Gena Showalter - The Hotter You Burn

Harlow braced for disappointment and headed for the bedrooms. Up first, the former guest room, now a man cave on steroids. A king-size bed with dark brown sheets dominated one side, while the large flat-screen suspended above a ginormous console stuffed with DVDs dominated the other.

How was a person supposed to relax in here?

The next bedroom—hers—boiled her blood. The princess paradise her mother had created for her as a child, which she’d never had the heart to change, even as she’d grown up, had been transformed into a man-child’s playpen. Multiple gaming systems cluttered a tiered platform, the controls scattered across the floor. In front of a gargantuan unmade bed towered a floor-to-ceiling projector screen. The walls where she’d once lovingly painted a magical forest were now beige. Beige!

Sure, the mural had come with defects, but she’d loved every inch of it, had spent weeks etching different designs, mixing colors, learning and adoring the entire process while allowing her imagination to sweep her away. Of course, she’d ruined the fruit of her efforts long before boring beige had done so, throwing handfuls of mismatched paint at the images in a fit of temper. Still. The sea of monotone was worse.

Before she gave in to the urge to find a marker and draw something to liven up the room, most likely a pair of hands with both middle fingers extended, she backed out and shut the door.

The master bedroom had been converted into a nerdy workaholic’s dream, all traces of her parents gone. Computers and computer parts were stacked on the desk, on the bed and scattered across the floor, and oh, she couldn’t stand this.

She made her way to the kitchen...where the wallpaper had been removed. But okay. No big deal. This change she understood. The design had been so faded the different clusters of strawberries had looked like swollen testicles.

The matching red laminate countertops had been swapped for sparkling white marble, but at least the cabinets were the same, even though they’d been sanded and painted black. Not bad... Just different.

A pang over what should and shouldn’t be cut through her and might have broken what remained of her heart if she hadn’t spotted the blueberry pie perched on the stovetop.

Jobless, penniless—homeless—she hadn’t eaten a decent meal in forever. And a decent dessert? Not since Momma died.

Another pang, this one sharper, but again, the lure of the pie distracted her, and she moved forward, as though in a trance. Trembling, she traced her fingertip over the rim of the pan and caught a warm glob of juice.

One taste... Just one.

The moment the sweetness hit her tongue, her plan to make a sandwich with ingredients the Bachelors Three wouldn’t miss completely upended. She rushed around, digging through drawers for the necessary supplies, growing indignant when she discovered nothing in its rightful place.

Gravel crunched. A door slammed.

Chilled to the bone, she dashed into the living room and threw herself on the couch to peer out the window.

Beck Ockley, Most Beautiful himself, helped a woman from the passenger side of his car. Beck...the man who reminded her of the shed out back, polished on the outside, crumbling on the inside.

He was a little over six feet and lusciously muscled, with an intriguing mix of light and dark brown hair, the strands always in a state of disarray. His just-roused-from-bed eyes were the color of melted honey and framed by the longest, thickest black lashes she’d ever seen. But even a man like him should need a few hours, at least, to reel in a new fish.

Then again, he rocked serious man-magic, and with a single smile, he could probably drop a thousand pairs of panties.

Harlow’s heart galloped, a racehorse in her chest as she returned into the kitchen to swipe up the pie. Probably best to eat the evidence of her impromptu house tour. Hurry! She sprinted to the back door...only to grind to a stop. Beveled glass revealed Jase and his fiancée, Brook Lynn Dillon, cuddled on the porch swing.

How had she missed them on her pre-break-in perimeter check?

Hinges on the front door whined. Crap! Beck and his date would enter any second. She darted into the living room, the hall, the first bedroom she came across—but the lock on the window was new and complicated, and no matter how much she jiggled it, she couldn’t open it. Suspecting all other locks were the same, she headed for the living room. If she stood beside the door, she’d be hidden when it opened. If Beck forgot to close it, she could sneak out as soon as he—

“Now that you’ve got me here,” a woman said, breathless with longing, “what are you going to do to me?”

Too late! Fear settled like thousand-pound boulders in Harlow’s feet, and she wrenched to a halt in the hallway, blood rushing from her head, her lungs hemorrhaging air as if survival had just become enemy one.

Tawny Ferguson walked backward. If she looked to the left, she would see a wild-eyed Harlow, pie in hand. Don’t look left. Please, please, don’t look left.

Beck slowly, leisurely prowled after the girl, radiating sultry heat and a carnal, predator-prey determination. He pinned Tawny’s hands over her head, saying, “I’m going to do whatever I want.”

Tawny arched her hips, rubbing against him. “Should I be afraid?”

“Honey, you should be grateful.”

The sensual impact of his voice sent heated shivers through Harlow’s veins, and she hated them almost as much as she loved them.

He leaned down, his mouth hovering over Tawny’s to tease her with what was to come. “You’re going to like every second of our time together. That I promise you.”

Tawny quivered, a woman on the verge of ecstasy. “Oh, I know I’ll like it. But what happens afterward?”

Crickets.

He stiffened, even as he nuzzled his nose along the line of her jaw. “Afterward, you’ll be so weak in the knees you’ll have to crawl home.”

Tawny giggled. “No, I meant relationship-wise. I know your reputation as the one-night-stand king. Will you still want me in the morning?”

A moment rife with tension as Beck cupped her chin to ensure she wasn’t able to look away from him. “I told you. I’ve never offered anyone more than a single night. There will never be an exception.”

“But why?” Tawny asked with a pout, even as she played with his zipper. “I’d make a very...good...exception.” With every word she uttered, she opened those metal teeth another inch.

His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, making it a cold, bitter thing. “A girl like you should have a happily-ever-after with a man carrying far less baggage.”

“I don’t mind baggage.”

“Doesn’t matter one way or the other.” He ground against her, distracting her. “All that matters right now is whether or not you want me .”

Tawny moaned, her eyes closing. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

No, no, don’t stop, don’t you dare —a slap of harsh reality brought Harlow back to her senses. While Tawny—and even Harlow—had lost sight of everything but Beck, he’d had no problem retaining his wits. He’d deflected masterfully. And she should know. She’d done the same in high school. Multiple teachers and counselors had pulled her aside to ask a single question.

Why do you insult your peers?

Her reply? I’m not insulting them. I’m helping them by pointing out flaws in need of work.

Meanwhile, a dirty secret had festered deep inside her. The insults she dished—and they were indeed insults—were nothing compared to the words her father hurled at her.

The only thing you’re good at, little girl, is making my day worse.