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
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
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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 © 2018 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 105, PMB 159
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 Kelly Martin
Cover art from iStock and Deposit Photos
ISBN 978-1-64063-474-9
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition February 2018
For editor Liz.
Because you let me keep the alley sex.
And also because you make my books a zillion times better.
But mostly for the alley sex.
Chapter One
Lisa
“I’ll have the Barbadian Secret martini, but with Hendrick’s gin instead of the Aria, and I’d prefer the grapefruit-shishido shrub instead of the tarragon, please.”
I smile at the cocktail waitress, who nods and jots something on her notepad. “No problem.”
“I know I’m fussy,” I tell her in a half-conspiratorial, half-apologetic tone that wins more kindness from servers than my extra-generous tips. “But it’s always fabulous when you make it that way.”
She gives me a friendly wink. “Coming right up.”
“Oh, and if you have kaffir leaves,” I add, “I’d really prefer that over the lime zest garnish.”
“Jesus, Lisa.” Across the table, my sister, Cassie, rolls her eyes. “Are you ordering a cocktail or buying a luxury car?”
Our other sister, Missy, pats Cassie’s hand with a haughty expression I suspect mirrors the one I routinely throw at our younger sister. “There’s a real art to craft cocktails,” Missy informs her. “You can’t blame her for knowing exactly what she wants.”
I smile at Missy for having my back, but also at Cassie for being—well, Cassie. My polar opposite in most ways, but I love her more than Proenza Schouler’s new spring line of dresses, and that’s saying something.
I’m also determined to help the poor lamb plan her wedding. “So, Cassie,” I say as I pop one of the Driftwood Room’s famous Sizzling Forest Mushrooms into my mouth and chew. “Did you decide on the letterpress or the foil stamping for your save the date cards?”
She looks at me as though I’ve just shoved cocktail straws up my nostrils and pretended to be a walrus. “I’m a soil scientist getting married,” she says. “Not a senator sending correspondence to foreign dignitaries.”
Her expression softens almost imperceptibly, and she exchanges a look with Missy. I’d bet my favorite pair of Louboutins that our older sister just stepped on her foot under the table, and I know why.
I sigh and address the elephant in the room. “I’m fine, you two. I don’t mind wedding chit-chat. Please. It’s been six months since Gary pulled the disappearing groom act. I’m better off without him, obviously.”
“Obviously,” they chorus, Cassie sounding more convinced than Missy. There’s that look again.
I ignore it and glance toward the bar, wondering what’s taking so long for the drinks. Blocking my view of the bartender is a hulking figure in a black T-shirt, with tattoos covering both arms. I can’t see his face, but his shoulders look like he spends his spare time bench-pressing SUVs. His ass is a work of art, too, like a chiseled piece of granite fitted with well-worn denim.
“Is the limp-dicked fucker still in Arizona for that men’s retreat thing?”
I snap my attention back to Cassie, momentarily confused. “What?”
Seeing my confusion, Cassie glances toward the bar. When her gaze lands on Granite Ass, she gives a knowing smirk. “I was asking about Gary, but I like the look of anti-Gary much better.”
Missy frowns and peers around Cassie. “Anti-Gary? Oh. Oh. Wow. That guy’s huge.”
“Stop staring.” I swat at both of them as Granite Ass turns and catches me watching him. My breath snags in my throat, and it takes five full seconds for me to figure out how to look away. In that time, I’m hypnotized by the most stunning, icy-blue eyes I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Here come the drinks,” I announce in a voice that doesn’t sound like mine at all. It’s high and quivery like one of those porno girls in the videos I used to catch Gary watching. “Bottoms up, girls.”
I snatch a frosted martini glass off the tray hovering next to my head. The waitress starts to say something as I take a big gulp, then sputter.
“Guh!” I gasp. “That’s not the Barbadian Secret martini.”
The waitress stares at me like I’ve just belched in public. “I’m sorry, ma’am—that’s the order for the next table,” she says. “Yours will be here in just a second.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks, and I’m not sure if it’s from embarrassment or from the extra-strong drink.
Or the fact that everyone’s staring at me, Granite Ass included. I’m deliberately not looking, but I can feel those blue eyes drilling into the side of my head.
Determined to salvage my dignity, I offer an apologetic wave to the befuddled-looking couple at the next table. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “Your next round is on me. My apologies.”
Then I take a daintier sip of the drink, tasting it for real this time. My taste buds perk up, reveling in the icy contrast between brine and bitter. I sip again, and a fat olive stuffed with bleu cheese bumps my lip.
“What on earth is this?” I ask. “It’s amazing.”
“A dirty martini,” the waitress offers. “Extra dirty, actually.”
I sip again, entranced by the unfamiliar mix of flavors. It’s salty and sharp with tiny flecks of ice swirling in a gin mixture that smells like juniper berries. “It’s incredible.”
