CHAPTER ONE

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
Zoe

I am the Queen of Bad Decisions.

Now, before you start thinking that I’m overly dramatic, let it be known that, boy, do I wish that was the case. But no—I have a problem that’s otherwise known as “no self-control.” See the following:

A) My freshmen year at the University of Michigan, when I drunkenly professed my love for my English teacher via email. The recipient of that email? My professor. Naturally. The next day, I found myself on a transfer list to another class.

B) My ex-boyfriend, Mark, who apparently had a bad habit of humping his next door neighbor whenever I worked overtime. Discovering them together on our anniversary was just the cliché icing on the cake, and so was the way I stealthily slashed his tires the following evening, à la Carrie Underwood.

C) Andre Beaumont. Sorry, but we’re not even getting into this one. I’ll only mention that because of my . . . indiscretion—big muscles and silky smiles that hint at bed sheets and panty-dropping sex are always my downfall—my life has been one downward spiral for the last three-hundred and forty-two days.

But all that changes today. Here. Right now.

I flash a bright smile at the CEO of Golden Lights Media. Golden Lights is Boston’s premiere entertainment marketing empire, and hopefully my next place of work. Believe it and you will achieve it. That might as well be my tagline. “I can’t say thank you enough for asking me in for a second interview, Mr. Collins.”

“Zoe.” Mr. Collins utters my name the way some might say “Satan,” like he’s worried he might catch my plague just by sitting opposite me.

My smile slips, just a little. Think of the job, Zoe. Think. Of. The. Job. “Yes, Mr. Collins?”

Heaving a big sigh, Walter Collins drops back in his seat to study me with stoic brown eyes. “Zoe. Miss Mackenzie.”

This cannot be good.

I gird myself for the worst, flipping my folder up against my chest like a body shield. It’s packed with my résumé, cover letter, and three letters of reference. It’s also packed with my hopes, which are seconds away from shattering, if the CEO’s expression is anything to go by.

“Listen, Miss Mackenzie,” he says again, scrubbing a hand over his bearded jawline. “You’ve got the right qualifications for the position . . .”

I know what’s coming. The urge to scream is overwhelming. I bite down on my lower lip and count to ten. One . . . two . . . three . . .

“But while I’d love to welcome you onto our public relations team, I’ve done a little research since our preliminary interview, and what I’ve found . . . . Well, I can’t say that I’m all too impressed with your professional conduct.”

I’m sure he’s putting that mildly, just as I’m sure he practiced that exact line in the mirror this morning. His words have a pre-orchestrated feel to them, and he delivers them somberly, in the same tone that my former employer oh-so-graciously gave me the news that I was fired. You’d think someone had died the way that he’d—oh, wait, that was my career.

Slowly I meet Mr. Collins’s gaze, and I make the decision that I have nothing to lose. Not my pride or my dignity, nor am I harboring any longstanding too-high expectations. I know what the score is, and I’m willing to play to this CEO’s fiddle, as long as I come out with a job on the other side.

“Mr. Collins,” I say carefully, “I understand your reservations. But I can promise you that what occurred a year ago won’t be repeated.” Nervously I tap my fingers against the folder, internally debating how to approach the situation. I straighten my shoulders. “After my . . . transgression last year, I’ve had quite a while to think over my faulty decisions.”

Mr. Collins does not look impressed.

Panic enters my body. After almost a year of applying to jobs in my field, Golden Lights Media is my last hope. My last hurrah. I’m twenty-seven years old and living with my dad and step-mom. If my dad has it his way, I’ll be working at his restaurant full-time like a good daughter, while also babysitting my half-sister on my off-days.

I love Tia, but even my love for my twelve-year-old half-sister can’t make up for losing out on my dream—permanently.

Mr. Collins doesn’t know it yet, but he’s about to offer me this gig as the new Public Relations Coordinator for his firm.

I plant the folder down on the desk with the flat of my palm. “Let’s do a trial run.”

“Beg pardon?”

Bam. Stifling the abrupt pleasure of throwing the CEO off his game, I say, “A trial run. You want to hire me, but you’re not sure if it’s a good idea. I’m convinced that you won’t regret it. As you told me in our first meeting, Mr. Collins, my résumé intrigues you. I’ve worked for all sorts of mainstream celebrities, including some of Detroit’s biggest sports stars.”

