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Also by Jennifer Dawson
Want more books? I’ve got something for everyone.
The Undone Series
Romantic Erotica that’s all about the journey.
Crave
Sinful
Unraveled
Debauched
Taken
The Bastard Series
Scorching hot, emotional contemporary romance.
Cold Hearted Bastard
Arrogant Bastard
Relentless Bastard (Coming in Fall 2020)
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The Something New Series
Small town, contemporary romance with a big city twist.
Take a Chance on Me
The Winner Takes it All
The Name of the Game
As Good as New
She’s My Kind of Girl
Head Over Heels
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The Love & Other Disaster Series
Sexy Contemporary Romance inspired by real & imagined dating disasters.
The Walk of Shame
Out of Her League
Twist of Fate
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Standalone Novellas
A little bit of everything
The Cottage on Pumpkin and Vine
The Burn List
Pride & Surrender
The Real Mason
Introducing Cold Hearted Bastard
Enjoy this sneak peak into Gwen’s love story in this brand new series
Chapter One
Jackson
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Trouble.
I don’t give a goddamn how gorgeous the redhead across the bar is, she’s trouble. Even from a distance I can smell it on her. There’s no other reason for her arrival than to create havoc.
Like everyone else, I saw her the second she walked in. She’s an outsider, and deep in the heart of Louisiana, we can spot a Northerner a mile away.
Although I’m the only one that knows who she is.
Gwen Johnson, restaurant darling of the Chicago scene. Her place, smack dab in the middle of restaurant row called Fulton Market, has a six-month waiting list and wins rave reviews.
I ate there once, about a year ago. It was all right for one of those small-plate places.
I could do better. I won’t. But I could.
While her arrival may be a mystery to everyone else, I’d known as soon as she walked in she was here for me. I’ve been ignoring her ever since.
Whatever she’s selling I’m not buying.
Long, daggerlike, red fingernails clutch my arm, digging into my skin. Pulling my attention away from the woman across the bar. I look down at the blonde, raising a brow. “Yeah?”
“Another Bud.” She curls her over-glossed, plumped-up lips into a smile.
I grab the bottle from the cooler and pass it to her before walking to the register to get her change. She’s pretty enough. Certainly fuckable. I can tell by our brief conversation she’s one of those eager types that will do anything for approval. I can work with that. Best of all, she won’t be a hardship to leave in the middle of the night.
The top contender on my list of tonight’s entertainment.
I don’t claim to be a nice guy.
In fact, the most common words to describe me are cold-hearted bastard. They’re not wrong. But the hard facts are, for guys like me, being an asshole doesn’t get in the way of sex. If anything, it improves my odds. Here’s the truth, women don’t like to admit it, but bastard beats nice guy every time. Without fail.
Because every woman who crawls into my bed believes she’s the one to change my evil ways.
I never lie. Never deceive. The first thing I do before I kiss a woman is to lay out how our time together will go down. I tell her I will rock her world, make her come harder than she’s ever come in her life, but before the sheets have cooled, I’ll be gone. The only thing I promise her is that I’m a one-night stand. That this will be our first and last time together. Then I step away and give her a chance to walk.
They never do.
No, they come to me willingly. They work real hard in bed to change my mind, pulling out every trick in the book to impress me, failing to understand I’ve seen them all and won’t be swayed.
Not my fault they don’t listen. Women hear what they want to hear, but that’s not my problem. It’s theirs.
I make no apologies about the fact that I’m a stone-cold bastard. I’ll ruin them for other men and leave. That’s my MO. Everyone in a hundred-mile radius knows it, and I can still grab any female in the place and be fucking her in five minutes flat.
Because they all want to believe.
So yeah, the woman with the long red nails is a contender. Only…the nightmare that walked through the doors is pulling at me, like an insistent tug at my back. I glance in the mirror over the register, scanning down the bar until my gaze locks with Gwen’s.
Instant fucking lust hits me like a two-by-four.
Like it did when she walked in.
Like it did when I locked eyes with her five minutes before.
That hair of hers is pulled back off her face in a high ponytail and still falls heavy halfway down her back. Down, it has to go almost to her waist, and I immediately think of what it would look like spread across the white sheets used by the nearest motel where I’m guessing she’s staying. Hair like that could only have been designed by god, but unlike other natural redheads she’s not pale, her skin is a light golden color. Her eyes a piercing blue, her lips full, her cheekbones high.
