"Then you shouldn't have asked me to marry you, idiot."

"You wanted me to."

"That's why you asked? Because I was perfectly happy with having a nice boyfriend I could trust, not a husband who cheats. You should have never asked me!"

He chuckled as if this was just a little incident to him. "Honestly, this is just a silly case of cold feet. You," he said, raising his eyes to the ceiling, "you have been so busy with dress fittings, food tastings, and registries, it just seemed like you were too busy for my needs..."

"f.u.c.k you. f.u.c.k you, f.u.c.kyouf.u.c.kyou! I was left alone to put together this stupid wedding. With your mother calling me up every day, inviting all her friends, and making a list of baby names for me. Baby names, Kevin!"

"It was cold feet, that's all it was, babe, please! I'm so sorry. You have to take me back. Let's just forget it, please."

"Take you back? For what? So I can worry the next forty years that you're sticking your thing in other people. You might call me petty, but guess what; I'm allowed to be petty right now. You would have kept her as a sidepiece well after we were married. I heard the things you said to her. Did you even use a condom?"

His face blanched.

"Oh, my G.o.d! I'm supposed to let you double-freaking-dip? Three weeks! Three weeks before our wedding and I find you b.a.l.l.s deep in someone I work with and you want me to forgive you?" Oh h.e.l.l no. No, it's all about me now. "You selfish a.s.s, there's no CLEAR HISTORY b.u.t.ton on your p.e.n.i.s. I can't forget it."

"Lexa, please. I know you think this is all my fault but, things weren't..."

Sarcasm boiled my skin. "No, Trager, it's not you-this isn't your fault-any of it. It's my horrible choice in men. My mistake." I grabbed his bag, the same one I had packed for two hours before my bachelorette party, opened the hotel room door, and tossed it out into the hallway. It smashed loudly against the far wall, spilling clothes and personal items across the floor. I couldn't have planned it better if I'd tried. "As soon as we get home I want your belongings packed and gone from my apartment."

"What? Are you serious? We are supposed to get married in a few days." He held his hands against the frame of the door as I pushed him into the hallway.

"Not any longer. You and your cold feet are off the hook."

"What? I'm not. I'm not leaving. We can get over this. I'm not moving out."

"Yes, you are. You cheated on me. I saw you. Do you even understand how I feel right now?"

He stood in the middle of the hallway, shoulders slumped, eyes wide and staring at me. He looked pathetic and guilty, even remorseful, but I couldn't not see what I saw. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it. Every time I looked at him, I saw it. I leaned against the door for support. "Just leave, Kevin. Just leave me be. You've hurt me enough."

"But...but...but what about the cat?"

That's what he was concerned with at the moment? "I'll tell him you died," I snapped, slamming the door in his face. In my head, I was writing his eulogy and speaking about the numerous reasons he deserved to be thrown into traffic.

Finally alone in the room, I flipped off my shoes and flung them into the air. I dug through my suitcase for a pair of pajamas and of course came up with the s.e.xy lingerie that I bought to surprise the stupid, cheating a.s.s. There was no way in h.e.l.l I was going to sit alone in my hotel room in lingerie feeling sorry for myself. I slapped on a pair of boy shorts and a sports bra and flopped on the bed. As soon as the hotel pool opened at one o'clock, I was going to put on a bathing suit and go for a swim. Forget everyone.

I leaned back against the headboard, cold hotel room sheets soft and cool against my skin, and folded my legs underneath me. I turned on the television and flicked through the channels while I waited, the slow hard thud of my hangover still pounding against my temples.

Sleep instantly claimed me.

Blinking my eyes open, I glanced at the clock. It was three in the morning. The sky outside the window was dark and the television was playing a late night infomercial about mops. What a waste of an entire day. I counted the hours I had slept on my fingers and cringed-that must have been some hangover. My stomach rumbled violently in hunger and my hair was a mess of wavy knots, my tight no-nonsense bun having somehow vanished.

