Mean girl. Goddess. Bitch. Supermodel Sofie Baston has earned those labels . . . yet they don’t scratch the surface of who she really is. Before she can follow her own dreams, Sophie must do her daughterly duty and reel in a “fish” for her father’s business-a tall, brown-eyed entrepreneur who immediately hooksΒ her.Β He’s a big guy with an even bigger heart . . . but will that heart be open to Sofie once her darkest secret is revealed?
To Trevor Bishop, Sofie is a beautiful mystery he would gladly spend his life solving. He figures her tough demeanor is armor against a world that’s hurt her too many times. Then Sofie’s deepest wounds are reopened by the powerful, ruthless man who made them. When she musters the courage to take him down, her world shatters. Now Trevor is determined to help Sofie pick up the pieces so they can build a future together. The challenge will be convincing his ice princess that it’s safe to melt in his arms .
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βAnd this is his business partner, Trevor Bishop.β
Walsh steps back, and I have my first close up of the fish Iβm baiting tonight. Only Iβm the one hooked, immediately. Iβm careful not to show it, but that stunned look Iβm used to seeing on other peopleβs faces? All over my inside face.
This force of flesh and bone and muscle wrapped in heat looms over me. Trevor Bishopβs presence burns holes in my composure. I could tell from across the room he was attractive and built like a mountain lion, lean and strong and broad. Itβs only now with proximity that his absolute confidence meets mine head on. He tilts his head to the left, his chocolate-colored eyes steadily considering me, and I swear he knows. Even though Iβm sure my face doesnβt give it away, I swear he knows that as I stand in front of him, inhaling his clean scent and waiting for his first smile, windmills turn in my belly.
βA pleasure to meet you, Miss Baston.β His lips, wide and full, give me a smile punctuated by dimples. And he has a southern drawl.
Fuck me now.
Thatβs not a figure of speech. I quite literally want him to toss me over that hulking shoulder, find a dark corner somewhere and screw me so deeply into a wall we leave a dent. Or in a bathroom stall. Hell, he could drag me over to the elaborate buffet table and take me from behind right there by the ice sculpture.
One dark brown brow, a few shades darker than his hair, rises. Holy crap, I havenβt responded yet.
βUm, nice to meet you, too, Mr. Bishop.β I take my time so my tongue doesnβt betray the muddled mess of haywire hormones I am right now.
His eyes drift over my shoulder, forcing my mind and manners back to Rip.
βOh, yes. Iβm sorry. How rude.β I turn to Rip, who immediately claims my elbow and draws me into his side. All of a sudden heβs territorial. I canβt blame him. If my girlfriend was within five feet of this man, Iβd handcuff her to me for the night. βThis is Michael Ripley.β
βGreat game Sunday.β Trevor shakes the hand Rip isnβt manacling me with. βIβm a Falcons fan myself, but I can appreciate a good toss no matter the team. Thatβs some arm you got there.β
Ripβs hold on me relaxes a bit. Clever Trevor, disarming him that way. Well played. Will I be able to strip this fish of his defenses as easily?
Once seated, Rip, Trevor, Harold and Walsh fall into a discussion of football I donβt even try to follow.Β Apparently neither does Kerris. Sheβs texting someone with a small frown on her face, and mumbles something to Walsh about a sitter. I settle into my seat beside Trevor, taking a few moments to compose myself and strategize how I can get that hook in his mouth.
βSo you were in Dubai?β
The question startles me a little, I was so lost in my musings. I turn slightly in Trevorβs direction, creasing my lips politely.
βFor a shoot, yes.β I toy with the clamp on my clutch resting on the table. βAnd my friend Ardis married a prince over there. I like to visit her every once in a while.β
βA real live prince, huh?β He teases me with a quirk of those full lips.
βDonβt be too impressed.β I lean a few inches closer to him and lower my voice. βHeβs a prince in name only.β
βIf heβs a prince in name only, what does that make him in deed?β
I canβt hold onto the humor when I recall the bruises shackling Ardisβ throat and wrists, or the black and blue mark on her cheek like a brand. I refocus my eyes and sober my mouth.
βA frog.β
βI thought you ladies kissed all the frogs to find the prince.β
βIt happens that way in fairy tales, not in Manhattan.β I sip my champagne. βOr in Dubai, apparently.β
βSo that accounts for your tan.β His dark eyes make a slow, thorough inspection of my features.
βHmmm. What accounts for yours?β I toss a skein of silvery blonde hair back so he gets an eyeful of the bare line of my neck and shoulder. His eyes move down my neck, warming the skin like a touch, before he looks back into my eyes.
βHaiti.β He laughs a little, lounges back in his chair and links long fingers across a flat stomach I imagine is corded with muscle. βWell, and my father is Lumbee, so some of my tanβs natural.β
βLum what?β
He laughs again, his teeth white against his skin. I really like that itβs because of something I said.
βLumbee Indian, a tribe found mostly in Lumberton, North Carolina.β
βSo your motherβs responsible for the red hair?β
βShe is.β He brushes a hand over his neat hair, disrupting it into a coppery spill on his forehead. βI was spared the freckles, though.β
βIβm sure thereβs one or two.β
His eyes are suddenly hot chocolate, heating up a little as they hold mine.
βYouβre welcome to try to find them.β
I’m a wife, a mom, a writer, an advocate for families living with autism. That’s me in a nutshell. Crack the nut, and you’ll find a Southern girl gone Southern California who loves pizza and Diet Coke, and wishes she got to watch a lot more television. You can usually catch me up too late, on social media too much, or FINALLY putting a dent in my ever-growing To Be Read list!
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