Brown eyes narrow on my face. “Including Andre Beaumont.”

My knee-jerk reaction to hearing that name is to throw something. Maybe pound back a bottle of Jose Cuervo, because there is nothing I would like more than to forget the feeling of Beaumont between my legs, as he proves once and for all that multiple orgasms are a thing.

Or, rather, a thing that can happen with men.

(To be fair, my vibrator does a solid enough job on its own.)

But I digress.

I clear my throat, awkwardly reaching for a small glass of water and downing half for fortitude. “Yes,” I murmur, “my former list of clients does include Mr. Beaumont.”

Mr. Collins studies me, his brown eyes unblinking. “Let me make sure I’m understanding you correctly, Miss Mackenzie. You would like for me to give you a trial run.” He scratches at his perfectly manicured beard. “Does this entail assigning you a client? Do I hold you to the same standard as the other publicists on my team?” He drops his elbows to the desk and leans forward. “Do I draw up a contract that reaffirms that you are not allowed to sleep with a client just to be certain that we’re on the same page?”

My cheeks burn with embarrassment, and the words die on my tongue. It was only one time.

It just so happens that the “one time” was also caught on camera. Then shared across the Internet.

I promise you, until the day that your step-mom texts you to say that she never knew about the birthmark on your butt, you’re not living life hard enough.

When silence steals my tongue, Mr. Collins turns to his computer. His fingers fly across the keys, tap, tap, tapping away with all the speed of a Tasmanian devil on speed. He clicks the mouse, another click, two more, and then he swings back around to face me.

“All right, Miss Mackenzie.” He folds his arms across his chest and stares me down over the bridge of his nose. “I’ll go along with your trial run.”

My heart drops clear down to my feet. “You will?”

Way to sound confident, Zoe.

“Yes,” Mr. Collins murmurs, “I will. I’ll give you one month, as you suggested. And one client.”

I’m not sure whether I ought to cry with relief or laugh at the fact that my desperate ploy is working. I do a little bit of both, and Mr. Collins gives me such a stern side-eye that my sobbing laughter dies an awkward death in my throat.

Straightening my shoulders again, I realize that I’m preening. Down, girl, down. I drop my shoulders—lift my chin instead. “Thank you, Mr. Collins. Thank you so much.”

Finally, finally, I’m catching a break. The first professional break I’ve been given since the entire world found out that I slept with Andre Beaumont, NHL superstar. The former right wing for the Detroit Red Wings. King Sin Bin, as raving hockey fans like to call him, thanks to his lethal skill set on the ice—a skill set which regularly lands him in the penalty box.

Maybe, if I play my cards right, I’ll shed the dreadful nickname the media gave me—Moaning Zoe.

Maybe, if I play my cards right, I can finally get my life back on track.

“I promise that you won’t regret this,” I say, reining in the urge to gush. “Whoever you assign to me will be perfect, and I guarantee that Golden Lights Media won’t have seen a better PR Coordinator.”

There’s a knock on the closed office door. I don’t turn around.

Everything that I want is at this desk. My hands itch to sign whatever contract my new boss might have stashed away in the drawers. My heart stampedes in my chest, overjoyed with the fact that after three-hundred and forty-two days, I finally have the chance to prove myself.

I’m not just the woman whose career took a hard tackle.

I’m not just the woman crashing on her parents’ couch, and watching the Disney Channel every night with her sister.

I’m not just the woman who threw everything away for thirty minutes of hot sex with the sexiest hockey player in the NHL. A hockey player who had no interest in talking to the media on my behalf. No, the jerk quietly accepted his trade to the Boston Blades and never looked back.

“Miss Mackenzie,” Mr. Collins says, recapturing my attention. “You’re in luck. My assistant, Gwen James, just signed a new client, and we’re pretty eager to get him settled in with an agent who will keep him in line and ensure that his public reputation remains scandal-free.”

“Scandal-free is my middle name, sir.”

Okay, slight exaggeration. But it used to be my middle name, you know, before the whole thing went down with Beaumont. And it might as well be my first name now, since I fled Michigan to Boston six months ago in a life do-over.

