doesn’t matter. He was two years behind me in school and we played football together during his sophomore and my senior year. From what little I’ve seen of him on social media, he married his high school sweetheart and popped out a brood of dark-haired children.

A smile hitches to life on my face. “Stuart!” Stewart? Oh, my God, stop thinking about it. “It’s so good to see you! How’s Beth-Anne?”

His expression darkens to a veritable glower. “Dead.”

I—I . . .

There are a few snickers to my left. My heart threatens mutiny with a virtual white flag of surrender.

With empathy and humiliation warring inside me, I manage a hushed, “Stuart, I’m so, so sorry for your loss.”

More snickering.

The chair squeals again as I launch to my feet.

“Your beer is waiting,” Stuart/Stewart sneers, flicking his fingers toward the bar in a casual dismissal. “Wouldn’t want it to go flat on you.”

He doesn’t need to tell me twice.

I flee with my nonexistent tail tucked between my legs, hopping up on my recently vacated bar stool. Immediately, I snatch up my phone and shoot off a quick text to my younger sister, Willow.

Me: Beth-Anne is dead?!!

And even though she totally claimed to be too busy tonight to come out with me, Willow answers almost immediately.

Willow: Who the hell is Beth-Anne?

Me: Stuart’s wife!!! Stuart—football player, dark, curly hair, definite beer gut. He was in your grade. Remember your small penis theory?

Willow: Ohhh HIM. Yeah, I still stand by that theory. Husband #1 proved it.

Willow: Also, Beth-Anne?

Willow: Do you mean Annabeth?

Fingers flexing around my phone, I glance back, just in time to see Stuart sniggering into his beer. Considering I brought up his dead wife only minutes ago, the man doesn’t look perturbed in the slightest. No crease in his brow. No sorrow lines bracketing his mouth. No defeated posture.

Willow: Who told you Annabeth is dead? I saw her at the grocery store this morning when I was buying condoms.

Because, of course, my sister would ditch me to get laid. Who’s surprised? Not me.

Me: I think I’ve been played.

Willow: Welcome back to London, dear sister. We’ve missed you!!! Now stop texting me. I’m on a date.

I don’t know whether to laugh at finding myself alone in a place that should feel like home or whether I should go ahead and call it quits before I end up looking like an even bigger fool. I knew the transition to London life wouldn’t necessarily be a smooth one. With a population of under two thousand, tight-knit doesn’t even begin to describe our tiny coastal town.

Figures you’d only come home when it was time to take your dad’s old job.

Stuart’s words ring painfully loud in my ears.

Is that what everyone thinks of me? That the only reason I’m back is because I want to take up the Levi crown?

The false judgment burns like acid.

If they only understood how much of a “fairytale” life I had with Rick, they’d know that coaching the Wildcats is nothing but a salve on a festering wound. I took the job because it was offered to me and I’m good at what I do. Because living in Pittsburgh, a year after my divorce was finalized, felt just as hellish as surviving my marriage. And because I’d be a fool to move to a different state without a single source of income, especially since Rick left me high and dry in the divorce settlement.

When successful, powerful men like Rick Clarke sway a judge with the promise of some extra Benjamins, there’s no hope for women like me: washed-up college athletes who are long past their prime.

Ugh. Thinking like that is not doing me any favors.

Planting a hand on the bar to steady myself, I lift my gaze to the old Patriots game Shawn has playing. It’s nice to see that some things haven’t changed around here—for as long as I can remember, Golden Fleece management has always gone out of their way to record every Pats game. By 9 p.m., Monday through Friday, Londoners have claimed their booths and their booze in preparation of watching their favorite players storm the small screen.

And the game Shawn’s playing now? I remember this one oh-so-vividly, if only because Rick raged about it for weeks afterward.

Tampa Bay Buccaneers against the New England Patriots, circa 2015.

Rick had obsessed over recruiting Tampa’s hotshot player, Dominic DaSilva. MVP winner. Super Bowl champion—twice. Best tight end in NFL history, even topping out Tony Gonzalez who had 111 touchdowns to his name before retiring from Atlanta.

Pretty sure each time Rick watched DaSilva play, he popped an instant boner.

Until DaSilva refused to enter negotiations with the Steelers. Didn’t matter that he was a free agent at the time. Didn’t matter that he could have made more money playing for Pittsburgh than he did for Tampa Bay.

It pissed off Rick to no end.

Hadn’t mattered to me in the slightest. DaSilva played a big game but he talked big too. To the press, to other players. Guys like him might have the stats to back it all up, but a little humility never hurt anyone.

