dumping a vodka-and-karma chaser on the man who broke her heart is
perfect Bronx girl payback. But how can she resist when Miami playboy
prince Javier Hernandez begs to make it up to her. . .
Javi needs to get back on track. The only thing that’s certain is
his passion for Maya. If she’ll just let him show her how sorry he
is, maybe he can move on and start fresh. But one look in her
gorgeous eyes and he knows letting her go will be easier said than
combust, she wonders if a night of no strings, no repeats surrender
is the only way burn off their desire once and for all…. Unless the
light of day reveals it’s impossible to let go.
Javier Hernandez’s dick was bored. The rest of him was bored, too. But the dick part had him worried.
He slouched back on the padded bench in the VIP booth. Yvette and her friend—couldn’t remember her name—danced near the edge of the balcony. They were conspicuous enough that someone among the writhing mass of bodies in the club below would snap a picture with their phone. Before sunrise, they’d be plastered on a gossip blog as a romantic item.
He hadn’t been to a club in almost a year, and right now, he wasn’t sure why he’d ever enjoyed this kind of thing. Since his little sister called him out at a family gathering, his father had kept him on lock down.
The only reason he was off-leash tonight was a business dinner with an out-of-towner who wanted to see the Miami nightlife. His father was quick to nominate him for that job. But not before pushing him out the door with a few words on how to land the client’s cash into their family’s hedge fund.
The potential client was currently passed out in a black car on the way to the airport. His father might not like how he got things done, but the guy was happy, and Javi didn’t doubt that they’d have his business.
He didn’t know why he was still hanging around. For the past year, he’d had his shit together—working out, showing up to work on time, and staying away from women who would garner any publicity for the family. He’d thought that being back in a familiar environment would be a relief. Instead, it felt like pants that didn’t fit—his old life was tight in the crotch, and not in a good way.
Both models shot him suggestive glances, and Yvette beckoned him with one finger and a flutter of her eyelashes. A year ago—fuck, six months ago—he’d have been with them, taking a selfie, and posting it on social media. Thinking that people would be jealous of him—Javier Hernandez, asshole who cavorts with models.
Losing the regard of his family had cured him of the idea that he was living some sort of charmed life. He’d used that image to bolster his wounded ego after his wife left him. He didn’t need that Band-Aid now that the wound had closed up. If he wanted to fuck, he fucked. But he didn’t make a big production of it. He didn’t make a point to be photographed with models, strippers, or club girls. He’d even closed down his Instagram account. There wasn’t any point. All of those women had made him feel precisely nothing.
Javi drained his vodka soda and reached for the half-full bottle. He’d made some bad life choices if the sight of two underwear models grinding on each other inspired the need for a drink instead of a boner.
There might be some sort of temporary disturbance in the Force, or maybe he was permanently out of the game. Living like a careless fuckboy hadn’t made him feel alive, it had deadened everything inside him that his marriage hadn’t killed.
The last year of living like a monk with benefits hadn’t been all bad. Gradually, he’d started repairing his relationships and noticing the people around him again.
Maybe he just needed more alcohol to get in the spirit of things. He sent a text to the manager, telling him to send up a bottle of Dom for the girls along with more vodka for the other people they’d invited to join them.
He flinched when Yvette sauntered over and straddled his hips. Her black dress crept up until he could see that she wasn’t wearing panties. They were concealed by the table, so she wasn’t about to flash anyone. But people would see them and make assumptions.
He used to like this club because of the private alcoves where he could indulge in any sort of vice he desired. That way he never had to kick anyone out of his condo in the light of day.
grew up in a family of voracious readers, and picked up her first
Harlequin romance novel at age twelve when she’d finished reading
everything else in her grandmother’s house. It was love at first
read. It wasn’t too long before she started writing my own
stories—her first heroine drank Campari and wore a lot of Esprit.
Andie holds a bachelor’s degree from the University of Notre Dame in
economics and art history (summa cum laude), and a JD from Stanford
Law School. She lives in Washington, DC, with a very funny French
Bulldog named Gus.