If Mr. Collins picks up the irony in my words, he doesn’t mention it. “One month, Miss Mackenzie. We’ll be coming back around to this in thirty days. But I’m telling you right now—if I hear one sliver of gossip about you, your so-called “trial run” will become null and void. Do you understand?”

Do I understand?

Hell to the yes, I do. “Absolutely. You can be confident that I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“Brilliant.” He gives one short nod, then presses a buzzer on his desk.

The door swings open as I turn around, and a woman with voluminous red hair waltzes in with a spring to her step. “Walter, I’ve got our new client here.”

Her wide-eyed gaze lands on me. Oh crap, I know that look. It’s the one I get when people recognize me. And by that, I mean, they’ve seen the banana-shaped birthmark on my ass, as well as a quick glimpse of my face from the security camera video.

Kill me now, please.

“Miss Mackenzie,” she says, coming over to shake my hand. “My name is Gwen. It’s great to have you. Walter already let me know that you’re on board. I . . . well, let me introduce you to our newest client.”

I try not to let my hopes lift. Golden Lights Media is the top public relations company in Boston. From actresses to sports heroes to politicians, Golden Lights has backed anyone who’s anyone in the Bay State.

My gaze flicks from Gwen to the empty doorway. Who have they paired me with? I’m hoping for someone awesome like Mark Wahlberg. Maybe Matt Damon. Hey, a girl can dream, right?

When a shadow fills the doorway, an acute sense of dread settles in my stomach. That shadow is familiar and that body even more so. I tilt my head, squinting against the afternoon glare from the sun for a better look.

Leather shoes slip against the marble flooring as the shadow enters Mr. Collins’s office. Inch by inch, the body emerges as my sight readjusts. Dark jeans cling to muscular thighs, and a white T-shirt is halfheartedly tucked into the pants.

Something about this isn’t right.

I shift in my chair, wishing that I could see his face. I so want to reach into my purse for my sunglasses. Unlike Gwen, who pranced right into the light like a beam of sunshine, this person hugs the darkness.

“Miss Mackenzie,” Mr. Collins says, interrupting my thoughts, “might I introduce to you our newest client?”

And that’s when The Day from Hell is replaced.

Because out from the shadows emerges Disastrous Mistake Numbers One through Infinity.

“Hello, Zoe.”

Andre Beaumont, the Devil himself.

Oh, hell no.

CHAPTER TWO

Zoe

He looks exactly the same.

For all of his faults (and there are many, trust me), Andre Beaumont is certainly not lacking in the looks department. Perfectly disheveled dark hair is swept back from his face. Dark eyes the color of Italian espresso travel up the length of my body, starting at my no-nonsense red pumps and working all the way up to my equally no-nonsense black dress. That hard gaze pauses at my breasts—not that there’s much to speak of, considering that I’m “willowy” at best—before landing on my face.

He doesn’t even have the good grace to look ashamed for his thorough once-over.

My hand itches to leave my side and flash him the bird, and I sit on my fingers to keep from giving in to temptation.

Speaking of temptation—it’s overrated. Officially.

The sound of Mr. Collins clearing his throat breaks my death glare. “Miss Mackenzie,” he says, coming around his desk to greet Andre with a handshake, “I trust that you recall Mr. Beaumont?”

Sarcasm. It’s like music to my ears.

Swallowing a hot retort, I smile blandly at my new boss, as well as at the man responsible for my downfall. “Yes, of course.” Brushing invisible lint from my dress, I stand and walk over to the two men.

The two couldn’t be more opposite. While a gray suit encases Walter’s thin frame, “casual” is the name of Andre’s ensemble. He’s completed the look with a black leather jacket—the same buttery-soft jacket that I remember pooled on the floor as I slipped my fingers over his ribbed abs.

Do not go there, Zoe.

I hold my hand out stiffly, still faking a welcoming smile that might crack my cheeks. “Mr. Beaumont, it’s nice to see you again.”

Andre takes my hand. Instead of shaking it like a normal person, he gives a sharp tug and pulls me close: so close that I can’t help but remember firsthand that his irises and pupils are one synonymous black hue; so close that the fading bruise on his cheek, no doubt from a fight on the ice, catches the light and glimmers purple and yellow; so close that when he drops a brief kiss to each of my cheeks, I catch the scent of sandalwood off his skin. “It’s been too long, Zoe.”

