by Addison Cole
She pressed her hands to Christmas’s droopy cheeks, kissed her bewildered boy’s snout, and reached for the bottle of tequila she’d been nursing. She’d never had tequila before tonight, but it was the perfect addition to her chocolate–horror movie grief remedy. After pouring herself another shot, she tossed it back in one gulp, savoring the warmth as it slid down her throat and drowned her sadness.
She set the glass beside her on the couch and shoved her hand into the jumbo bag of peanut M&M’s that had consoled her throughout the evening—because a big lazy dog was great for licking tears, but nothing quenched sadness like candy-coated chocolate. And tequila. Definitely tequila. Her fingers scraped the bottom of the bag. Darn it. She tossed the empty bag to the floor. Christmas hung his head over the side of the couch and whimpered.
“Don’t judge me. It can’t be that bad.” She leaned forward to assess the damage, knocking an empty pizza box to the floor, and reached for the coffee table to stop the room from spinning. “Whoa.”
Another scream brought her eyes to the movie, then toward the movement in her peripheral vision, where a shadowy figure blocked the entrance to the media room. It took her alcohol-drenched mind a minute to realize the tall, broad man filling the doorway wasn’t supposed to be in her house. Panic spread through her veins, catapulting her to her feet. Christmas darted to the stranger with a friendly woof.
“Oh gosh.” She reached for the wall to steady the spinning room, fighting to push through her drunken haze. She’d seen enough movies to know she was going to die in the media room of this lonely house, wearing chocolate-stained sweatpants—or more accurately, ice-cream-, tequila-, pizza-sauce-, and chocolate-stained sweatpants—while her dog made a new friend of her killer.
“Stay back. He’s a killer. One command and you’re dead!” Not likely with her loving dog.
The man sank to one knee, his face hidden by her big, traitorous dog.
“Yeah, I can see that,” he said casually, as only a coldhearted psycho killer could.
Searching for a weapon, she grabbed the tequila bottle, only too late realizing it was spilling down her wrist. She flipped it upright, wishing this was a movie and someone would yell, Cut!
A piercing scream drew their attention to the heart-pounding terror on the projection screen. Suddenly the room was showered in light. Parker’s eyes slammed shut against the sensory invasion, then flew open to get a look at the man who would probably find fame as the Parker Collins Killer.
Her breath caught in her throat, and her hand flew to her frantically beating heart, as she took in the Greek god rising to his feet before her. His smoldering dark eyes nearly brought her to her knees. Grayson Lacroux.
“Grayson?” Do I sound scared, drunk, or like I want to jump your bones? Probably all three, which wasn’t good. Grayson had won a two-year contract in a design competition last summer, and for the past ten months he’d been designing artwork for the Collins Children’s Foundation. As the founder of CCF, Parker headed up the project, and they’d exchanged hundreds of emails—emails that felt intimate and meaningful and had pulled her through too many long, lonely nights to count.
“What are you doing here?” She cringed at how breathless she sounded. Even in her drunken state she knew it had nothing to do with her initial fears and everything to do with the towering male across the room.
His lips curved up as he surveyed the room. She’d come straight down to the media room in full-on holing-up mode after arriving from LA. Her open suitcase lay in the middle of the floor, lace and silk seeping over the sides. The clothes she’d worn on the flight were strewn across the hardwood floor. One pink high heel peeked out from beneath an empty bag of Twizzlers; the other was nowhere in sight. An orgy of fun-size candy bar wrappers and M&M’s littered the floor.
“I might ask you the same thing.” His voice was low and rich and made the room feel fifty degrees hotter.
Maybe that’s the tequila.
“I came to take measurements for the railing and heard a noise. I didn’t know you were here.”
Measurements? She couldn’t think with his dark, assessing gaze trained on her as he crossed the room. Each step was a declaration of power and control—the same air of confidence he relayed in his emails. Parker was used to beautiful people, but holy mother of hot and sexy men, Grayson brought manliness and sex appeal to a whole new level. An enticingly tempting level. She was five nine, and he had several delicious inches on her. His bulbous biceps and massive breadth made her feel more delicate than she was. His tousled, thick dark hair and unwavering air of command made her knees wobble. She took a deep, unsteady breath and backed against the wall to stabilize those wobbly knees, but he stepped closer, assaulting her senses with his musky, and somehow summery, scent.
Nope. Definitely not the tequila. The man was a walking heat wave.
He eyed the tequila bottle in her hand, and his eyes filled with amusement. “Having a little party?” He plucked a sticky piece of candy from her hair and held it between his large finger and thumb with a cocky grin.
A crazy-hot cocky grin that sent dirty thoughts about his mouth rushing to the front of her mind. “Not exactly,” she mumbled.
“You’ve been avoiding my emails.”
She’d been avoiding email, voicemail, and life since Bert’s funeral. Grayson was on her callback list, along with her agent, a few foundation staff members, and about a dozen so-called friends.