That’s what I try to get across to my players. You can be the biggest badass to ever step on the field, but if you’re an asshole off of it? No one’s gonna respect you for long. No one’s going to want to go to bat for you. No one’s going to want to take a chance on a player once the stats stop rolling in and the excitement bubbling around you dries up and all you have left is a big bank account and an even bigger attitude problem.

And I use Dominic DaSilva as an example of What Not To Do, each and every time.

I mean, the man went on a dating show, of all things, and proceeded to be the biggest douchebag of the season.

Not that I’ve been watching Put A Ring On It every Wednesday night when it airs—much.

Gaze locked on the TV, I sip what’s left of my Guinness. I’ll head home as soon as the game is over. Third quarter, three minutes left on the clock. Tampa Bay has the ball. They look a little too cocky, considering they’re trailing behind by a touchdown and a field goal, or maybe that’s just number twelve—DaSilva himself—radiating enough arrogance to power an entire electrical plant as he slicks his gloved hands over his thighs and drops into position.

Someone in the bar hollers, “Thirty seconds, guys!” to the cacophony of raucous laughter and requests for more booze.

I hope Stuart chokes on his beer.

Twenty seconds.

The whistle blows. Grown-ass men charge toward each other like raging bulls on speed. Helmets clang, bouncing ping-pong style. Shoulders work like cranes heaving boulders out of the way. DaSilva rounds the cluster, arms pumping fast, and the camera pans out for a better angle of him sprinting down the field.

Eyes glued to the TV, I tighten my grip around my empty pint glass.

Wait for it . . .

Wait for it . . .

Tampa’s quarterback finally makes the pass, and the football spirals through the air like a cannonball hurtling into enemy territory.

DaSilva cuts around a Pats player, dodging one way, then quick-stepping in the opposite direction. He twists his big body, and I swear there’s an arrogant quirk to his mouth as he leaps in the air, bulky arms raised high.

His hands connect with the football.

And then he comes down.

It’s all so, so wrong.

Players rush him from all sides, and even though I’ve watched this clip more times than I can count—it became Rick’s favorite after all the times DaSilva told my ex-husband to fuck off—I still grimace.

Because if you don’t feel an ounce of sympathy when a person’s bone tears through their flesh to wave Queen-of-England-style at the crowd, then there’s something intrinsically wrong with you.

Feeling my own limbs clench in phantom pain, I hiss between my teeth. “Not even assholes deserve that.”

A big body slides onto the neighboring stool, seconds before that same big body rumbles out, “Deserve what?”

Chapter Two

Aspen

My spine snaps straight with awareness as the stranger gets comfortable beside me.

I don’t even have to look at him to know that he’s massive in a way most men aren’t.

So tall that he can sit at ease with one foot planted on the floor and the other languidly parked on my stool’s footrest. Who needs personal space nowadays, anyway? Not me, apparently. His bent knee is flush with my left thigh, and it can’t all be in my head—tipsy brain or not—that I catch him angling his big body to face me.

Like he’s possibly intrigued by what I have to say.

Even though I don’t know him from a hole in the wall.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as he flattens one hand on his thigh. Casual. Confident. No jittering knees—guilty—or any sign of flushed cheeks. Also guilty. Thanks to the candlelight—and, admittedly, the beer goggles I’ve donned since round two—he’s nothing but olive skin revealed by rolled-up sleeves, a hard jawline dusted with dark scruff, and the crooked bridge of his nose.

The black baseball hat he’s sporting unfairly obscures the upper half of his face.

After taking a moment to flag down Shawn and order a Bud Light, he props one forearm up on the bar. Then the distressed bill of his hat—not that store-bought frayed look, but honest-to-God tattered—swivels unerringly in my direction.

Oh, boy.

I blame the Guinness for the way my heart feels like it’s trying out for Fear Factor, Adrenaline Edition.

Better to blame the beer than admit the truth: I don’t remember the last time a man other than Rick paid me any attention.

Don’t be weird. Act normal.

You can play it cool—

“Deserve what?” he asks again.

Here we go. I keep my gaze centered on the TV, where DaSilva is being carried off the field on a stretcher. “Having their tibia play peekaboo for the entire world to witness.”

Shawn shoots me a reprimanding glance at the graphic visual I offer, then slicks the Bud Light across the bar with an indecipherable grumble.

Who’s surprised when the stranger next to me catches the bottle with a cool flick of his wrist? Not me. He’s got the confident vibes of an athlete—and the bulky size to match.