“Or, not long enough,” I mutter under my breath.

“What was that, Miss Mackenzie?” Mr. Collins stares me down, and it’s so fierce, so intimidating, that I have to physically push back my shoulders to avoid withering like a dejected wallflower.

Right. Must be on good behavior.

Suddenly I’m not so sure that this trial run idea was a good one.

“Walter, I’m glad that Gwen convinced me to come on board with Golden Lights Media,” Andre says, breaking the uncomfortable moment in a rare show of . . . well, hell, I don’t think it’s compassion. Andre doesn’t do compassion—for anyone. “After the work I’ve seen your firm do for Duke Harrison, I’m positive that you’ll have the media thinking that I’ve turned a new leaf in no time.”

Call me cynical, but I doubt Andre has turned over anything, leaves or otherwise. I’ve followed mentions of him in the media closely this last year, closely enough to know that he’s panicking.

Not on the ice. The big, bad Andre Beaumont is as fast and dangerous in the ice rink as he was on the day that the Detroit Red Wings drafted him from Northwestern University. But outside the rink? That’s another story. The tabloids love to dish the dirt on his love life, which generally involves leggy supermodels followed by mentions of little ol’ me.

Will Andre Beaumont Finally Move on from Moaning Zoe? Only Time Will Tell!

Or, another recent favorite of mine: A Trusted Source Has Told Us that Moaning Zoe Has Moved to Boston to be with Hockey Superstar Andre Beaumont. Will the Couple Finally Shed Their Dirty Laundry and Come Clean?

You’d think that after nearly a year, the media frenzy over a security camera catching us doing the naughty in the Red Wings’ laundry room would have died down. Alas, each new girl that lands in Andre’s muscular embrace only adds more fuel to the gossip rags.

I like to think of it as Divine Justice.

Only, I’d prefer not to have my name dragged through the mud in the same dirty swipe.

Retreating to his desk again, Mr. Collins takes a seat. “We’re pleased to have you, Mr. Beaumont.” He shifts stacks of papers to the side, and then pulls out a thick binder. “Yours is the exact type of case that we enjoy taking on.”

Andre’s thumbs go to the belt loops of his jeans, and his rugged features tighten. “An easy case, I hope?” he asks. Damn him, but his voice still hasn’t lost its sexy appeal—gritty, raspy. I once asked him if he smoked cigarettes, but he denied it vehemently.

“My body is a temple,” and all that jazz, he said.

He’s right—his body is a temple. A temple he chooses to share with any Jane, Kathy, and Sally who comes his way.

Not, of course, that I pay that close attention to the tabloids.

Walter’s hand visibly pauses in the midst of flipping open the binder—a binder that I can only conclude holds all of Andre’s deepest and darkest secrets. Walter looks to his assistant, the redhead, who visibly blanches and then launches into a flurry of motion.

“Mr. Beaumont—”

“You can call me Andre. The formality is a bit much.”

“Right, right.” Gwen slides a glance my way, and I arch my brows in a helpless gesture. If she’s looking for help, she’s come to the wrong place. Andre wouldn’t listen to me, even if I hogtied him to Mr. Collins’s office chair and threatened bodily harm.

Realizing that I’m no help, Gwen fluffs her red hair like it’s her body armor and then takes a deep breath. “Mr. Beaumont—”

His buttery leather jacket creases along the shoulder as he lifts a hand to stop her. “Andre.”

“Right, Andre.” Another deep breath. “See, the thing is, Andre, you’ve provided us with a very . . . different sort of case than your teammate. For the most part, Mr. Harrison kept to a relatively low profile over the last number of years. As you might imagine, this made my job easier. With you, however . . . ”

“Just tell him, Gwen,” Mr. Collins jumps in with a flick of his wrist. A shiny gold Rolex sparkles under the office lights. “You’re pussy-footing around the issue.”

Gwen mutters something unintelligible beneath her breath. Then, shoulders straightening, she announces, “You scare people, Andre.”

Walter Collins harrumphs his approval.

