Life goes on. I did fine before I ever knew the silken heat of Brenna James’s body. Or the sounds she makes when she comes. Or the way her skin flushes peach…

“Hell,” I mutter. “My apartment is too stuffy. You want to go for a run?”

Because my friend is far more astute than he likes to let on, he jumps to his feet and stretches. “Sure. But we’re stopping for a shake on the way back.”

“Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of exercise?”

He lifts a brow. “Is that why we’re running?”

Damn it, I need that shake. “Let’s go. I’ll pay for the shakes.”

Brenna

“Is it just me, or is this movie really bizarre?” I whisper.

Jules gapes at the massive screen where animated polar bears frolic in the snow. A frown forms between her brows. “They’re drinking Coke. I hate it when they make animals eat or drink human food.”

“Or make animated food items look cute and dance around.” I wrinkle my nose. “I’m supposed to want to eat them later?”

“How about when they eat each other?”

“It’s never the type of eating I approve of, sadly.”

We both snicker. A mother sitting next to Jules shoots us a repressive glare while her two-year-old tries to put his fist in his mouth. It’s kind of impressive how she can glare so effectively while wearing 3-D glasses, though. It must be a mother thing.

Jules eases closer to me. “When is this over? I want to see old-timey Coke advertisements and try weird drinks like ginger-lime Coke.”

“I heard they have a pine nut flavor.”

“They do not! Why!”

We get another glare from the mother. Her kid, on the other hand, has taken to kicking the seat in front of him. Hard.

I don’t blame him. I want out too. Thankfully we opted not to sit in the moving theater seats for the 4-D experience. I’d probably want to vomit at this point.

“Thank you for coming with me,” I murmur to Jules.

When Scottie told me he’d set up a meeting in Atlanta with Al Rasken, one of Kill John’s A&R men, to discuss their upcoming record, I’d jumped at the chance to join in. Record labels can be notoriously stingy with the promotion and marketing budget. Kill John is their biggest artist, so we have much more leeway. Even so, a bit of finessing never hurt. The more promotion money I can get for them, the better. At least that’s what I told myself was the reason for going.

“Hey, it’s a mini vacation from work. I’m not complaining.”

She doesn’t realize it, but her words hit a weak spot, and I suppress the urge to wriggle. Because we aren’t working anymore. There is absolutely no reason for me to still be in Atlanta. No legitimate reason, that is.

Days later and I still feel Rye on me. If I close my eyes and let my concentration slip, I’m haunted by the ghost of his scent, salty-sweet lust, citrus and spices. Someone should bottle it; I’d rub that stuff all over my skin at night and sleep in it.

God, I miss him. I miss him! How the hell can that be? We had sex once. I shouldn’t be craving him like this. Oh, but I do. Before, I ached for physical touch. It was a nebulous need, strong but not rooted in one specific person. Now, it’s him I ache for. Damn it.

“Don’t you start sighing,” Jules says out of the side of her mouth. “This was your idea.”

“I slept with Rye.” The words burst free without warning.

“What?” Jules squeaks.

“Hush,” the mother next to us admonishes.

Jules pinches my arm. “You and Rye? Rye Peterson?”

“What other Rye would I be talking about?” I grump, regretting my loose lips. But I need to tell someone, anyone, and Jules won’t judge. She’ll tease me a little, but that’s to be expected.

“Certainly not the one you insisted you’d like to drop in a vat of boiling oil.” She rolls her eyes then glares. “What the hell, Brenna?”

“Ow!” I rub my skin. “Would you quit pinching me?”

“Shhh!”

Jules waves off the irate mother then turns my way. Her oversized 3-D glasses reflect the light of the screen as her lips purse. “Spill it.”

“You’re going to get us kicked out.” I dart an apologetic look at the mother. She’s too busy trying to prevent her kid from eating floor candy.

“You dropped this bomb on me here so I couldn’t properly freak out, didn’t you?” Jules accuses.

She’s not wrong. Sighing, I focus on the screen but then close my eyes because I freaking hate 3-D movies. “Remember that night we talked about my little problem?”

“The need for a good fucking?”

Thankfully, Jules whispers that.

“Yes. Rye was there. He overheard.”

“Shut the front door,” Jules says, part scandalized, part anticipatory.

“He offered…”

“To butter your buns?” she says. Loudly.

“There are children here,” the mother hisses.

Jules gives her a level look. “Like he’s going to understand that?” She shakes her head and glances at the little boy, who is utterly oblivious to our chatter and is clapping at the screen. “I’m sorry, I assumed you’d be pro-sex. My mistake.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing as Jules turns back to me. “I’ll be quiet now so Ms. Buttered Buns here doesn’t have a fit. But when this show is done, we’re having words.”

We shut up until the lights go up, and finally we’re let into the museum. As soon as we’re free, Jules grabs my elbow and hustles me to a corner where a cherry-cheeked Santa lifts a bottle of Coke high in the air. “All right, now tell me everything.” Her eyes are alight and avid with curiosity.

“I don’t know…” I hedge, feeling weirdly protective of it now that I’ve opened my mouth. “It was a moment of weakness.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

“What can I say? He was persuasive.”

Jules gives me a get-real face. “He’s Rye Peterson. He doesn’t need to say a word. Just looking at him is enough. I mean, those arms? That ass?”

“I didn’t realize you’d noticed.”

“Am I dead?” She pinches my arm again with her quick fingers. “Don’t be jealous. I’m not into him. But I can appreciate the package.”

“Apparently I do too.”

“Of course, you do. It’s Rye. He’s always been your weak spot. Not that I blame you. Few can resist that aw-shucks grin. The beard thing is a surprise. I didn’t think it would work for him, but it’s like when Chris Evans went from wholesome, cute ‘how do you do, ma’am?’ Captain America, to ‘who’s your daddy, you’re gonna like the spanking I give you’ Cap.”

“God, don’t say ‘Daddy,’” I moan, remembering Rye’s stupid texts. Call me Daddy, indeed. The arrogance. Why had that turned me on? If it had been anyone else but Rye, I’d be intrigued…No, that’s not true. It turned me on more because it was Rye. Which makes me twisted. Totally twisted to get hot at the idea of playing Daddy with Rye freaking Peterson when I’ve spent the whole of my adult life trying to prove to myself that he has no power over me.