I turn a little.

Just in time to watch him grasp the glass neck with three fingers. Full lips, the bottom one plumper than the top. They wrap around the bottle’s puckered mouth, then suck down the beer, his throat working smoothly.

Slow, precise movements.

For as Hulk-like as this guy is, he moves with a compelling grace.

Then he speaks again, and the idea of “grace” gets launched out the closest window.

“Happened to a guy I know. Hurt like a goddamn bitch.” Another deceptively nonchalant draw from his beer. “Can’t say anyone deserves a hit like that, asshole or not.”

Rough around the edges.

Gravel-pitched voice.

Clearly, he’s a fan of players like Dominic DaSilva, who retired from the league a few years ago. Much to Rick’s delight.

My cheeks warm from the embarrassment of being overheard. “You say it like you’re a hardcore fan.”

His bottle hesitates midway down to his knee. “Of DaSilva?”

I nod.

“The guy’s a goddamn legend.” That full mouth of his ticks up in a lazy grin. “Asshole or not, he knows the game inside and out. You can’t deny that.”

Sure, I can’t deny it. But knowing the game doesn’t give him a free pass for everything he’s done off the field. I mean, this is the same player who told my ex-husband that Rick could offer him all the pussy in the world, and DaSilva still wouldn’t consider taking the Steelers up on their multi-million dollar offer.

I’ve read the email.

DaSilva didn’t even bother to asterisk the heck out of the word pussy. Simply left it there—bold and brash and completely insolent. Just like him.

Feeling the Guinness-fueled adrenaline in my veins, I eagerly shift my weight to face the Hulk. Football has and will always be my kryptonite. Give me a chance to talk shop, and you’ll be begging me to call it quits within the hour.

But this guy sat down next to me—his first mistake—and Topher did suggest I hang out with people my own age. My boy knows me too well. He also knows that his good-for-nothing dad preferred to pretend that his “dear wife” was way too busy to be included in Steelers business.

Oh, my wife? I can almost hear Rick say to any number of his peers. Yeah, she couldn’t make it out tonight. Too much on her plate, the dear thing. Now, how about we grab a drink at that strip club you mentioned last time I was in town?

I’m not sure when Rick decided I was too much of a liability to bring around his fancy friends, but at this point in life, I don’t give a damn. He can take his holier-than-thou attitude and shove it where the sun hasn’t shined a day in his life, and I can . . .

Scrunching my nose, I survey the Hulk with a critical eye. Or as critical as it can be since I’m swaying ever so slightly and he’s swaying right along with me. On second thought, pretty sure I’m actually the only one swaying. Thank you, beer. “How old are you?”

He barks out a startled laugh. “Legal.” As if to prove it, he lifts the Bud Light and pointedly watches me as he takes a swig. “Does that count?”

Probably. As if I’m about to impart some big, crazy secret, I motion for him to meet me in the middle when I lean in close. “I told my son I’d come out tonight and get some adult conversation in. He thinks I need socializing.”

Another slow pull of his beer, and like a moth to a flame, my attention drifts to the way his bottle reflects the TV’s glowing screen. Focus. Nails scraping my pint glass, I look up at his face—or what’s visible of it, at least.

Even though I can’t see his eyes, I get the feeling that he’s studying me shamelessly. Elbow planted on the bar, the bottle hovering millimeters away from his mouth. When the curve of his lips deepens into a smirk, like he can’t help but find me amusing, I’m momentarily struck dumb.

“Socializing.” He draws out the word on the cusp of a dry, masculine chuckle. “Well, in case you’re concerned about corrupting a youngin’, let me tell you a little secret . . .” Lowering the Bud Light to the bar, he shifts forward until his mouth brushes the sensitive shell of my ear and a shiver shimmies down my spine. “I don’t have an innocent bone in my body.”

My breath hitches. “Not even one?”

“You sound disappointed.”

I blink. “Do I?”

“Nah, not even a little bit. But I don’t regret lying.” Warm lips graze my cheek. “You blush real pretty.”

Oh. Oh.

I jerk back, nearly teetering off the bar stool. “Hold on.” Tipsy me thinks it’s a grand idea to lift my hands, palms up, despite the fact that I’m on the verge of going ass-down to the floor. “Are you flirting with me?”

As though he’s used to putting up with the drunk and disorderly, he smoothly catches me with one of his mammoth-sized paws and hauls me upright. My naked bicep—thank you, universe, for creating tank tops—tingles at the warmth of his touch.

