By Kendall Ryan
Release Day: April 23
About the Book
It all started with a sexy selfie.
Texted to the wrong number.
Not my finest moment—but I have nothing to be ashamed of.
She thought I was no better, and I quote, than the knuckle-dragging douche-bags she was never dating again.
It was a stupid dare from a girl I’d met online, but since she’d given me a fake number, I didn’t feel bad that my interests were suddenly focused elsewhere—on the fiery and sharp-tongued, Peyton that I found myself sparring with over text for the rest of the evening.
The following day, my case of mistaken identity came back to bite me in the banana.
When I strolled into the office, I was introduced to Peyton as the new client I needed to win over. The Peyton , in case you're not tracking.
And let’s just say she had my full attention.
Beauty? Oh yeah.
And the best part? She hated me on sight.
Dear God, do I love a challenge.
Let the games begin.
About Kendall Ryan
A New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author of more than three dozen titles, Kendall Ryan has sold over 2.5 million books and her books have been translated into several languages in countries around the world.
Her books have also appeared on the New York Times and USA Today bestseller lists more than 70 times. Ryan has been featured in such publications as USA Today, Newsweek, and InTouch Magazine.
She lives in Texas with her husband and two sons.
Visit her at: www.kendallryanbooks.com for the latest book news, and fun extras.
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Seriously, Hanson? Of all the words in the English language, you choose nuts?
But hey, on the plus side, she hasn’t seen the boys, just their leader.
Even so, I need to keep this meeting above the belt, including my own damn thoughts. I offer Peyton another apologetic smile. Time to get this deal back on track.
“Want to tell me more about your company?”
“I do. I really do.”
Her tone shifts instantly when she mentions her business, making me even more keen to hear her pitch.
I smile. A perfect, professional smile, as I cross my legs and fold my hands in my lap. I’m a motherfucking gentleman, not a junk-shot-sending caveman. “I want to hear all about it, Peyton.”
The only way to get past this mixup is to focus on business.
Not on her pretty face.
Not on those gorgeous eyes.
And definitely not on that dark hair I want to wrap around my fist and yank on it hard.
Four fucking months . . . that’s what’s wrong with my libido. It’s not operating in its normal overdrive. No, today, it’s at fucking warp speed. This is what happens when your own hand becomes your closest companion.