Genre: Contemporary Romance
Publisher: Lyrical Shine
Publication Date: April 18, 2017
Pages: 178 pages
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Bartender and aspiring painter Maya Pascual loves turning up the heat. And 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. . .
Between his disastrous personal life and his wealthy family’s meddling, 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 done.
Maya agrees to one dinner with Javi. But as their attraction threatens to 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.
By now, the models were standing and gawking at her. The tall brunette looked like she was about to light into her when Javi raised his hand. The other girl’s mouth shut, just like that. That motherfucker always got his way. Even with supermodels.
But not with her. Not anymore. When she’d seen his wedding announcement in the New York Times, she’d cut off all contact. Unfriend. Unfollow. Delete contact. She’d deleted his account from her life.
She’d successfully avoided news about Javi Hernandez and his whole family for almost five years. All that effort, only to run into him about to break the marriage vows he’d rejected her for.
Cutting him off had been for her own good as much as his. She’d never been a part of adultery, and she wasn’t about to start now. Oh, fuck. She’d have to tell Karrie that her husband was cheating on her with models. Even though Maya had hated Karrie on sight, she didn’t want to be the one to wreak that kind of devastation, not with how she’d grown up.
Of course, Karrie would probably assume that Maya was fucking her husband. God help her, Maya had wanted Javi from the second he walked into the Philadelphia bar she’d worked at. He had never been just good to look at. Everything about him had enthralled her. One night, she’d stared at him roll whisky around in a glass, committing the way his fingers rested against the vessel so deep in her memory that she could still call it up while she masturbated. Her face heated thinking about the fact that no one—no one—had supplanted Javi in her fantasies. Thinking about his dark laugh and long, lean body was guaranteed to get her off every single time. And she’d never touched him. They’d never kissed. Because he was with Karrie.
Still, he’d mind-fucked her so thoroughly that she’d been ruined for anyone else.
For Christ’s sake, no one had a right to look that good soaking wet and reeking of top-shelf vodka and supermodel pussy. She registered his longer hair, the close-trimmed beard, and the gym-honed body wrapped up in a bespoke suit. No tie; the hint of chest hair reminded her of how she used to fantasize about touching him like she meant it.
He looked down at his ruined blazer and back up at her with a hooded, panty-searing gaze. The same way he’d been looking at another girl—two women—getting it on for his benefit a few moments ago.
He’d rejected her in the past. And now he was humiliating Karrie by cheating on her in public. Maya hated how much she cared about that, but it was who she was. She never wanted to see a woman humiliated the same way her mom had been for decades.
She shook her head. “Cágate en tu madre, Javi.” Every single swear word and vulgar phrase she knew in Spanish rushed to the surface as she looked at him. Anger at him. Anger at herself and the rush of memories that made her nipples peak and rub harshly against the silk halter top she wore. Javi licked his lips and looked her up and down. She wished she had something else to throw. She thought about whacking him with her tray, but she’d probably already lost the gig; she didn’t need to get a bill for property damage. Or to be arrested for assault and battery.
The spark of amusement the thought of beating him senseless woke up in her told her that it might be worth it. Maybe it would wash away the anger and the irrational rush of jealousy she felt at seeing him again. She didn’t just hate Karrie. She hated the models. And she hated herself because, in the years since they’d been apart, she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t go back and do things differently.
She was so pissed that she would go back and be the other woman for Javi. Only for him. And even though it would have gone against everything she believed in.
Then he wiped his face with his left hand. No ring. No tan line where a ring should be. Maybe they hadn’t gone through with the wedding. Maybe they were divorced. The possibility that he wasn’t married, represented by his bare finger, tantalized her. And she’d just doused him with vodka and said some pretty intense shit about his mother. But maybe he didn’t wear a ring to make it easier to cheat on his wife, and she was totally righteous in ruining that suit.
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Andie J. Christopher writes edgy, funny, sexy contemporary romance. She 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.
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