by Misti Murphy
“I still don’t understand how your mother managed to organize this,” Danny says. “But Dad’s thrilled. Look at him. He’s in his element.”
Hank is currently in deep conversation with my father and Garrett over golf and baseball and clubs and bats and swings and God knows what else. My mother and his are opening their second bottle of wine while they conspiratorially murmur about something that may or may not be related to the fluttering sensation in my belly. Yeah, those two together can’t be good.
Even Joe is here. Wearing a Vintage Ramones T-shirt and gray beanie, he’s enjoying a beer with James and Paynt while they stand over the grill. He’s come home on a semi-regular basis these last couple of months to check on their mother and to spend time with Danny. Now that they’re speaking again, both of them are trying to catch up on what they’ve missed of each other’s lives. In fact, Danny and I are heading to California for a week in early November.
The rest of us—the kids, Myra, Erin, and Circus O’Animal—are inside.
“It wasn’t my mother.” I grin. After all, I did learn from the best.
“You organized this?” Danny shifts to face me. “You’re Wonder Woman.”
I shrug. “It wasn’t that difficult. A few phone calls.” Dozens of text messages. Several emails. It’s hard enough to get my family all in the same place at the same time with their schedules. Add in a whole other family—including one from out of state—and it’s a logistics nightmare. But it’s totally worth it. Besides, Mom has actually been bugging me about meeting the Harrisons. She threatened to track them down herself.
“Uh-huh.” Danny leers at me. I guess he knows better.
“Okay, fine.” I roll my gaze at him. “It took some finagling, but I told them it was important.”
“How important?” His brows narrow across the bridge of his nose as his gaze darts from me to our mothers, who keep glancing at us between excited whispers. It’s enough to make even me wonder if I’ve somehow managed to get pregnant without knowing.
My pulse starts to race as I jump out of my chair and walk away from the table.
Danny joins me by the railing. “What’s going on?”
My palms are clammy, and my mouth is sticky. He wraps an arm around my waist, and I twist in his hold so that I can stare into his eyes. “I never expected I would end up here, doing this. At least I didn’t before I fell in love with you.”
“Doing what? Having dinner with both our families? I didn’t either. At least not with mine.”
“Shh.” I clamp my palm over his mouth.
His eyes widen, but he stays quiet as I drop my hand. Love, especially the kind that encompasses who you are, the kind that supports and encourages you, can do wonders for your beliefs about commitment. It can change how you view everything and make you realize that you can be a better you if you are with the right person.
I take a deep breath to center myself. “I don’t want to hide our relationship or keep it low-key. And not because I can handle my mother carrying on about grandchildren, because truthfully, I really can’t. I don’t want to hide anymore because I’m happy with you. I’m so proud to say we’re together. That of all the people in all the world, you’re the one person who really gets me and loves that I am who I am. Who doesn’t expect me to be different than I am. Who doesn’t hope that I’ll change. Or worry when I display tendencies to act like my mother. You encourage me to embrace my own identity, and I love that about you.”
“You’re totally one of those girls right now, aren’t you?”
I press my lips together, my eyes misting. “A little. But I’m trying to tell you that I’m committed to you whole-heartedly, Danny. I’m trying to ask you to marry me.”
“What?” He sways on his feet, and his grip on me tightens.
Someone clears their throat, interrupting our moment, and we both glance at the intruder.
Danny’s dad. “Aren’t you supposed to do that, son? It’s traditionally the man who gets down on one knee and—”
“I think we’ve worked out by now that I’m never going to be traditional about anything.” Danny holds up a palm to silence him and then shifts his focus to me. “Go on.”
Maybe I should get down on one knee. Except this tight little red dress I wore specifically to impress Danny isn’t exactly designed for traditional proposals. It would ride up to my hips if I got down on one knee, not to mention the very real possibility that Paynt’s deck might give me splinters. “Will you marry me, Danny Harrison?”
“Will I marry you?”
“Yeah, will you?”
“Let me get this straight,” he says, his lips starting to curl. “The woman of my dreams, who I spent an entire year chasing, who I somehow wooed into becoming my work wife and my girlfriend, is asking me to marry her?”
“Uh, I thought that was obvious.” I pluck nervously at my dress. “If you’re going to say no—”
“I just don’t understand why you needed to phrase that as a question.” He hugs me so tightly to his chest, I can barely breathe. “You had to know I would say yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes.” He cups my face and swoops in for a back-bending kiss.
Our families clap and cheer. Someone grumbles something about having to be related to Danny by marriage. Probably Garrett.
He kisses me breathless before pulling away.
“My little girl is getting married,” my mother cries.
What have I done? I search out my mother, who is standing with Danny’s mom. Their gazes are shiny bright and a little too happy for my liking.
“This doesn’t mean babies, Mom.” I shake a finger at her. “Although Danny and I have talked about having kids. One day. In the future. Possibly.”
“What?” She sniffles, and Danny’s mom hands her a tissue.
“We don’t need you pressuring us. We’ll decide whether we want a family when we’re ready.”