Missy stares at me like I’ve just announced a fondness for Cheetos. “That’s basically the opposite of what you ordered.”
Cassie smirks. “Maybe she ought to try opposites more often.”
I take another sip, considering her words. How did I never realize there was this whole other realm of cocktail possibilities? Savory instead of sweet, salty instead of fruity.
“Is this seriously the first time you’ve tried a dirty martini?” Cassie asks.
I roll my eyes and sip my new drink again. “I’ve never had a dirty martini. I’m an interior designer, not a soil scientist l
ike you.”
It’s Missy’s turn to look perplexed. “I’m not a soil scientist, either, but even I’ve had a dirty martini.”
I sigh and set my drink down, regarding my sisters with exaggerated patience. “I’ve had plenty of martinis, as you well know. Is it really so peculiar that I’ve never tried it dirty?”
“That’s a shame.” A low male voice close to my ear makes me jump, and I turn to see Granite Ass has slid in to the seat beside me. Those icy-blue eyes bore into mine, registering some strange combination of amusement and lust with an odd hint of aggression. What’s that about?
“Sounds like that’s something you ought to remedy,” he murmurs.
The timbre of his voice makes me shiver, and I’m not sure we’re still talking about drinks. I stare at him, at a complete loss for words. He’s even bigger up close, and I wonder how he managed to move from his barstool into my space without me noticing. He’s staring like he can see right through my dress, and the thought doesn’t trouble me as much as it ought to.
I swallow and taste olive brine on the back of my tongue. Somewhere in my brain, my sister’s words echo in my head.
Maybe she ought to try opposites more often.
She’s right, dammit. I’m a thirty-one-year-old single woman whose ex-fiancé’s silk ties are still folded neatly in the dresser drawer where he left them. How the hell did I end up here?
My whole life flickers before my eyes in a grainy, ten-second film. A life filled with wine clubs and yacht parties and impeccably tasteful drapes.
Maybe every life choice I’ve made so far—drinks, dates, everything in between—has been the wrong one. Maybe my instincts are so far off-kilter that the only fix is to do the exact opposite of what my gut tells me to.
These are crazy thoughts to be having in a Portland hipster bar on a random Tuesday evening. My gut roils with a potent brew of gin, adrenaline, and lust, so trusting it right now isn’t an option.
But there’s one thing I do know.
Granite Ass is making more than my taste buds tingle.
“Well, then,” I tell him, pausing to lick my lips. “I don’t suppose you’d be the guy to teach me a thing or two about learning to like it dirty?”
Chapter Two
Dax
Holy fucking shit.
How did I even get here?
One second I’m sitting across the bar from my snotty ex-girlfriend, Kaitlyn, thinking about how badly I’d like to rub her face in my recent career success and the fact that my life is pretty fucking awesome since she walked out.
The next second I’m sidling up next to Kaitlyn and realizing holymotherofhell, this isn’t Kaitlyn at all.
It’s another polished blonde with a dress that spells “money,” a calculating look that spells “trouble,” and a body that spells “sin.”
That’s an awful lot of spelling for a guy who barely finished high school and never went to college. Not that it’s stopped me from busting ass to make something of myself. To go from a grubby kid scrounging for scrap metal in his daddy’s junkyard, to a minimum wage steelworker, to the guy who holds the patent on a double steel-walled beverage container that’s made me filthy fucking rich in the last year.
Where was I?
Right, the blonde. The one who’s looking at me like she wants to pour maple syrup on my abs and devour me like a stack of flapjacks. What the hell just happened?
“Dax,” I manage to spit out. “Dax Kensington. And you are?”
“Lisa Michaels.” She extends a manicured hand, and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to kiss it or shake it. I settle for the handshake, then notice my knuckles are grease-stained from working on my bike this morning. Fuck.
Lisa notices, too, but instead of gasping with prissy horror and drawing her hand back, she meets my eyes again and gives me that calculating smile.
“Dax,” she says. “What do you do for fun?”
It’s not the question I expected from her. Not “what do you do for a living” or “do you prefer mutual funds or blue-chip stocks,” and it takes me a moment to answer.
“Well, I’m really into competitive duck herding, but I also enjoy train-surfing and extreme ironing.”
It’s a dickhead answer, not just because I’m being a jackass, but because I’m guessing the ironing thing isn’t too far off the mark of what Lisa Michaels really does for fun. Her outfit looks like she gets up to press it once an hour to eliminate unsightly wrinkles.
She surprises me by tossing all that shiny gold hair and laughing. “Oh, you’re a real smart-ass, hmm? You seem like a man who needs to be taught manners.”
Across the table, Lisa’s two companions exchange a worried glance. One of them clears her throat and gives me an apologetic look. “Our sister is, um…going through a rough time.”
