The List (The List #1)

by Tawna Fenske

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Tawna Fenske The Fix Up

  The Hang Up

  Marine for Hire

  Fiancée for Hire

  Best Man for Hire

  Protector for Hire

  Eat, Play, Lust

  If you love erotica, one-click these hot Scorched releases… Ruthless

  Loving Her Alphas

  Only for You

  Surrender to Sin

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Tawna Fenske. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 109

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Scorched is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Liz Pelletier

  Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill

  Cover art from iStock

  ISBN 978-1-63375-860-5

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition January 2017

  To all my WolfPack brothers and sisters represented by the divine Wolfson Literary Agency.

  Thanks for being such a talented, supportive, and caring bunch of wolf pups.

  Arooooooooo!

  Chapter One

  Simon

  “Excuse me? I urgently need more RAM, and I was hoping you could give it to me.”

  I turn to see a hot blonde wearing cherry-red lipstick and a black dress tight enough to be a tourniquet. Her tone would be more suited for taking calls at 1-900-FuckMe, and the pointed look she just gave my crotch suggests she rehearsed that line before walking into my shop.

  Yes, my shop. I own all twenty-six branches of Hot Swap Computer Sales and Repairs scattered around the Pacific Northwest, though I rarely venture out of the back room these days. The boob-graze the blonde just performed on my forearm is one reason.

  “I recognize you from that article in Men’s Health a few months ago,” she continues, moving deeper into my personal space. “‘Meet the young entrepreneur with the mind, muscles, and millions.’ I knew this was the place to come for the best RAM.”

  “Actually,” I say, taking a step back, “you first need to determine how much RAM you can handle.”

  Her eyes widen and she licks her lips. “Yes,” she breathes. “I think I can handle a lot.”

  I point to the other end of the counter. “We’re having a sale on the sixteen-gigabyte HyperX FURY with symmetric heat spreader,” I say, and watch her eyes widen. “Carl over there is our expert. He’ll be to happy help you.”

  The blonde gives me a confused look, trying to ascertain if I’ve just talked dirty or blown her off.

  It’s the latter.

  She seems to realize this as she glances down the counter at the freckled face of my lanky store manager. His exuberant expression and over-enthusiastic wave suggest he will indeed be happy to help her, and may, in fact, be popping a boner behind the counter right this moment.

  I’d rather not dwell on that.

  But I do soften my tone when I remove her claws from my forearm. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to finish debriefing a new employee. Thanks for coming to Hot Swap.”

  I walk away before she can make a suggestive comment about debriefing or ask me what I’ve got that’s plug and play. I know it’s coming. I’ve heard it all before.

  But I escape without further incident and duck into the back room where my new hire is waiting patiently between a bank of employee lockers and the foosball table I set up for break-time entertainment. Corey’s a cheerful guy with a passion for technology, an infectious laugh, and Down syndrome. He just finished his first week of employment here through my WorkAbility program.

  “Sorry about the wait,” I tell him. “Here’s your first paycheck.”

  His face lights up like I’ve just given him the keys to my Mercedes, which makes my heart swell into a big, fat knot. He takes the envelope and grabs my hand to shake it. “Thank you!” he says, beaming from ear to ear. “Sarah’s coming to come get me, and we’re going to Sizzle Pie to celebrate. Now I can buy whatever she wants for dinner.”

  Sarah is one of the case managers who run the group home where Corey lives, and as though summoned by her name, she appears at the back door with her car keys in hand. She smiles and greets us both. “Hey, Corey. Hello, Simon. You guys almost finished here?”

  “Yeah!” Corey beams. “I got my first paycheck and everything.”

  “You earned every penny,” I tell him. “You’re doing great work here.”

  I mean it, too. Corey’s one of about four dozen adults with disabilities I’ve hired through WorkAbility since I launched the program four years ago. If I could bottle his enthusiasm and easygoing temperament, I’d sprinkle it on every one of my six hundred plus employees.

  From her spot in the doorway, Sarah turns her smile on me. It’s not the fuck-me-silly smile deployed by the blonde in the lobby, but there’s an undercurrent I can read just the same. She’s a sweet girl, intelligent and hard-working, and pretty in that girl-next-door kind of way.

  She also has a steady boyfriend, so even if she were my type, that’s a strict hell-no as far as I’m concerned.

  “You doing anything fun for the weekend?” she asks me while Corey gathers his things and stuffs them in a big red backpack.

  “Just catching up on work,” I say. “Probably hitting the gym or going for a hike on Saturday, then having lunch with Junie on Sunday.”

  Hearing my kid sister’s name makes Sarah smile again as she turns away to lead Corey to the car. “Don’t work too hard,” she calls over her shoulder before pulling the door closed behind her.

  I don’t even pretend I’ll follow that advice. The only time I’m not working hard is when I’m playing hard, and to be honest, I’ve been a little lax in that department lately. It’s not that I don’t have ample opportunity to play on a regular basis. The blonde in the lobby is a testament to that.

