She came to disappear. He came to stir things up. Love wasn't part of the plan.

Tessa Sinclair's future was so golden it glittered. Killer career. Corner office. Sterling reputation. Everything was oh-so easy…until it wasn't.

Scalded by scandal, drop-kicked by karma, and tarnished like a knock-off tiara, Tessa is back to square one. Even worse, there's no going back – not after that career-crashing spectacle or the infamous mini-bottle smash-and-grab on her way out the door.

A disaster? Definitely. And her backup plan? LOL. What backup plan?

Now she's laying low on Michigan's Mackinac Island, pouring lattes instead of pitches, keeping her head down, her secrets close, and her tote bag of regrets mostly zipped. It's fine. Really, it is…until Ryder Vaughn strolls in – a billionaire mischief-maker with a million wisecracks and zero shame. In other words? Trouble.

She doesn't need his attention, much less protection from the shadows of her past. And the last thing she needs is a tempting troublemaker stirring up thoughts too crazy to ignore. Like…what if losing everything was the sweetest disaster of all?

Sneak Peek

1

When the Slide Hits the Fan

Chicago

Tessa

They were laughing. Not all of them, but enough.

Standing at the front of the conference room, I froze in mid-sentence. What the hell?

Quickly, I scanned the faces of my audience, searching for the source of the joke. I saw nothing worth a laugh, not even Toby the intern, whose unfortunate typo had almost ruined slide number four – the one promising a deep dive into public complaints.

Not pubic complaints, no matter what Toby had typed.

Thank God I was a paranoid proofreader.

As the unsettling laughter rolled over the room, my gaze snagged on Toby, sitting in the far back. For some stupid reason, he was recording me with his cellphone.

I frowned. He wasn't laughing, but he did look…what? Smug?

But why? Because he'd been allowed to attend this pitch at all?

He didn't have a seat at the table, just a spot along the wall with the other junior staffers – some from Thatcher-Hale and more from our potential client, Carver Health.

But this presentation? Yeah, it was a big deal – especially to me, the one who'd been pulling double-duty to make it a success.

Just five years ago, I'd been the intern – a recent college grad with a lot to prove. Now, here I was, poised for my big breakout, and my audience was snickering like I'd just farted.

With growing dread, I looked toward our client, Evan Carver, whose looming presence dominated the long, glossy table. He was sitting in the power seat, flanked by yes-men in tailored suits.

Evan was in his mid-thirties, tall and pale, with artfully messy bronze hair that probably cost a fortune to look so undone.

He was undeniably attractive. But the longer I'd known him, the uglier he looked, especially now, when my career wasn't the only thing in danger.

He was giving me that look again – the one that said I know where you sleep.

But then his eyes narrowed, and he rose to his feet. "Miss Sinclair, is this your idea of a joke?"

Hah! Miss Sinclair. That's not what he'd called me last night, when he'd been pounding on my apartment door.

And I still didn't know why people were laughing – until I turned and looked at the screen.

At what I saw, my heart nearly stopped. Holy hell.

I dropped the clicker, and the room burst into fresh laughter.

Like a ghost at her own funeral, I stared at the final slide – the one sporting the new and improved Carver logo, which our designers had spent weeks perfecting.

Or rather, that's what the slide should have contained.

Instead, on the oversized screen, I saw a drunken blonde. Her hair was a mess, her lipstick was smudged, and her silver party dress was riding high on her thighs. She was holding a martini and grinding against a paramedic, whose face had been cropped out of view, probably to focus on hers.

Her smile was sloppy. Her eyes were half-lidded. And she didn't seem to care one bit that a second party girl was collapsed behind her, with motionless legs jutting into the frame like a crime scene parody.

In the background was a high-end hotel suite, with low lighting, neutral furniture, and in the far corner, the edge of a neatly made bed that somehow made everything worse.

And that first girl? The one grinding against the paramedic?

Yeah. That would be me.

I whirled back to the audience and zoomed in on Toby, whose phone was still trained in my direction.

My jaw clenched. That little shit.

Just last week, I'd given him an earful over that typo – and then, against every policy and instinct, I'd let it go. I'd fixed the slide and kept it just between us.

He'd thanked me like I'd done him a huge favor. The next day, he'd even brought me a latte – chocolate almond, my favorite.

But then, just yesterday, he'd gone on a strange little rant about karma, saying that mean people always got what they deserved.

Like a total idiot, I hadn't even realized the meanie was me.

But I was realizing it now, because Toby was the one who'd loaded my presentation onto the conference room computer.

And remember that hint of smugness I'd spotted earlier? Under my panicked gaze, it morphed into a full-blown smirk.

Asshole. It took everything I had not to lunge across the room and toss him out on his bony ass. Right from the start, I'd suspected he was trouble – the kind who'd smile to your face and knife you in the back.

But a total sap, I'd still gone easy on him.

And for what?

Five years. That was how long I'd spent clawing my way toward that corner office. But it felt like ten. I'd given up weekends, friends, and anything resembling a normal life.

Even today, my bags were already packed for a month in Miami – not for beaches or cocktails, but for market research. I hadn't even packed a swimsuit, because why bother? My weekends would be filled with work.

As I stood there, stunned, the last five years collapsed into a single, brutal question. What had it all been for?