The other one nods at Lisa. “And she’s not really used to drinks that are quite so…stiff.”
Is it my imagination, or did that chick just glance at my crotch? I don’t have time to ponder it because Lisa’s talking again, and damn if the woman doesn’t yank my attention like she’s got it on a choke chain.
“My sisters are right,” she says as she picks up her martini and takes a ladylike sip. “But I suppose one could posit that there hasn’t been nearly enough stiff or dirty in my life thus far.”
Did she really just say “posit” and “thus” in the same sentence as “stiff” and “dirty?” Who the hell is this chick? And why the fuck do I care?
I tap the stem of her martini glass. “How many of those have you had?”
She sets it down on the table, reaches under the table and grabs my knee. Her green eyes lock with mine, and it shocks me enough that I almost drop my beer.
“Enough to take you home with me right now and do unspeakable things all night long.” She frowns, possibly replaying those words in her head and not liking the sound of them. “Wait, I didn’t mean to imply I’d have to be drunk in order to—”
“One,” her sister interjects, smiling a little as she shakes her head. “Lisa has only had the one drink.”
“And no, she’s not crazy,” the other sister adds helpfully, tossing out the sort of fond smile you’d reserve for a nutty aunt who just gnawed the drumstick off the turkey at Thanksgiving dinner. “Present display notwithstanding.”
Lisa shoots them a disdainful look, but there’s more warmth in it than actual anger. It’s clear these three are tight. I’m still a little mind-whacked from her hand on my knee and the words she just said a few seconds ago.
Enough to take you home with me right now and do unspeakable things all night long.
“I’m sorry, did you just proposition me?” I ask.
Lisa nods, looking a little surprised by it herself. “Yes. Yes, I did. Is that a problem?”
I think about it a second. “You’re not married?”
“Of course not.” She gives me a haughty eyebrow lift.
“Or drunk?”
She scoffs. “Hardly.”
I study her, trying to figure out the angle. “Is this some sort of grudge fuck?”
She looks me right in the eye, an unexpected challenge in those green depths. “Would that be a problem for you?”
I hesitate. Do I really want to start down this path? True, I have a weakness for polished blondes, but that hasn’t turned out great for me in the past.
Then again, I did come over here intending to one-up my ex.
Lisa’s hand slides a few inches up my thigh, and I find myself grunting an answer. “Nope. Grudge fucks are not a problem.”
Her face breaks into a broad smile, and my chest tightens unexpectedly. Holy hell, she’s gorgeous when she does that. I grip my beer and remind myself to keep a tight grip on my sanity while I’m at it.
“Well, Dax Kensington,” Lisa says, licking her lips. “Shall we get out of here?”
Chapter Three
Lisa
Does it count as false bravado if I really, really want to be the sort of brave, confi
dent, sexy woman who’d bring a tattooed bad boy home for a one-night stand?
This, and other thoughts, are whirling through my brain as I unlock the front door to my condo and usher Dax inside. “Pardon the mess,” I tell him, breathing in the pleasant scent of pomegranate and mission fig wafting from the Pottery Barn diffuser on the credenza. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
Dax steps into my living room and turns a slow circle, a bit like a bull in a china shop. A really big, virile bull. I swallow hard as he turns back to face me.
“This looks like something out of a home decorating magazine,” he says. “Where exactly is the mess?”
I frown and hustle forward to straighten the coffee table book that’s at a 65-degree angle instead of a 45-degree angle. There’s also a teaspoon in the sink from my morning Earl Grey, and I rush over to load it in the dishwasher.
It occurs to me this is not how most women kick off an episode of wild, no-strings sex.
“Sorry,” I say, not sure if I’m apologizing for the teaspoon or the fact that I’m behaving like Martha Stewart on speed. “I’m, uh…a little new at this.”
He studies me a moment, those icy-blue eyes assessing. Then he nods. “Look, we don’t have to do anything if that was all a show for your sisters.”
“What?”
He shrugs and offers a heartbreakingly kind look, which is sooo different from the smoldering gaze he should be giving a woman he wants to shag silly. God, I’m blowing this.
“I get it,” he says as he leans back against the wall of my foyer, the sympathy in his eyes making me want to hide under the dining room table. “I promise you won’t hurt my feelings if that was just an act for Missy and Cassie. How about I give you a hickey for proof, and then I’ll be on my way. You’ll never have to see me again.”
I’m touched that he’d offer something like that. Okay, maybe not the hickey. Still, it shows he’s concerned about me. That he’s giving me a chance to change my mind or back out. Or wait. Is he the one who wants to back out?
Determined to take the bull—the very virile bull—by the horns, I smooth my hands down the front of my Diane von Furstenberg pencil skirt and square my shoulders.
The Test (The List series) Page 1