  But if I’m being frank, I’m sort of over the one-night stands. The hookups with women who see me as an ATM with a dick.

  That doesn’t mean I’m looking to settle down anytime soon. No way in hell is that in the cards for me. I’m just taking a bit of a break right now.

  I hear the door chime in the lobby, and I glance out the window to see Carl still busy with the blonde. Dammit. Pete’s on lunch break and Shelly’s out sick today, which leaves yours truly to deal with whoever just walked through the door. I take a moment to clean my glasses on the hem of my black T-shirt before I push the door open and step into the retail shop.

  I stop cold at the sight of her.

  After being
eye-fucked by two women in ten minutes, my brain takes a moment to register that this girl is doing pretty much the opposite. Bristling with tension, she’s got her dark hair piled in a messy knot on top of her head and anchored by a chewed-up pencil. She’s wearing a dark scowl and a baggy orange sweatshirt that says “OSU Crop & Soil Science” over the spot where I can only assume her left breast might be. Gray yoga pants hug her thighs nicely, though the effect is negated by the brown smear across one thigh. Dirt or chocolate, maybe, though it’s anyone’s guess. She’s frowning down at her laptop like it just ate her report and regurgitated it on the carpet.

  Then she looks up and hits me with the full force of green eyes the color of a Heineken bottle. She blinks once, then softens her expression.

  “I need help.” There’s no preamble, no double entendre, no hint of anything dirty in her request.

  Which is kind of a shame.

  No, it’s not.

  I move forward and step behind the counter to face her. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “My laptop. It’s frozen.” She flips it open, averting her eyes from mine. “I—uh—I spilled a drink on it last night, and it made sort of a zappy noise. I tried to clean it off, but now it’s just stuck like this, and I don’t know what to do.”

  Her words are rushed and a little frantic. I’m so busy looking at her—the flush in her cheeks, the fullness of her lips—that I almost fail to notice she’s holding the sleeve of her sweatshirt over the laptop screen. I glance at the keyboard, which has a bit of sticky residue on it, but it looks mostly clean.

  I reach out and start to pull the laptop toward me. “I can take a look at—”

  “No!” She grabs the edges of the computer and pulls it back. Her sleeve is still covering the monitor, and this is the weirdest tug-of-war game I’ve ever been part of.

  I raise one eyebrow at her. “It’s going to be difficult to assess the problem if I can’t see the computer.”

  “Right.” She bites the edge of her lip, and something stirs in the center of my chest. “Um, is there any way you can do that without looking closely at whatever might be on the screen?”

  Ah. Got it. Not the first time I’ve been confronted with someone’s secret pornography fetish when repairing a computer on the fritz. It happens at least a couple times a week, and this woman is hardly the first porn enthusiast of the female persuasion.

  I put on my best reassuring-nice-guy smile. “Ma’am, I can promise we’re very discreet here. But I do need to take a look at the whole device before I can do anything to fix the issue.”

  She seems to hesitate, and the way she’s still biting her lip makes me wonder what she looks like when she’s coming.

  Why the hell did I just imagine that? The woman’s dressed like a college student during finals week, and the vibe she’s giving off is more stay-the-hell-away than come-hither. Meanwhile, the blonde is bent over the other end of the counter looking like sex on a waffle cone, and my libido hasn’t twitched once.

  Maybe this laptop isn’t the only thing on the fritz.

  Sweatshirt Girl seems to decide something then, because she lets go of the laptop and draws her arm back from the screen. “Okay,” she says, brushing a loose strand of hair from those eyes. Those eyes. She takes a step back and gives me a sheepish look. “I just—can you try to make it quick?”

  “Of course.”

  I have a better look at the keyboard now, and I can see it’s going to be a pain in the ass to deal with. Something sticky has seeped between the keys, and several are stuck in a down position. I can hear the motherboard wheezing like a sick cat, which is actually a good thing. At least it’s still got some spark. Sweatshirt Girl is right, though—the damn thing is totally frozen.

  My eyes flick to the screen, and I swear I only mean to check the pixels. But something catches my eye, and I stand there absorbing the words like some sort of creepy voyeur.

  Sex.

  Spanking.

  Roleplay.

  What the hell is this? And why am I so intrigued?

  Chapter Two

  Cassie

  Alone in my apartment after my mortifying trip to the computer repair store, I take a moment to make a list. A mental one, mind you, since my laptop is toast and its list-making days are over for now.

  In my mind, the list looks something like this:

  Things that seem like a good idea after three glasses of chardonnay, but most definitely are not:

  1. Painting my fingernails neon purple

  2. Eating an entire bag of Cheetos for dinner

  3. Making a list of sexy fibs I’ve told my sisters

  It’s the last one that has me blushing like a nun in a porn shop four hours after that ill-fated trip to Hot Swap, which is stupid. I’m hardly a virgin. I have a nightstand drawer full of battery-powered pals, and I’m no stranger to vanilla bondage or creative uses for whipped cream. Hell, if you ask my two sisters—Missy and Lisa—they’ll tell you I’m the most brazen sex vixen they know.

