by Katie McCoy
Heartbreaker
Rascals: Book Three
Katie McCoy
Copyright 2018 by Katie McCoy
Cover Design: RBA Designs
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including emailing, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Contents
Prologue
Heartbreaker
Also by Katie McCoy
1. Juliet
2. Juliet
3. Juliet
4. Liam
5. Juliet
6. Juliet
7. Juliet
8. Liam
9. Juliet
10. Juliet
11. Liam
12. Juliet
13. Juliet
14. Juliet
15. Liam
16. Juliet
17. Liam
18. Juliet
19. Juliet
20. Liam
21. Juliet
22. Juliet
23. Juliet
Soulmate
I. Royal Player
1. Emmy
2. Emmy
Also by Katie McCoy
About the Author
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HEARTBREAKER
Rascals: Book Three
Liam Callahan is devastatingly handsome, infuriatingly aloof and… my new boss? Put that at the top of the list of ‘Things I Wish I’d Known (Before I Was Panting in His Arms During a Sizzling Midnight Make-out Session.)’
My bartending gig at Rascals was supposed to be a fresh start for me. Now I’m juggling drink orders AND red-hot sexual tension - but I refuse to let Liam’s smoldering stares throw me off my game…
Until one late night leads to another. And another. Liam has a reputation as Mr Heartbreaker, but he’s revealing a whole new side of himself: funny, playful, and most definitely NSFW. But this rascal has made a rule of never getting in too deep, and despite the real connection between us, something’s holding him back.
Can we find a way to put the past behind us and move on? Or will my new beginning end in heartbreak before it’s even begun?
The Rascals Series:
1. RASCAL
2. WINGMAN
3. HEARTBREAKER
4. SOULMATE (Oct 15th)
5. TROUBLEMAKER (Dec 10th)
Also by Katie McCoy
The Rascals Series:
1. RASCAL
2. WINGMAN (June 25th)
3. HEARTBREAKER (Aug 20th)
4. SOULMATE (Oct 15th)
5. TROUBLEMAKER (Dec 10th)
The All-Stars Series:
1. ROYAL PLAYER
2. HOT BACHELOR
3. HEARTTHROB
4. SEX GOD
The Players Series:
GAME ON
PLAY ME
PLAY MAKER
1
Juliet
I was ready for a good time. The bar was crowded when I arrived—I’d never been to this place before and double-checked the name above the door before heading in. Rascals. Yep, that was definitely the name of the place that my friend had texted me.
Inside was as hot as it was outside—even though I was pretty sure the A/C was on full blast. But it was August in Chicago. There wasn’t much anyone could do to escape the humid heat that had been hanging over the city for months now.
I put a hand to my head, trying to determine how much havoc the humidity had caused to the last-minute French twist I had attempted on my hair. My whole outfit had been thrown together in less than ten minutes—but that was typical of my friends, to wait until the last minute to decide to text me about going out.
Standing on my tiptoes, I scanned the crowd, looking for any familiar face I could find.
In the end, I spotted Paulina at the other end of the bar, trying to flag down the already overwhelmed bartender. I wove through the crowd to get to her.
“Juliet!” She gave me the usual double air kisses—one on either side of my cheek. “You look so hot,” she said, taking in my outfit. “Very Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”
I looked down. I hadn’t meant to come in costume, I’d just grabbed my little black dress and twisted my hair up to keep it off my face, but I guessed it was pretty Audrey—if she had any curves. When I bought the dress, it had been slightly loose, making it look casually sophisticated despite its short hem. But now, after several months away from the strenuous daily workouts and regimented eating of my previous life, the dress was a little snug. I had worried it was showing too much.
Until I saw what Paulina was wearing. It was technically a pair of shorts and a tank top, but the shorts were so short that they would be better described as tap pants, and the tank top showed most of Paulina’s flat stomach. I’d seen her wearing the same thing a billion times in rehearsal, so maybe she was just coming straight from practice.
“What do you want?” Paulina asked, still trying to wave down the bartender.
I paused. Usually, I’d say a glass of wine, knowing that I’d be nursing it for the rest of the evening. When I was still dancing, a night out like this was considered a treat. And a rarity. Now, I could go out whenever I wanted. And drink whatever I wanted.
“Tequila shots,” I told Paulina. “Two of them.”
Her eyes widened, but she said nothing. No doubt, this was a detail that she’d be sharing with the rest of the company tomorrow morning when people asked about me. I could just hear her relating the story now:
“How is Juliet doing?” someone would ask, their eyes wide with sympathy. With pity.