Gwen looks on the verge of vomiting.

And then the man, who is known for being as impenetrable as finely cut marble, reacts.

His jaw drops open. And I—well, I feel the most ridiculous urge to clap my hands. His powerful shoulders twitch as he sharply glances back at me, and I realize that I’ve released an ill-timed squeak of delight.

Oops.

Pardon me.

Andre whips back around to face off against Gwen. “It’s my job to scare people,” he growls.

“Correction,” Gwen says, lifting her finger like she’s checking the wind direction, “the Blades hired you to intimidate other hockey players. On the ice. Not the media, off the ice.”

She does have a point. Most players ham up to the cameras after a game, or, at least, they’re reasonably polite.

Andre Beaumont is not “most” hockey players. Only the bravest of souls dare approach him in the locker room, and those numbers grow fewer by the game, based on what I’ve heard trickling down the grapevine. Back when I handled his PR, he’d had a similar, snarly disposition, but he cleaned up the attitude whenever I laid down the law.

“So the fact that I don’t smile is a problem.” Andre’s voice is hard, surly.

Gwen’s bright smile cracks, just enough to see that she’s trying desperately not to wince. “That’s one problem . . .”

“And the other?”

“Women.”

Silence descends over the room, tense and oppressive. Gwen resolutely holds Andre’s gaze, though I swear her right eye twitches.

Slowly, as though tasting the word “women,” and finding it repulsive, Andre mutters, “So, what? I date. Is that a crime?”

“Frequently,” Gwen interjects, still standing strong, bless her heart. “You date frequently.”

This time, there’s no mistaking the way Andre looks at me over his shoulder. His dark eyes glitter with frustration, and his full mouth flattens into a thin line. Without taking his gaze off me, he tells Gwen, “I hadn’t heard that it’s a crime to test the waters.” His gaze dips to my mouth and I fight off a shiver of unwanted desire. “Sometimes it’s not what you expected.”

This time, it’s my jaw that slackens.

The . . . the . . . jerk!

Blood centers in my forehead, making it pulse like it’s under siege from a bloody stampede of wild elephants. Letting my fury carry me, I meet his gaze and sweetly reply, “That’s what happens when you take too many dips in the ocean, Mr. Beaumont. You choke on saltwater.”

Walter slaps a closed fist to his chest.

Gwen lets out a scandalized, tinkling laugh.

Andre and I exchange a look that can only be categorized as pure snark. If “snark” had a look, I mean.

I stare him down, refusing to look away until he breaks eye contact first. Back when I was at—ahem—my prime, my clients fondly called me the “barracuda.” Like the sharp-toothed beasts roaming the Amazon, I rarely stepped down from a fight. I learned from the very best—my mother, who, despite raising me on her own, worked three jobs and never failed to put food on the table for the two of us.

I count out the seconds that it takes for Andre to glance away. Nine. But glance away he does, and that slight measure of victory sends a thrill dancing down my spine. He may have worn me down a year ago, toppling over my defenses and warming up my girl parts, as well as my heart, but no longer. Nope.

I wouldn’t sleep with Andre Beaumont again if he were the last man on earth.

Let me amend that: I would sleep with Andre Beaumont if he were the last man on earth, but only because I feel a very ingrained sense of duty to the world to continue procreation and to not let our species die.

You’re welcome.

The sound of Mr. Collins faking a hacking fit jars me back to the present. He points at Gwen, as if telling her to take the reins and handle the misbehaving child.

Her eyes drift up to the ceiling. I wonder if she’s praying for strength.

After long seconds, Gwen says, “We’re aware of your slipping sponsorships. Last week alone you lost both Nike and Gatorade. That’s a very big deal, especially for someone already coming off a big scandal.” Thankfully, I’m not wearing a scarlet A on my shirt, and no one looks at me. “Whether you choose to admit it or not, your attitude might not be an issue on the ice, but it is absolutely affecting your game play off of it. Unless you’re interested in losing every sponsor you have currently, you’re going to have to do what we suggest, Mr. Beaumont.”

This time, he doesn’t even bother to correct her.

Although he’s still presenting me with his back, I swear that I can see the wheels turning in his handsome head. Does he realize where I fit into this equation? That, more likely than not, he’s stuck with me . . . maybe indefinitely?