  And that’s just it. I may have led them to believe that over the years because it was more fun than the alternative. Namely, that my single-minded focus on my career as a dirt-loving soil researcher with a PhD in crop and soil science would prompt my fretful sisters to fix me up with a steady stream of suit-clad attorneys with names like Blaine and Rochester.

  Before I knew it, I would find myself wearing a cashmere sweater set and debating whether to spend the morning doing Pilates in designer workout gear or arranging pinecones for a festive Christmas centerpiece.

  Basically, I would become my sisters.

  Don’t get me wrong. I don’t begrudge Lisa’s expansive wine collection or Missy’s cupboard full of carefully pressed napkins for every holiday including Groundhog Day (don’t ask). It’s just that they’re a universe apart from the filthy work boots and dirt-crusted fingernails I’ve earned in a rather grubby, male-dominated profession.

  After years of feeling like a tree trunk next to my delicate-flower sisters, I decided to take charge of my image. It started as a joke. Missy invited me to a six-course wine dinner at her yacht club, and I told her I’d be too busy attending a group sex party. I thought she’d laugh, or at best, tell me I was disgusting and not ask questions.

  But she honest-to-dog believed me. Even worse (or better, depending on your perspective), she seemed…intrigued. Titillated. Maybe a little impressed.

  It was the first time in my life I’d done anything to impress either of my sisters, so I kept the stories coming. Not only did it earn me some satisfying gasps of astonishment, it got me out of countless candle parties and in-home cooking demos featuring six ways to prepare coq au vin.

  So, I kept it up. And it was all humming along just fine until Lisa got engaged and asked me to help plan the bachelorette party.

  “All my college friends are dying to sit next to you,” Lisa gushed over celebratory drinks that night.

  I did my best to look humble while I sipped a light, earthy pinot noir and tried to imagine what I’d done to earn such interest. “Really?”

  “Mine, too,” piped our older sister, Missy. “They can’t wait to meet you and hear what you come up with for the bachelorette party.”

  “That’s—wow.” I sipped my wine again, not sure whether to feel flattered or nervous. What kind of party were they expecting me to put together, exactly?

  “For years, they’ve been hearing about our naughty little sister and all her sexy exploits,” Lisa continued as my stomach hit the floor and I realized the conversation had taken an unwelcome turn. “You’re practically famous.”

  Missy giggled and lowered her voice. “I think they’re hoping you’ll teach them a few things.”

  Right.

  And that’s how I came up with the brilliant idea to write up “The List.” A collection of ten sexy experiences I’ve invented over the years. Some of the biggest whoppers I’ve told. Never mind that the kinkiest thing I’ve done lately was analyze root systems for an
aspen grove in Central Washington. If I’m going to impress my sisters and their friends with my exploits, I’d damn well better get my stories straight. If there’s one thing I know I’m good at, it’s preparing for an exam. All I needed were some CliffsNotes to help me study for the performance of a lifetime.

  It totally would have worked.

  At least it would have if I hadn’t knocked the damn wineglass onto my laptop. Now my wine-fueled list is an X-rated screensaver frozen on my laptop, courtesy of my clumsiness and a glass of Domaine Serene’s finest.

  Which brings me back to my apartment at eight o’clock on a Friday night, where I’m wondering what the odds are that someone in that computer shop has posted my list online and caused it to go viral. What does it even take for something to go viral? Oh God. What would the hashtag be?

  A knock at the door jolts me from my panicked visions of discovering my business cards have been altered to say “dirty girl” where the words “soil scientist” normally appear.

  The knock sounds again, and I glance down to realize I’m standing barefoot in my living room wearing yoga pants and my oldest, comfiest sweatshirt. The pants have a deeply-embedded soil smudge, earned months ago during field work, but at least I showered this morning. That should count for something. I pad to the front door and peer through the peephole.

  My heart slams against my rib cage and bounces back to splat into a motionless heap inside my chest cavity. It’s him. The stupid-hot computer repair guy who likely thinks I’m a sex fiend.

  For one panicky second, I consider the possibility that he’s some sort of pervert stalker. A cute pervert stalker, but a pervert stalker nonetheless. That’s when the pervert stalker speaks.

  “Cassondra Michaels? It’s Simon Traxel from Hot Swap Computer Repairs. I’ve got your laptop here with me, and it’s as good as new.”

  That gets my attention. He fixed my computer? Really?

  Still, a girl can’t be too careful. I’m thinking of how to ask whether he has a prison record when he seems to read my mind. “I understand if you’re nervous about opening the door to a stranger, but I couldn’t read your phone number on the intake form.”