I flipped open the hotel booklet and skimmed for the time room service was open. The kitchen closed at midnight and opened again at six. There was no way I could wait three more hours to eat. I'd have to hit a snack machine.

Grabbing my key card and wallet, I opened the hotel room door and slipped out. The hallway was silent, just the soft overhead buzz of the light bulbs hanging behind the sh.e.l.l-shaped sconces near the ceiling could be heard. Ugly, creepy looking decorations. Padding quickly over the plush business level carpet, I followed the maze of hallways, listening for the hum and groan of any vending machines.

After a five-minute search, I found one in a small corner.

Unfortunately, someone else seemed to be hungry in the wee hours of the morning, because Jameson Holt was sprawled out on the carpet, leaning against the machine. An array of wrappers and two cans of soda sat next to him. He had a bottle of water to his lips when he noticed me walking towards him.

I jerked to a complete stop, dead center of the hall. Slowing my steps, I wondered how insane I'd look if I just ran like heck the other way.

A splash of spilled water spread over his t-shirt as he fumbled with the bottle. He looked down, shook his head, and laughed at the wet spot on his shirt. Feeling a bit self-conscious, I folded my arms tightly across my chest then gasped aloud when I realized I was wearing practically nothing and standing in front of one of my bosses. How much of an idiot could I be to not even notice what I was wearing when I walked out of my hotel room? My face heated. I mean, I was seriously almost naked standing there. What a lovely way for my boss to see me: awkward, clumsy, half dressed, and freshly cheated on. If he calls me Nipples too, I'm quitting my job. Oh, screw this! I straightened my posture and sucked in my gut. Might as well pretend not to feel completely humiliated. Though my flaming cheeks were probably giving me away.

I tried for a smile. "You holding this machine hostage, or can a ravenous girl get a snack?"

He brought a chip to his lips and crunched. His eyes slowly grazed up and down my body without pause then quickly flitted to the huge pile of snacks on the floor next to him.

"Sit." His voice was husky and thick, like melted caramel and chocolate, and I wanted to pour him all over me. My stomach fluttered as a fantasy of Mr. Holt, me, and a slew of syrupy condiments slammed into my head, and my shame wasn't strong enough to stop it. I'm a dirty, dirty girl. Well, at least in my own imagination anyway.

Stepping back until my shoulders. .h.i.t the wall across from him, I slid my body down. My back sc.r.a.ped against the wall, making my pulse race and my stomach quiver with nerves. His eyes never left mine; light hazel eyes, almost green, yet almost golden. A strange, intoxicating mix. Darn, I was caught in his playboy mating call, wasn't I? He had those super testosterone laser eyes that made women just want to hand him their panties.

I did-I wanted to hand him my panties.

Instead, I sat down with a little oomph; eye contact never broken. There are a handful of times in your life when looking someone straight in the eye for so long seems like the most dangerous and frightening thing. For some reason this felt like one of them.

I tried averting my eyes to the floor, but they magically got pulled right back to him, as if magnetized, no, more like captivated, and I found myself looking at all of him all at once. Holy freaking h.e.l.l, I'm going to have a panic attack sitting here half-naked, gawking at my boss. Kill me now.

Dark blond hair, messy, tapered on the sides and a short mop of bed head on top. Streaks of a golden blond mixed in, the kind you get from the brightness of the sun always falling on you. Broad shoulders, solid arms, angular features. Gorgeous. And those eyes, sage green with flecks of gold; just a look in that overly intense gaze and you get that heated b.u.t.terfly effect low in your belly. A tight fluttering and achiness-the kind that needs immediate filling. He had the allure of a bad boy and successful businessman blended perfectly together-like he majored in it in college.

"What do you want," he asked as a ghost of a smile pa.s.sed his lips.

Why, why, why did that sound s.e.xual to me?

5.

Jameson

"It's a fallacy that men can't focus on two things at once. Example: b.o.o.bs." @Kavon #b.o.o.bS I'd been staring up at the squiggly lines on the wall since I sat my sorry a.s.s against the snack machine. My head was a mess. Christ. My whole life was a mess.