“Oh, well, she’s gained a lot of weight,” Paulina would say—I hadn’t missed the way she glanced down at my tight dress. “And she went on a binge last night. Two shots of tequila.”
And I could clearly imagine the reaction. A gasp and then a shake of the head.
“Poor girl,” they’d say. “Guess she’s not doing very well.”
Except I was. OK, sure, it hadn’t been easy retiring from ballet at the ripe old age of twenty-five. Especially since I had pretty much dedicated every waking moment of my life up until that point to becoming a professional dancer. Everything had been going perfectly to plan, until my knee decided that it didn’t want to dance anymore.
Bad luck was what it came down to. At least, that’s what my doctor said. Just bad luck that I had the knee of a seventy-year-old man, and even a knee replacement wouldn’t get me back to where I had been before the accident.
Not that the accident was even that catastrophic. That was just bad luck too. Bad knee, wrong move, end of career.
I could see from the way that Paulina was eying my knee—the scar completely visible in my short dress—that she wanted to ask how I was, but I was grateful when she just took my order and pointed me in the direction of the rest of my friends.
They had commandeered a table in the corner of the bar, and as I headed towards them, I took in my surroundings a little more. The bar was somewhat new—but had the feel of an old-fashioned kind of place. Like the type of joint Sinatra might have hung out in—with dark leather seats on the chairs and in the booths, and gleaming wood panels all around. It was a beautiful-looking place, and I even liked the music they were playing—classic old rock and roll. I could barely ke
ep my shoulders from shimmying as I crossed through what had become a makeshift dance floor.
Just as I was about to reach my friends, I caught a glimpse of someone standing at the opposite end of the room. He was tall—practically towering over most of the other patrons—and wearing an all-black suit. Like a corporate Johnny Cash. He even had the stern look down pat. Which is what caught my attention. Specifically, his eyes.
They were like the rest of him, dark and intense.
I stopped mid-step as his eyes caught mine. Holy. Cow. That was a gorgeous-looking man. The chiseled jaw, the criminally broad shoulders, and the thick, neatly combed hair that needed desperately to be messed up. In fact, all of him looked like he needed to be messed up. He was too neat, just standing there, his suit impeccable, his entire presence impeccable. My fingers itched. I wanted to be the one to mess him up. I wanted it bad.
The impulse surprised me. I wasn’t that kind of girl. The kind of girl that saw a man from across a crowded bar and started fantasizing about him. I’d had boyfriends and flings over the years, but nothing that took precedence over dance—no one who could even compare with the thrill and excitement I felt when I was on stage. But just one look from this stranger gave me chills like I’d never had before.
Or maybe this was just the first time I’d been paying attention. To men like that, and to myself. To my own desires.
“Juliet!” Viktor’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts, and I glanced over to where my friends were impatiently waiting. “Did you get lost?” Viktor asked as I finished walking towards them.
“No, I just—” I glanced over to where the man in black had been, but he was gone.
Had I imagined him?
No, I saw him weaving through the crowd towards the bar—his broad shoulders easy to make out now that I knew what I was looking for. The dance floor parted enough that I could get an even better look at him, and damn. He was sexy from his head to his toes.
“Earth to Juliet.” Becky waved her hand in front of my face.
I blinked and refocused my attention on my friends.
“Sorry,” I said, turning to greet each of them. I noticed that everyone was doing their best to not look downward, towards my knee and my scar.
I couldn’t blame them. A dance-ending injury was all of their worst fears, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if they were all worried about getting my bad karma just by being near me. Certainly it was the excuse I had gotten from other dancers when I had tried to reach out. It was nothing personal, I kept being told, but it had been a shock, especially when I was still recovering. Losing my job, as well as gaining the knowledge that I’d never be able to dance professionally again, had been bad enough. Losing most of my support system of friends at the same time had been almost unbearable.
But I had survived. And I would continue to survive.
They kept talking, about gossip from the company and the upcoming schedule, so I scanned the room, not exactly sure what I was looking for. Until I found the man in black again. That’s when I realized I had been looking for him.
Just like before, the sight of him made my pulse speed up. He was leaning against the bar this time, finishing up some amber-colored liquid in a glass. The music was so loud that I could feel it pounding through the floorboards beneath my feet, and before I knew what I was doing, I was heading towards the handsome stranger.
He looked even better close up.
“Hey,” I said, sounding way more confident than I felt.
“Hey,” he responded, his voice low and deep.
The sound sent another chill through me. A good chill.
“Want to dance?” I asked him, before I could second-guess myself.
I half expected him to say no. After all, most guys weren’t really comfortable with dancing. But he surprised me. He put his glass down and pushed away from the bar, holding his hand out.