Hell, I'd even put up with Evan Carver, who'd gone from disarming to dangerous over the course of several weeks.

I'd been too proud to admit it, but he scared the crap out of me. And this was before the start of the presentation, when he'd leaned in and whispered something so disturbing, I'd nearly lost my lunch.

But like a total trouper, I'd carried on anyway, making the pitch I'd been practicing for days.

Of course, none of those practice sessions had involved a slide of me in the before-times, when I had friends, a social life, and an actual sense of humor.

Crazy, I know.

And yes, the photo had been a joke – just like Evan had asked.

Except this wasn't really his question, was it? What he really wanted to know was why that picture had appeared now, during a marketing pitch that would've solidified a multi-million-dollar account.

Instead, the photo would surely be Evan's excuse to drop us like a hot potato – and more to the point, get rid of me.

As I fumbled for a reply, his voice thundered across the room. "Don't make me ask again."

Nobody was laughing anymore.

The room had gone so silent that I could hear myself breathing – too fast, too loud, and too shallow to get the air I needed.

All my life, I'd been good under pressure. But now, as Evan's mouth twisted into a sneer, a slow burn ignited in my chest. It wasn't my fault that his company's reputation was in the dumpster – or that he'd needed to hire a company like Thatcher-Hale at all.

Our specialty was image and branding, but some things were beyond fixing, like all of the medical screw-ups tied to the Carver name.

I mean sure, Thatcher-Hale could give the turd a good polishing, but the stink was already drawing flies.
Carver Health was doomed.

And even though the company had been founded by Evan's father – and not Evan himself – Evan had to know that the whole family enterprise was circling the drain.

Or maybe not. The guy wasn't exactly humble.

Under my prolonged silence, Evan barked out again. "Get that filth off my screen."

Oh, now that was rich.

If I hadn't already dropped the clicker, I might have hurled it at his head. Seriously? Who did he think he was?

Compared to medical malpractice, that stupid photo was nothing. After all, it's not like I'd glued someone's wound shut with a paperclip still inside.

I heard myself say, "Your screen?"

His reply was clipped. "What?"

"It's not your screen. It's our screen. You're in our office suite, remember?"

It was true. We'd invited Evan Carver onto our home turf, where you'd think we'd have an advantage.

Apparently not.

Not when a weasel on your own team sabotages everything for petty revenge.

And of course, it was at this glorious moment when the conference room door swung open and my boss Stuart burst into the room, calling out with a smile, "Sorry I'm late! The flight from Boston—" His words abruptly stopped as he took the temperature of the room.

Ice cold?

Or flaming hot?

Honestly, it was hard to say. It wasn't comfy, that's for sure.

I opened my mouth to reply, but Evan Carver beat me to it, jabbing a finger toward the screen. "Is this your idea of branding?"

Stuart looked toward the image, and his jaw dropped. "What the…?" He looked to me. "That's not the version I approved."

I winced. "Right. I know, but—"

He didn't even let me finish. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing?"

Before I could even think to reply, Evan announced, "She's making a mockery of all of us."

Stuart turned to me with a glare. "Is that true?"

Evan deserved a lot more than mockery. Just last night, he'd shown up at my apartment for God's sake – uninvited, supposedly to talk.

I hadn't believed him, not after weeks of weirdness and threats.

I hadn't let him in.

But now, like a student caught cheating, I started to stammer. "That slide…I wasn't the one who put it there."

I wasn't even sure how Toby had gotten the image. That bachelorette party had been a lifetime ago.

And that girl on the floor?

She was a fellow bridesmaid hamming it up for the photo.

And the paramedic?

Yes, that would be the male stripper – "Doctor Feelgood" – who'd been egging me on with a smile. This would've been glaringly obvious if a certain weasel hadn't conveniently cropped out his face.

Stuart demanded, "Then who did?" When I tried to reply, he cut me off. "Forget it. The buck stops with you, period."

Period, huh? Stuart did that a lot – made clichéd pronouncements which he ended with that familiar P-word. Normally, I found it endearing. Not today.

I whirled to look at Toby, who was still recording me with his phone. But he wasn't looking in my direction. He was looking at Evan Carver as if the guy hung the moon.

That's when I realized something. Toby wasn't the only person who'd set me up. It was a tag-team effort if I'd ever seen one.

Through the buzzing in my head, I heard my boss telling Evan Carver, "We'll be taking swift action, I promise."

My stomach dropped. Swift action. It was the thing they always said just before someone got the old heave-ho.

Obviously, my career at Thatcher-Hale was coming to a rapid end – and not the kind with a signed greeting card and cake.

No, this would be the other kind – involving security and a box for my things.

I'd always hated injustice. Perversely, this was why I'd given Toby a break. Nobody deserved to be fired over a typo – or for burning popcorn in the microwave, which was how we'd lost our best graphic designer, a really nice woman with a deployed husband, two kids, and a mortgage.

Monica had gone quietly – not that it had done her any good. The company had tanked her career anyway, using the Chicago grapevine to guarantee she'd never work in corporate again.

For popcorn.

Those fuckers. Something inside me snapped. Screw this place. Maybe I'd have to go, but unlike Monica, I'd be damned if I'd go quietly.

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