Sophia slept with the Mailroom Guy. What in the actual f.u.c.k? I mean first off, he was a punk a.s.s kid. He couldn't have been more that twenty-two. Second, he was the mailroom guy. What in the actual f.u.c.k? You put us in a line up and ask a bunch of woman walking down the street which of us they'd want more. You can bet I'd be the one they'd choose every time.

Every time but where Sophia was concerned.

The mailroom guy?

I busted open another bag of chips and peeked inside. Wonderful. I bought a bag of air with one mouthful of chips inside. What I needed was a d.a.m.n sandwich, or a steak. Gulping at my water, my gaze moved restlessly around the narrow hallway. The need to crawl out of my own skin was infuriating. I was Jameson Holt, d.a.m.n it. People wanted to be me, not the other way around. Squeezing my eyes shut, I crushed the bag of chips in my hand.

Hearing a shuffle along the rug, I looked up.

h.e.l.lo.

Cascades of wavy, ink black hair, plump, rosy lips, and stunning blue eyes. And she was wearing...Jesus...what was she wearing? A hooker on the business level of a hotel? That's not stereotypical at all. I wondered which of the losers I worked with had to pay to play, and how much, because that was the best-looking prost.i.tute I'd ever seen. I'd only seen the crackhead kind on the corner of 42nd in New York, black-toothed and track-marked.

Wait a second.

She looked very familiar.

Was that...

Was that Lexa Novak?

Christ, she's perfect.

Her eyes widened and she froze halfway down the hallway. This was not the same woman I'd seen with her hair pinned back and her man repellerware on. This woman was stunning. I didn't know where to look first; those eyes were striking with her dark hair framing her face, her smooth skin and long legs. A pair of little boy shorts outlining curves I could sink my teeth into. And her t.i.ts-I could go on for days about her t.i.ts.

Clearing her throat, cheeks flushed bright red that spread down the center of her body; she mumbled something that I couldn't quite make out. She looked like she was about to run.

But d.a.m.n, I wanted her to stay.

"Sit," I said, and offered her something from my stockpile of junk food.

"What are you doing out here at three in the morning?" she asked. There was a soft throatiness to her voice and I wondered how I'd never noticed it before. How in h.e.l.l had I never noticed her before?

I shoved a handful of chips into my mouth as an answer. She smiled. Beautiful. What the h.e.l.l was she thinking walking around dressed like that? d.a.m.n, I could just imagine what Evan would have done if he'd seen her like that.

"You were in a relationship with Sophia, weren't you?" she asked slowly.

I choked on the chips. I mean, truly choked, almost needing the Heimlich maneuver kind of choking on chips. Eyes watering, heart pounding, throat burning-the works.

"Oh, G.o.d," she dropped her face in her hands and peeked at me through her fingers. I was choking and dying; she was blushing five shades of peek-a-boo. "I'm right, aren't I? You and Sophia? I'm sorry, Mr. Holt, I have no filter. I vomit words...it's like a disease."

I gulped at my water, trying to quench the burn in my throat, and then looked at her. She shook her head and bit down on her lip. "c.r.a.p, I'm so sorry," she whispered.

I chuckled. "It's quite all right, Ms. Novak. That's more of an apology than I got from Sophia." I threw her over a bag of M&Ms and shrugged. "n.o.body knew. Well, Evan did, but that's because he's a stupid nosy p.r.i.c.k and figured it out. It's just been a few months."

She nodded her head thoughtfully and I stared at her-and I mean really stared at her. No makeup, not even some of that lip c.r.a.p or that black junk that makes eyelashes long and gunky. There was a small cl.u.s.ter of freckles across her cheeks that strangely matched the natural hue of her lips. And she wasn't skinny, although she was by no means fat; she was just curvy and soft all over, like a cla.s.sic Marilyn Monroe. Not a single st.i.tch of the plastic surgery I was accustomed to with Sophia with her fake t.i.ts that don't bounce and her quarterly lipo and cellulite removal.