Danny’s staring at me with a curious expression on his face.
Garrett and James laugh.
Mom just gives me this smug, I’m your mother, I know you so well raise of her eyebrows. “For the record, love, I’m not the one who brought it up.”
“She’s right,” Danny whispers. “Are you trying to tell me you want to have a baby with me, Ronnie? Because there’s a perfectly acceptable closet in the foyer we could practice in.”
Oh shit! I think that’s what I’m saying. Taking his hand, I drag him across the deck and into the house. Pulling him into the closet, I close the door and throw my arms around his neck. “Let’s make a baby.”
THE END
Hey, Sexy Bad Readers!
Thank you so much for joining us on this journey. We hope you enjoyed Sexy Bad Escort, and fell in love with Danny and Ronnie just like we did.
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Turn the page to read the first chapter of Sexy Bad Neighbor, the first book in the Sexy Bad series. And after that, there’s some info about the other books Misti and Tami have to offer. Misti writes dirty talking bad boys with hearts of gold. And Tami writes kinky chefs and brooding FBI guys.
Misti & Tami xx
The Sexy Bad Family of Books
Sexy Bad Neighbor
Sexy Bad Daddy
Sexy Bad Boss
Sexy Bad Valentine
Sexy Bad Escort
Coming soon
Sexy Bad Halloween
Sexy Bad Frosty Christmas
SEXY BAD NEIGHBOR
What happens when your neighbor hires you a stripper?
It starts one hell of a prank war. A war that in
volves goats, phallic chandeliers, stolen kisses in the rain, strawgasms, and eating out on the kitchen counter.
A war that could damn well involve two hearts and a plan. Her plan doesn’t involve falling in love. His life doesn’t involve plans.
This could be a problem.
Turn the page to read the first chapter.
CHAPTER ONE
CHLOE
What am I doing here? Taco Tuesday? Seriously? Tacos are sloppy and delicious and it’s far too easy to eat too many. I’m not an overindulging kind of person. And I really hate contrived social situations.
But my boss said I need to do something to de-stress because otherwise I’m going to have a heart attack by the time I’m forty, and that isn’t as far away as I’d like it to be. Actually, he suggested I get laid, but I don’t do messy, nor do I do sex with strangers, and who has time to get to know someone? I suppose that’s ironic considering I’m about to walk into a room full of strangers and pretend I want to befriend them.
At least it’s supposed to be exclusively women at this shindig. Women don’t intimidate me, which is the only reason I agreed to James’s ridiculous idea. “Who knows,” he said earlier today as he pushed me out the door, “you might actually make a friend or two.”
“Maybe a new client,” was my response, and he’d rolled his eyes and told me not to return to the office without at least one outrageous story to tell.
I consider not opening the door, not stepping into the sports bar where a group of strangers are likely becoming friends over spilled guacamole and too much tequila. But I will never hear the end of it if I turn around now, and besides, I’m not a quitter, whether the task is climbing the corporate ladder or attending a stupid function I have no interest in.
So I grasp the pilsner glass-shaped door handle and walk into the dark, loud place that smells of nachos and spilled beer. This is not my scene.
Bitch face in place, I pause to let my eyes adjust to the dim lighting. I can feel gazes on me. Lecherous, sleazebag gazes. Guys with names like Paul and Chad and—the worst of them all—Marcus.
Conveniently, my bitch face is seriously scary, so they all leave me alone as I smooth the front of my silk skirt and straighten my already flagpole-like spine. Sticking my nose in the air, I strut through that bar like I own the place. Actually, one of my clients does, so I know there are a handful of semi-private rooms toward the back, and that’s the most likely location for this silly gathering I’m supposed to attend.
When I reach my destination, I note that semi-private means there’s a party on each side of a smaller bar area, with one bartender tending to both. He’s one of the tall, dark, and handsome types, so the females in one group, which appears to be some sort of birthday party, are all gathered around the wood and laminate boxing him in, trying to garner his attention. Several of them are doing that classic grab-a-guy’s-attention stance, leaning against the bar, resting on their elbows, which are pressed against their sides, so the girls are pushed up and together, no doubt providing the lucky tender plenty of fodder for his fantasies later tonight. Assuming, of course, he goes home alone, which doesn’t seem likely.
The other gathering is a bunch of bored-looking middle-aged women wearing expensive yet understated clothing and each holding a glass of wine in one hand. No margarita in sight, and the taco station is pristine, like everyone is afraid to touch it. I’ve been out of touch with the social scene for far too long if this is what a Taco Tuesday after work party looks like.
A young woman with blue hair and black lipstick separates herself from the birthday party and heads my way. I deliberately make eye contact. “What’s that party over there?” I ask, nodding at the other crowd.
She shrugs. “Some party for old, working women.” After giving me a quick once over, she adds, “No offense.” And then she hurries through the heavy wooden door.