The physical connection lasts only seconds. One moment he’s saving me from absolute humiliation and, in the next, he’s sipping his beer again, cool as a cucumber. Slowly, he dips his chin.

Is he checking me out?

It certainly feels that way, especially when his chest inflates with a sudden intake of breath. In the year that I’ve officially re-entered singledom, I haven’t given much thought to dating. I revel in going to bed and not worrying about slamming doors or living with a man who has no concept of kindness. I don’t particularly miss sex, especially when my sex life with Rick dried up years ago.

He preferred the company of other women and, after the initial hurt of discovering my husband in bed with someone who was decidedly not me, I grew to treasure every moment that I didn’t have to fake my orgasm for the sake of stroking his ego.

But I think . . . well, based on the way I’m squirming on my stool and sneaking peeks at this man’s pouty mouth—to say nothing of the broad expanse of his shoulders or the hard pecs that stretch the fabric of his shirt—maybe I wouldn’t mind flirting.

At least, I don’t mind flirting with a guy like him. Whoever he is.

Finding a small seed of sexual confidence that has long lain dormant, I arch my brows and bait him for a response. Is he flirting with me? God, please let his answer be yes. “Well?” I ask boldly, going so far as to twirl a finger around a strand of my hair like the hot chick out of a romantic comedy instead of being, well, me.

“Old habits die hard.”

Come again?

I’m blinking so fast, I’m half-convinced I’ve developed a sty in the five minutes since he sat down and interrupted my otherwise boring evening.

Quiet.

I meant my otherwise quiet evening.

Snapping my head to the side, I press my hand to my ear in disbelief. “I’m sorry. Did you just say old habits die hard?”

What. A. Jerk.

It’s one thing to confess he’s not attracted to me, and another to go in for the moment—you know the one—the meaningful look, the throaty, sexy laughter that all but signals foreplay, orgasms, and expert make-out sessions—and play a game of takesy-backsies.

Takesy-backsies shouldn’t even be allowed once you’ve spotted your first gray hair in your pubes. And I’m five in, ladies. Five. Maybe more. I wouldn’t know, since I have my esthetician regularly wax the suckers out and call it a day.

Goodbye, evil age reminders.

I reach for my clutch by my empty pint and pop it open. I’m fully prepared to drop cash on the bar for Shawn and get the hell out of dodge when the Hulk grunts out, “Look. Listen.”

Hands clasped together, I turn to him, brows arched in expectation.

Unfortunately for him, I’m not in the habit of accepting casseroles in place of apologies like my mother.

I spent fourteen years kissing Rick’s ass and I’ll be damned if I do the same for a stranger. I don’t care how muscular his arms are or that his chest is wide enough for me to curl up and take a nap alongside my nonexistent cat.

The Hulk hooks a finger in the collar of his black shirt. Then drops his hand to the bar, fingers closed in a fist. “Listen—”

“You said that already.”

That tight fist unfurls until his fingers are digging into the mahogany bar, leaving me with the distinct impression that I’m poking a not-so-hibernating bear.

Bring it.

“You’re cute,” he says, like I should be grateful for the assessment. Like I’m not a woman closing in on forty with a teenage son and goddamn gray hairs threatening to sprout at any moment from my nether regions.

A puppy is cute.

A kid in kindergarten is cute.

I am not—

“Cute,” he repeats with oblivious male arrogance, “but I’m not looking to pick anyone up tonight.”

For possibly the first time in my life, I’m rendered mute.

If Topher knew, he’d commemorate the moment by marking it as a national holiday.

If my mom knew, she’d whip out her phone and get me on the first dating app she could find—all before I could protest about not wanting to meet a guy right now.

Which I don’t.

I’m not looking, which doesn’t at all explain why I’m contemplating rearing back an arm and busting this guy in the jaw. Clearly, this delicious-looking douchebag has inspired a bout of insanity—it’s the only reason I have for envisioning the dimple puncturing the center of his chin being used as bull’s-eye practice for my fist.

Wishing his hat wasn’t in the way, so I could, at least, stare daggers at him with surefire accuracy, I growl, “No wonder you’re taking up for Dominic DaSilva. Kindred spirits, after all.”

“Yeah?” He drains his Bud Light. When he pulls the bottle away, his damp lips glisten. Then they glisten even more when he runs his tongue along them. Unwanted heat gathers in my core, just as he taunts, “How’s that?”