The irony would kill me if it weren’t for the fact that I’m too busy staving off the panic.

Andre and I . . . we aren’t strangers. Far from it, actually—I handled his PR for nearly a year. While we certainly butted heads on more than one occasion, I haven’t forgotten the way that our business relationship slowly converged with a personal one. Snack runs after a particularly long session with reporters. Jogging on early Sunday mornings, whenever he wasn’t out of town for games. Double dates when I caught a man’s notice. Whenever this happened—and, not to totally throw myself under the bus, but the dating thing wasn’t frequent—Andre always agreed to come along with whatever girl he was sexing up that day.

Andre’s intimidating demeanor kept the creepers at bay.

Hard as it might be to believe, Andre had my back.

Just as I had his.

Until we let one explosive kiss ruin everything. And it really did ruin everything, because that one spontaneous kiss led to the laundry room fiasco, and obviously we all know how that turned out.

Aka that time my birth-marked butt hit every small screen in America.

It’s as horrifying as it sounds.

Andre rakes his fingers through his thick, dark hair. “So, what you’re saying is that either I take your advice, or I’m screwed. Do I have the gist of it?”

Gwen doesn’t wince, but there’s no hiding the way her gaze shifts to the floor. “If you want to keep your current lifestyle, then, yes, that about covers everything.”

For a long moment, no one says a word. Then, he grumbles, “Fine. Whatever you have to do about this, then we’ll do it.”

Except that he doesn’t say “about” but rather aboot, because, naturally, he’s Canadian.

A Canadian who isn’t all unicorns and rainbows and nice—in other words, Andre is practically unrecognizable amongst his own kind.

“Great!” The tense lines in Gwen’s face ease. “Then I’d love to officially introduce you to your new publicist.”

Andre’s back stiffens. “You won’t be in charge of my case?”

“Oh no,” Gwen says with a flippant wave of her hand. “Golden Lights is expanding to other cities, and I’ve got about ten different clients right now, one of whom can’t complete a sentence without dropping the f-bomb. No, Andre, you’ll be paired up with our newest addition to the Golden Lights Media family.”

Slowly, as though his body is battling a rough current in the ocean, Andre twists at the waist to look at me. Seeing the realization spark in his expression might be my new favorite memory, right after the time my only pair of Manolo Blahniks arrived in the mail, and I slipped those beautiful babies onto my feet while I ate cereal and watched reruns of Friends.

But this moment . . . Oh, boy, it’s a good one. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t waited a year to see Andre Beaumont look off-kilter and just a little bit scared.

His eyes glitter, but the inscrutable emotion banks as his mouth turns down. The quiet before the storm.

“No.”

It’s all he says, and yet the two-letter word is everything.

I grin, making it extra toothy just to show him that I am unfazed. With a little finger wave, I say, “Hello, Andre.”

A pulse ticks to life in his jaw. “No.”

“Didn’t you say it’s been too long? I could have sworn that I heard you—”

“No.”

“I think you did,” I murmur sweetly, just short of batting my eyelashes at the man who I’ve dreamed of beating with his own hockey stick—between the legs, where it hurts.

“Walter—” Andre twists around to face the CEO of Golden Lights. He clears his throat, then does so again. “Mr. Collins, with all due respect, I demand someone else handle my case. Considering my . . . past with Miss Mackenzie, it only makes sense.”

Walter tucks his hands under his armpits. “I’m sorry, Mr. Beaumont. We’ve hired Miss Mackenzie on a thirty-day trial, so unless something momentous happens during the interim, you have her and her only.”

“A trial,” Andre drawls. I don’t like the way he rolls the word over on his tongue, like he’s considering the ramifications of his next few words. “And if she doesn’t last the thirty days?”

“Then you’ll be assigned to someone else, and we’ll have to meet with Miss Mackenzie one-on-one to discuss her position with Golden Lights.”

I don’t like the way that Andre glances at me over his shoulder, a considering look darkening his rugged features.

And I especially don’t like the way he turns to look at me fully, crosses his arms over his chest, and huskily says, “Let’s hope that she makes it to thirty days, then.”

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

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