To Natalie Damschroder for the after-midnight parking lot adventures, the honest critique and the squeeing. Thank you for helping me make this book the best it could be.
To Lauren Dane for the afternoon IM madness and constant support. Thank you also for helping me kick this book in the butt.
To my family, for helping me become the person I am.
To my children for their loving support and pride. âMy mom writes booksâ still makes me smile â even though youâre not allowed to read them until youâre over eighteen!
To Jude Lawâ¦well, duh. Because.
To my Internet and real-life friends who listen to me blather on about my writing and actually buy my books. A million thanks!
To Joshua Radin, whose song âWhat If Youâ was the backdrop for the scene on the stairs. Thanks for giving me the perfect song as inspiration. I listened to it a hundred times and could listen a hundred more.
To Stevie Falk for letting me borrow her house and her profession, and for answering all my questions.
To my agent, Mary Louise Schwartz, my editor Susan Pezzack, the cover artists and staff at Harlequin who worked to get this book on the shelves â thank you for your hard work and dedication. I can write it, but youâre the ones who put it out there for the world to see.
And finally, to my husband, who listened to me talk about this book for months and months, offered insight, kept me going, hooked me up with medical information and told me how great I was. (And still does.) Thank you for helping me reach my dreams.
Chapter 01
January
This month my name is Mary and, apparently, Iâm as contrary as the nursery rhyme. First I said I wanted to fuck, but now Iâm refusing to come out of the bathroom. What I donât know is that Joe doesnât like cock teases, nor does he suffer wasting time. Heâs already done the wooing, bought the drinks, made the compliments. If I donât put out in the next five minutes, heâll put his coat on and go.
I donât know this because I only met him three hours ago in a bar downtown. His name seemed as if it were a cosmic joke, but out of all the men I met tonight, Joeâs the only one who bothered trying to have a conversation with me. Thatâs why I picked him. That, and the fact thatâs heâs hot and well-dressed, with a charming quirk of a smile that tries to look sincere but mostly doesnât.
âMary, Mary quite contrary. How does your garden grow?â
His voice presses against me through the bathroom door. Iâve heard that rhyme a thousand times. Been called Proud Mary. Bloody Mary. Mary Poppins. My parents gave me the name thinking it had no diminutive, but people will always find a way to tease, if they want.
The doorknob is cool under my fingers and turns easily. I open the door to show Joe Iâm ready for him. That the wait was worth it. Iâve stripped down to a set of lacy white panties and a matching bra, and I fight to keep from crossing my arms to shield myself from his scrutiny.
His eyes widen a bit. His tongue snakes out to slide along a mouth I havenât even kissed yet. I want to kiss it. He looks as if heâll taste good.
âDamn.â The wordâs a compliment, not a curse, and I manage a slightly more confident smile.
I turn, slowly, so he can see me from all sides. When I come around again to face him, Joe reaches for my hand and tugs me one step, two, until, like magnets, our bodies attach to one another.
Heâs unbuttoned his shirt and the hair on his chest scratches my soft flesh. I shiver. My nipples peak against the lace and heat coils in my belly. Joeâs fingers splay on my hips. Iâm all of a sudden too shy to look into his eyes.
He pulls me to the bedâthe nice, big king-size he requested from the clerk at the front desk with that same quirky smile that first attracted me. âIâm a bad boy,â that smile says. âBut Iâm so good you wonât care.â It had worked on me and the clerk, too, whoâd taken the extra time to find us a room with a bed big enough for an orgy.
Thereâs no orgy, though, just me and Joe and the sound of the heating unit blowing the curtains. The hot air coming out of it smells stale, but what did I expect? Frankincense and myrrh?
âCâmon.â Joeâs getting impatient, tugging me onto the bed.
He kisses me, finally, my throat and the curves of my breasts. A shoulder. I arch a little under the feeling of his mouth on my skin, and though my lips part, he doesnât kiss them.
His hands smooth up my sides and over my belly. When one goes between my legs, Iâm startled. He doesnât notice, or maybe he doesnât care. He strokes me a few times and I melt into his experienced touch like sugar in a hot pan, all crumbling, scattered grains melting and smoothing into one liquid ooze.