Feeling emboldened by how much I’m growing to dislike this man, I leverage my weight by dropping my hands to his single bent knee. Beneath his dark-washed jeans, hard muscles flex and unclench under my fingers.

“Here’s a clue,” I clip out succinctly, “you’re both assholes.”

A moment’s pause.

I hear Stuart/Stewart at the back of the pub arguing about the merits of the Patriots drafting a rookie quarterback next season.

I hear Shawn taking a new patron’s order.

And then—

And then the knee beneath my hands is quivering because the damn bastard is laughing. Laughing! Head tipped back. Throat elongated. One hand lifting to his chest like if he presses hard enough, he might have a chance to stem the flow of mirth.

I’m momentarily drunk-tracted by the sound.

Husky.

Low.

Sex bottled up in the form of masculine enjoyment.

I hate him on principle alone.

Grabbing my wallet from my clutch, I sloppily pull out a twenty and toss it on the bar. No change needed. There’s not a chance in hell I’m gonna wait around for it, all for the entertainment of the douchebag propped up next to me who thinks it’s hilarious that I dared to imagine he might be interested in me.

When I make a move to leave, the Hulk halts me with a hand to my shoulder. “Hey. You can’t drive home like this.”

“Ninety-percent asshole.”

If I could see his brows, I bet they’d be sky high right now. As it is, his mouth opens and then slams shut. “What?”

“You heard me,” I mutter, drawing my clutch to my chest like a shield from his overwhelming masculinity. “I don’t know where you’re from, buddy, but you’re clearly not a local.”

“California.” When I jerk my head up, he clears his throat. “Originally, I mean. I’m from San Francisco.”

Well, that explains it.

I met a lot of Hollywood folks early on in my marriage to Rick, back when he still enjoyed toting me around like his toy of the month. Some were nice. Most were phony. All had a certain scent of privilege permeating through their pores. And this one here . . . my gaze catches on the gold Rolex encircling one thick wrist.

Yeah, he might be wearing an old-as-shit hat, but the watch weaves the complete story.

Rich.

Entitled.

Just like my ex-husband.

No doubt the Hulk is vacationing here in London, just like Rick was when I first met him that summer before my senior year.

“Word to the wise,” I say, pulling up the Uber app on my phone, “Londoners talk. A lot. If you’re sticking around long enough to give a shit about whether or not they talk about you, I suggest digging deep into that non-asshole ten percent and learn to be a good person.”

“Be a good person, huh?”

I tap the screen to pull up the new street address that’s belonged to me for all of a month.

“Mhmm.” Without glancing up, I pat his shoulder like he’s a good dog. “It’ll be tough for you, considering all those old habits you’re going to have to kick to the curb, but I have faith in your abilities to turn your life around.”

“How gallant of you,” comes his soft, sardonic murmur, “considering you just met me.”

Satisfied that the Uber is only minutes away, I drop the phone into my clutch. “A memorable meeting, for sure. It’s not every day I start dreaming of ways to punch a hot guy in the face after only ten minutes of conversat—”

I go down.

As in, I go down.

Weak, alcohol-inflicted legs.

Numb feet.

Worst-case scenario doesn’t even come close to doing this moment any justice—not the way I collapse, knees buckling, and go face-first into the Hulk’s crotch.

Face.

First.

Someone just put me out of my misery.

In my desperation to not end up on the floor, my hands snake out and find purchase wherever I can.

His legs, I think.

There’s a masculine grunt, loud enough for my sloshed brain to pick up on and send SOS signals sparking to high alert in my system.

Abort! ABORT!!!

The grunt is followed by a big hand cupping the back of my skull, and I’m distinctly aware of the barely restrained tension lacing those fingers. Pull me closer, push me away. He’s clearly stuck in limbo, and I’m on the verge of holing up in my house and becoming a hermit until the day I die.

I’ll miss the sunlight, but when the alternative is this . . .

“Jesus fuck.”

His obscenely uttered curse springs me into motion, which seems to shock him into action too. That hand drops to one of my shoulders, followed by the other one doing the same. He tows me upright so easily that air swoops in under my feet as my sneakers leave the floor.

“Jesus fuck.”

And I thought my dad had a potty mouth. Dad had nothing on this guy.

Lurching backward, out of reach, I step back. Then do so again. Anything to put some much-needed space between us.

His hands find his narrow hips, his barrel chest expanding with an unsteady breath. “You’re absolutely trashed.” He says this like it’s a massive inconvenience, something he proves a moment later when he snags his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans and drops cash on the bar. “I’m taking you home.”