Her body is long and lean, her legs are endless.
I’m not going to lie.
She’s the most beautiful woman I have ever seen outside of a magazine, and I once slept with a Victoria’s Secret model from Venezuela.
Which is why she’s trouble.
There’s only one reason why Gwen Johnson would be deep in the heart of central Louisiana looking for me, and it’s got nothing to do with my cock.
Our eyes are still locked, and I realize I’ve been standing here for a full minute with the change in my hand, unable to tear myself away.
I shut the drawer and swing around to the blonde whose name I can’t remember.
And just like that, she’s off the list.
In fact, they’ve all fallen off the list.
I hand over her change, and she gives me a smile that speaks of seduction, and a ten-dollar tip. As though her generosity will sway me into taking her to bed. “Thanks, honey.”
I walk to the middle of the bar and put it in the tip jar. My Uncle Beau, owner of this establishment, and I are supposed to share, but he hands them all over to me whenever I work, claiming they’re mine anyway. I don’t protest. I can’t afford to.
The man in question strolls over and grips my shoulder with a hard squeeze before jutting his chin over his shoulder. “I’d go talk to red over there before she’s swallowed up whole by this crowd.”
Oh, I’m going over there.
I glance in the mirror again. She’s looking to the side, her neck long, her profile patrician and sexy at the same time. Not sure how she manages that one. As though she senses me, her head turns and our eyes meet.
It’s unfortunate I’ve never wanted to fuck a woman more. Not that it will stop me from saying no to whatever she thinks she has to offer, because it won’t.
She raises her glass and toasts me before downing the rest of her drink in one gulp.
The woman is daring me.
Beau puts a bottle of Maker’s in my hand. “Try not to break anything.”
“No promises.” I don’t give a shit what she wants but I’m not above taking her to bed.
Bottle in hand, I turn and make my way toward her. Her head turns as she watches me. There�
�s no coyness in her expression. There’s not even seduction. Her blue eyes are steady and intent on me.
I don’t say a word, just come to stand in front of her, and put the bottle down in front of her empty glass.
Then, there’s nothing but silence.
And lust.
It’s Saturday night, the bar is packed. Music blaring, you practically have to shout to be heard, but between us you could hear a pin drop. Her eyes are such a startling blue they are almost hypnotic. I can’t deny they suck me in.
I’m curious about her game plan. She’s hardly the first person from Chicago, New York or San Francisco to track me down and make me an offer they’re sure I can’t refuse, and I doubt she’ll be the last. People never seem to understand I left for a reason—and if I wanted to go back to that life, I’d make a few calls and have my choice of offers.
What they say about me is true. When it comes to cooking I’m just as much an asshole as I am when it comes to women. I’m that talented.
Have you ever seen the movie Like Water for Chocolate? Where they weep into their food and drown in lust over their meal? That’s what it’s like to eat something I’ve made.
It’s a talent I’m wasting, but it’s my choice, and Gwen Johnson isn’t going to change my mind. I don’t care how hot she is. The only question I really have is on her approach. If she’ll be direct and honest, or if she’s going to try and play me.
She still doesn’t speak, still doesn’t look away. A woman that looks like she does is used to guys salivating all over her and I’m ninety-five percent sure she’s waiting for my line to decide her strategy. So I refuse to give her one.
After we silently stand off for a good couple of minutes, and tension, so hot it’s almost tangible, thickens the air between us I pick up the bottle, pour her a drink, then turn away.
I expect her to stop me.
She doesn’t.
I put the bottle back in its spot, serve a few more drinks, and when I look in the mirror…
She’s gone.
About the Author
Jennifer Dawson grew up in the suburbs of Chicago and graduated from DePaul University with a degree in psychology. She met her husband at the public library while they were studying. To this day she still maintains she was NOT checking him out. Now, over twenty years later they’re married, living in a suburb right outside of Chicago with two awesome kids and a crazy dog.
Despite going through a light FM, poem writing phase in high school, Jennifer never grew up wanting to be a writer (she had more practical aspirations of being an international super spy). Then one day, suffering from boredom and disgruntled with a book she’d been reading, she decided to put pen to paper. The rest, as they say, is history.
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These days, Jennifer can be found sitting behind her computer writing her next novel, chasing after her kids, keeping an ever watchful eye on her ever growing to-do list, and NOT checking out her husband.
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