I took it and got a jolt of electricity. I searched his face for any kind of reaction, any indication that he had felt the same thing, but his expression remained impassive as he led me to the dance floor. Up until now, the music had been pretty upbeat but as we walked through the crowd, the music changed, slowing down to “Amazed” by Lonestar—a song I loved.
I waited for his footsteps to falter, for him to make some excuse to get off the dance floor, but he kept walking with purpose. With his hand still in mine, he swung me out a little and then back towards him, his other arm going around my waist. My chest brushed against his as his hand settled on my lower back, holding me there with the kind of strength and confidence that any dancer hoped for in a lead.
And it was hot. His footwork wasn’t fancy, but he knew his way around the dance floor. I followed his lead easily, one hand linked with his, the other on his shoulder. His extremely well-muscled shoulder. That much was evident, and I could feel it even through the layers of his jacket and shirt. Those muscles flexed as we swayed together, and I couldn’t help moving even closer, letting my chest brush against his once more. I was rewarded by a slight tightening of his grip on me—the only indication that my proximity was having some sort of effect on him. I loved it.
“I love this song,” I murmured.
“It’s definitely growing on me,” my partner said, and I laughed.
I was having a surprisingly good time. Maybe it was the tequila, or the warm room, or just my own bravery, but I pressed against him again.
“You’re a great dancer.” I kept my voice low and husky.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” he responded, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
“You have no idea,” I murmured, almost more to myself than anyone else.
I looked up at him, his dark eyes staring down at me, and wanted to do something completely reckless and out of character and lose myself in him. Just for tonight.
But before I could say anything, there was a tap on my shoulder. I turned just as the stranger’s grip loosened.
“We’re going,” Viktor told me, gesturing towards Paulina and Becky, who were already grabbing their coats.
I looked at the clock. “It’s only nine,” I said, even though I knew that it didn’t matter.
They had an early rehearsal the next morning. I didn’t really miss the early wake-up calls, but I couldn’t help the wave of sadness that washed over me—the same wave that always seemed to knock me down when I thought I was finally done grieving the loss of my previous life. Apparently, I wasn’t done grieving yet. Not even for the early-morning wake-up calls.
I kissed them goodbye. At least I had a hot stranger to occupy my attentions. But when I looked back, I found that my dance partner had disappeared.
Dammit.
I tried to find him again, but the bar kept getting more and more crowded. I searched but wasn’t able to spot him.
I headed back to the bar, the buzz from my tequila shots already wearing off. Or maybe it was the disappointment of losing a hot guy when he was literally in my grip that had dulled my buzz. Either way, I needed something to pick me up.
The guy behind the bar still looked frazzled, but he had been joined by another bartender, one that looked as if there was nothing on this planet that could cause him to lose his cool. He was pretty gorgeous as well, and as I glanced around the bar, I noticed that there were quite a few extremely attractive men scattered throughout the place. None of them were as hot as my man in black, but I could appreciate a bar that offered eye candy with its liquor.
“A beer,” I ordered.
“You’re going to need to be a little more specific,” the bartender said with a smile.
I realized that I didn’t really know the names of different beers. And why would I? Drinking in general was frowned upon while one was in rehearsal or performing, but beer was the worst option because of all of the carbs and calories it had.
Calories I was no longer counting.
There was a plaque on the other side of the bar, noting that a particular ale had come in second place at a recent beer brewing f
estival.
“Do you have that?” I asked, pointing at the plaque.
“We sure do,” the bartender said, an even larger smile appearing on his handsome face.
He poured me a glass from the tap, and I watched him balance the glass carefully to keep from getting too much foam on top. At least, that’s what I assumed he was doing.
He passed it over.
“Do you have a tab?” he asked, and I gave him my name.
Instead of going to his next customer, however, he watched me intently as I took a sip of beer. I was surprised by how light and crisp it was. My expression must have displayed my shock because the bartender laughed.
“Is that a good face or a bad one?” he wanted to know.
“A good one,” I told him, taking another drink. “I don’t have a lot of experience with beer,” I explained. “But I like this one.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “Because I made it.”
My eyebrows went up. “You made this?” I looked back at the plaque. “You’re Chase?”
He nodded, still grinning.
“Congrats,” I told him. “Second place is a pretty big deal.”
“Thanks,” he said, looking boyishly adorable. “I’d like to say it was just an honor to be nominated, but it definitely feels a lot better to win.”
I laughed. I knew exactly what he meant. I’d been in plenty of dance competitions to know that winning was a much bigger—and better—high than anything else.