I stare at him. “I don’t get in the car with strangers.”

“Considering where you just had your face, I’d say we’re practically best friends at this point.”

Heat stings my cheeks.

Shoving his wallet back in his jeans, arm muscles visibly bunching with just that slightest movement, he stands there, and I’m forced to tilt my head back to look up at his face. Holy cow, is he tall. Way taller than I anticipated. Six-five, maybe. Six-six, probably.

“I ordered an Uber,” I inform him stiffly, if only to maneuver the conversation away from my all-too-inappropriate nosedive.

With a chuffed breath, the Hulk steers me toward the front door of the Golden Fleece. “The irony of modern-day living. You’re totally fine with jumping into some random person’s car without knowing anything about them but you won’t get in mine even after our delightful talk.”

“Delightful” sounds anything but, given the hostile way it comes out of his mouth.

Together, we step out into the crisp, Maine night. The scent of woods and ocean mingle like the most intoxicating cocktail. I inhale sharply, dredging up all that fresh goodness into my body. Living in Pittsburgh may have worked for my lifestyle with Rick, but Maine is the soothing balm to my soul. Like a salve being smoothed over all my cracked crevices and sharp craters.

The Hulk is ruining my salve.

“For the record,” I mutter, “I don’t know anything about you either.”

“You know I’m a ninety-percent asshole.”

Sharply, I spin around, catching him off guard. We’re close. Close enough that my hands land on his chest and I look up, I see more of his face than I have all night. His features . . . they’re familiar.

Strangely so.

“Ninety-five,” I counter weakly.

His lips press together. “Tacked on another five percent, did you?”

“Collateral damage that you can earn back.”

“Yeah?”

Maybe it’s just me, but I swear his voice just dropped an octave. Could be the Guinness talking. My tipsy, sex-starved body hoping. Either way, I rise up on my toes, putting our faces as close together as humanly possible, considering our height difference, and murmur, “Never mention that moment from inside again, and you’ll be set to go.”

His chest shakes with silent laughter. “You’re assuming we’ll be running into each other again.”

“If you’re living in London, we’ll be lucky if we’re not neighbors.”

Leaning down, putting his mouth next to my ear, like he did when he first sat down next to me, he husks out, “Might want to give me a perfect score, then.”

I squeeze my legs together. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” He steps close, one foot in my direction, but it’s enough to bring our chests flush together. Oh, boy. “I’m a guy who can’t walk away from a challenge. So unless you want me goin’ out of my way to look for you all over town . . .”

He lets the threat dangle out in the open.

He’s flirting again, and I . . . I swallow over the thick lump in my throat. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

A car honks its horn behind me.

My ride.

I stumble back, gravel crunching beneath my shoes. “See you when I see you?”

Moonlight splices across his face as he lifts his ball cap for the first time all night, and for a moment—a split second in time—my heart stutters in a quick tattoo that echoes to the beat of oh, God no, because the Hulk, the stranger whose jean-clad crotch I met without preamble, looks a whole lot like Dominic DaSilva.

I scrub my eyes with the heels of my palms, disregarding the makeup I’ll be washing off as soon as I walk through my front door in ten minutes.

There is no way it’s him. DaSilva, I mean.

A famous, former football player camping out in London, Maine—population three thousand at the peak of tourist season?

Impossible.

Blearily, I blink my eyes open.

His hat is back in place, and he’s standing there watching me, feet spread wide like a cowboy ready to wrangle a steer. “Forget something?” he calls out, that gravelly voice of his surrounding me like dark smoke.

It’s not him.

It can’t be.

Go home, brain. You’re drunk.

Beyond drunk, apparently. There’s no other explanation for me closing the blinds of my new home an hour later, only to see a truck pull in next door . . . and the Hulk-Definitely-Not-Dominic-DaSilva clamber out.

With my hand pressed to the cool glass window, I watch, slack-jawed and swaying on my bare feet, as that now all-too-familiar massive body strides up the driveway to the house that’s had U-Haul trucks parked outside it all week.

He pauses at the front door.

My heart gathers in my throat.

(Or maybe that’s the beer-induced vomit already threatening to make an appearance.)

And then he goes inside.

I let the curtain fall, obscuring my view of the street. Twist around. Let my body slip against the glass window until my ass is on the floor, my forehead is parked on my bent knees, and I’m forced to admit out loud:

“Guinness is the devil.”

And I’m never drinking it again.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Start Reading Kiss Me Tonight Right Now!