She grabbed one of the cans of soda, popped it open with a loud hiss, and held it up. A sad smile flitted across her lips and she clinked her drink to mine. "Well, we sure know how to pick 'em, don't we? I should've known after the first night I stayed over at his house it was all bad."

I couldn't help but smile and ask, "How so?"

"His mommy woke me up when she went to get his laundry out of his room."

It felt like it was the first time I laughed in days. She even laughed, but it never reached her eyes. G.o.d, it must be awful for her to be going through this right before her wedding.

"How are you holding up?" I asked, watching her separate the colored chocolates in her hand then pop one color in her mouth at a time. First, all the browns, then yellows, followed by reds, oranges, greens, and the blues were saved for last.

"Good, question. I'll let you know when I find an answer, because I have no idea how I'm not sobbing uncontrollably since it happened," she said, her voice soft and low. Her eyes gazed at her fingers, folding and bending what was left of the snack bag.

"What happens now? What are you going to do?"

She absently sc.r.a.ped her teeth against her lips and looked down the hall. "I want to cancel everything. Just go somewhere and hide for a little while so I don't have to hear everybody talk about it. I'm probably going to lose all my deposits and everything." She turned her head toward me and sighed. "I can't even begin to think about what our families will have to say about everything."

A strange heaviness ached in my chest for her.

"How about you?" she asked, sipping her soda.

"I'm p.i.s.sed, but not as upset as I should be. I guess that shows you how I really felt about her. Kind of eye opening. I'm more sorry that you got hurt than anything. I'm sorry you had to go through the pain for all her bulls.h.i.t."

She pulled her knees to just under her chin and wrapped her arms around them. "He blamed it all on me."

"She blamed me too."

A faint smile tugged at her lips. "I'm sorry, but I don't get how she'd go from you to him."

"Yeah, well, at first she pretended she was doing it for the magazine. She said Trager was the mailroom guy and knew how to get in contact with that infamous blogger Alex Kavon, which was a lie and I told her that. Finally, she just let me have it. She said I was emotionally unavailable and selfish. And to kick me while I was down, she said I wasn't good in bed. Which is another lie, by the way."

Thankfully, she laughed, because it sure wasn't like me to tell a beautiful woman that another woman had any complaints about me. It was all lies anyway. Sophia was trying to get me jealous. She wanted me to put up some sort of a fight for her, ask her to be my girlfriend exclusively, like we were all still in middle school. "Wasn't good in bed? Well what the h.e.l.l was she doing with Trager then?" Her laughter softened.

"He must've been doing something."

"I wonder what because I haven't had an o.r.g.a.s.m, unless it was a do-it-yourself kind, in over six months. What? Now all of the sudden he magically learns how to use his d.i.c.k correctly?"

"Wow. Seriously?"

"Sorry," she said, putting her hands over her face, and then bashfully glancing up at me. "Definitely no brain-to-mouth filter. Runs in the family."

"So he was a three pump wonder and she the Queen of the Nags," I laughed, trying to make her feel better. It was refreshing talking to a woman who was down to earth and said things she thought, no games.

"Well he's an a.s.s and she's his trash." The corner of her mouth rose into a grin and I couldn't understand why, but I wanted her to keep the smile-maybe because it was so beautiful.

"Stupid s.l.u.t."

"a.s.shead."

"Monkey humper."

"I'm surprised he didn't fall in and have to be surgically removed." I let out a dark laugh.

"He probably just stuck his p.e.n.i.s in her mouth to make her shut up," she giggled, eyes gleaming.

"Their private parts are more like public parts." There is something to be said about getting back in touch with your adolescent mentality; it's liberating.

Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed shut, pulling us back to reality. Big blue eyes darted nervously around the hallway, and she quickly climbed to her feet. "Well, Mr. Holt. I think I should get back to my room before I embarra.s.s myself any further in my lack of ensemble. Thank you," she smiled, cheeks rendering her shame a deep red, "for sharing the snacks."