“I…Um…” Can’t really think clearly. She lifted the tequila bottle. “Care to join me?”
His gaze dragged down her tank top, reminding her she’d taken off her bra. As if on cue, Christmas woofed, Parker’s pink lace bra dangling from his mouth. Grayson’s eyes brimmed with heat, making her want to put him on a totally different kind of to-do list.
He’d been the subject of her late-night fantasies for so many months she felt like she already knew him well enough for him to own that list.
This was bad.
Very, very bad.
Parker didn’t have that kind of to-do list. She did relationships. Or rather, didn’t do them, based on her dating history.
Ugh! Her head was too fuzzy to try to untangle the web of lust she’d weaved with every email, every intimate glance into his private world of family, friends, and his love of his craft. Grayson worked with heavy metals, as evident from his insanely perfect physique, which no gym in the world could produce, and his designs were excruciatingly unique and beautiful. Parker had probably driven him crazy making changes, but if she had, he’d never let on. She loved reading his descriptions about why he designed certain pieces and how he felt when he was creating them. Sometimes he wrote about missing his family, or about bonfires and outings he’d gone on when he flew home to work with his brother on specific designs for CCF. She’d been careful not to ask personal questions, so she wouldn’t feel inclined to share her personal life, but she had secretly clung to each of his tales, treasuring the emotions he’d so eloquently shared. She’d made excessive design changes just to keep those intimate glances of him coming.
And now he was here, all six-something feet of him, close enough to see and touch and taste—and between her grief and his hunkiness, she was clearly losing her mind.
She pushed past him, grabbed the lingerie from Christmas, and tossed it into her suitcase. “Lie down.”
Christmas walked in a circle and plopped onto a pile of clothes with a huff.
Parker grabbed a shot glass from the bar, determined to remain in her inebriated state so she could deal with all the testosterone flinging around the room, and sank down to the couch. “Coming, big guy?”
To continue reading please buy LOVERS AT SEASIDE
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STRAWBERRY SPICE JAM RECIPE
1 cup water
3 habanero peppers
1 1.75-oz package powdered pectin
1 teaspoon lem
on juice
1 750-ml bottle of strawberry wine
5 ½ cups sugar
Add 1 cup of water to a large saucepan and bring to a boil. Cut the tops of the habanero peppers, leaving them whole, and add them to the boiling water. Stir in the powdered pectin and lemon juice and bring to a boil. Add the wine and return to a boil. Slowly add the sugar one cup at a time while stirring (stainless-steel spoon works best). Bring to a boil for one minute. If you lift your spoon up and let the liquid drip, you should see it thicken as it drips. Remove the habaneros, along with any seeds, from the jelly. Remove any foam from the surface and add to the jars.
This recipe makes seven to eight 8-ounce jars of jelly.
Available at www.AlsBackwoodsBerrie.com and other retailers.
Acknowledgments
One of my greatest joys is writing about Cape Cod, and when I told my fans that the Seaside Summers series might end after Matt Lacroux’s book, I had to run into a closet and hide from the backlash. So, my dear readers, I have decided to continue the series! There’s nothing more exciting for me than hearing from my fans and knowing you love my stories as much as I enjoy writing them. Please keep your emails and your posts on social media coming.
A special thank-you goes to Nina Lane, Elise Sax, and Kathie Shoop for our brainstorming sessions.
My work shines because my editorial team is incredibly talented. Thank you, Kristen, Penina, Elaini, Juliette, Marlene, Lynn, and Justinn, for all you do for me and for our readers.
And to Les, my own hunky hero and the best research partner around. Here’s to forever, baby.
More Books By The Author
Sweet with Heat: Seaside Summers
(Includes future publications)
Read, Write, Love at Seaside
Dreaming at Seaside
Hearts at Seaside
Sunsets at Seaside
Secrets at Seaside
Nights at Seaside
Seized by Love at Seaside
Embraced at Seaside
Lovers at Seaside
Whispers at Seaside
Stand Alone Women’s Fiction Novels
by Melissa Foster (Addison Cole’s steamy alter ego)
The following titles may include some harsh language
Chasing Amanda (mystery/suspense)
Come Back to Me (mystery/suspense)
Have No Shame (historical fiction/romance)
Megan’s Way (literary fiction)
Traces of Kara (psychological thriller)
Where Petals Fall (suspense)
Addison Cole is the sweet alter ego of New York Times and USA Today bestselling and award-winning author Melissa Foster. She enjoys writing humorous, and deeply emotional, contemporary romance without explicit sex scenes or harsh language. Addison spends her summers on Cape Cod, where she dreams up wonderful love stories in her house overlooking Cape Cod Bay.
Visit Addison on her website or chat with her on social media. Addison enjoys discussing her books with book clubs and reader groups and welcomes an invitation to your event.
Addison’s books are available in paperback, digital, and audio formats.
www.AddisonCole.com
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