“None taken,” I mutter while narrowing my eyes and watching the group of women who are probably just like me: Career-driven, single-minded, determined to shatter every glass ceiling we encounter. My stomach grumbles at the sight of all those delicious taco toppings, yet I know I will be just like all these other women and snub my nose at a perceived uncouth display.
I need wine if I’m going to make it through this shindig. Since he’s at least ten years younger than me, I don’t feel as intimated by the hot bartender as I might if he were closer to thirty-five, so I belly up and let out a shrill whistle to get his attention.
“What the fuck was that?”
I whip my head to the side, prepared to provide a tongue lashing to whomever dared approach me in a bar. Ugh. It’s another sexy guy. And sloppy. That shirt looks like he swiped it off the floor and dragged it over his shoulders as he made his way out the door without stopping to look in a mirror. And it’s flannel. Why won’t that particular fashion statement die?
In ten seconds flat, I’ve determined he is everything wrong with the male species, and he hasn’t even smiled at me yet. Actually, he’s looking at me like I’m a loon.
“What’s your problem?” Might as well get defensive right off the bat. That’ll scare him off for sure.
“I think you blew my eardrum with that whistle. What, do you train dogs for a living?” For emphasis, he grabs his earlobe and shakes it, like that’s going to do anything except draw my attention to his slightly too long hair and the glasses that frame his face way better than they should. He probably doesn’t even have a prescription. I bet he wears them deliberately to pick up women.
Not this woman.
“Do you have a better idea? In case you haven’t noticed, the bartender’s rather preoccupied at the moment.”
“I noticed. But I’ve also been to a bar before, so I know if I do this—” He pulls his wallet out of his pocket, giving me a glimpse of a far too tight ass under that wrinkled shirt, and then he waves a twenty in the air. Like a dog sniffing out a juicy steak, the bartender drops his entourage and hurries toward us. Tall, Dark, and Sloppy tosses a smirk my way while the younger version asks for his drink order.
“What are you drinking?” my worst nightmare asks. Why won’t he leave me alone? Can’t he see that I don’t remotely belong to that other party, so clearly I must be associated with the prim and proper ladies hovering in the other corner? And what guy in his right mind would want to hit on someone surrounded by other powerful women?
Except I’m not, because they are all clustered as far away from Wrinkled Hottie and the group of people clearly having a grand old time on the other end of the bar as they possibly can and still be in the same room.
“I can get my own drink.”
“You sure can. Although I’d do it while he’s standing here in front of you, because I don’t think your dog whistle is going to work once he heads back to his fan base.”
The bartender winks and grins, like we’re all in on some fabulous joke.
“The nicest red that comes by the glass. And it better not be house,” I mutter, even though I’d really rather have a Bombay and tonic. But everybody else is drinking wine, so I might as well make at least a small attempt to fit in.
“You must be with that group over there,” the guy standing next to me says, shoving his thumb over his shoulder.
“Because I drink wine?”
“Nope. Because you have a seriously large stick up your ass. I’ve never seen anyone stand so straight in my entire life.”
My jaw drops. Is this some kind of joke? I glance around the bar, to see if one of my brothers is here. It would not surprise me in the least if one of my family members set up this entire charade. It’s been years since we’ve attempted to one-up each other with pranks, but that doesn’t mean I should ever let my guard down.
“Must be why you’re coming to the meeting. Add a little...something different.” What I’m really saying is, he’s a complete loser and those women over there will eat him as an appetizer and then look around for dinner. He doesn’t stand a chance. Which makes me determined to
convince him to head over there. Just to watch him bleed.
“You couldn’t handle what I’ve got to offer.”
“That is the worst pickup line ever.”
“It wasn’t a pickup line, lady. You seriously could not handle having me at your Women With Sticks Up Their Asses meeting.”
“Challenge accepted.” I dig a twenty out of my purse and drop it on the bar before snagging my wine and taking a slug. It’s surprisingly not bad. “Let’s go, handsome.”
He grins.
“I’m not flirting with you,” I clarify. I do not find his messy hair and sexy glasses and abrasive personality attractive. I have a vibrator waiting at home that’s without a doubt a far better partner than this guy could ever be.
“If you are, you aren’t very good at it.”
“All right, that’s it.” I grab his arm, wrap my fingers around chunks of solid muscle, and pull him away from the bar.
“That wasn’t a challenge,” he says, like maybe he wants to run back to his own party now. But it’s too late. I’m going to show him. Marcus was pretty-boy handsome as well, and while he wouldn’t be caught dead in flannel, he was an asshole, and in my head, I am getting revenge on him vicariously through this guy.
“What’s your name, anyway?” I ask as I herd him toward the sharks in pencil skirts hovering in the corner.
“Painter.”
“Seriously? Like someone who paints houses?”
“No. It has a Y in it. P-A-Y-N-T-E-R. And what’s your problem with my name? I bet yours is Suzy or Marie. No, it’s probably Elaine. Or Joyce.”
I give him a little push when he doesn’t move and ignore the ripple of muscle I can feel through his shirt. So he’s one of those gym rats, too, huh? The guy keeps losing points and I’ve known him for all of seven minutes.