Heart's a Mess

Kylie
Scott

Violet is a woman on a mission to get her life in order. Or
she was supposed to be. Sleeping with her smokin’ hot new boss, however,
definitely counts as a mistake. One she has no intention of repeating.

Bar owner Alex has finally got his libido back following a
crushing divorce. No way is he letting the curvaceous object of his lustful
affections get away. They can have a relationship without it spilling over into
the workplace. Of course they can. Because he most certainly won’t be putting
his hands on her in the back office, and getting busy in the storage room is
definitely out…

Violet may be reluctant to repeat the past—but she’s not the
only one on a mission.

A
Romantica®
contemporary erotic romance
from Ellora’s Cave

Brisbane, Australia

The sun was shining and birds were singing.
And maybe, just maybe, if Alex pressed his face hard enough into the pillow,
he’d be able to suffocate himself and put an end to the pounding inside his
head. It was worth a try.

Such a pity, because the rest of him felt
fan-fucking-tastic, oddly enough. But sweet merciful mother did his brain hurt.
It easily drowned out all the bliss and happy emanating from the neck down.
Those sensations barely registered, apart from a certain lethargy in his
muscles. It might have been relaxation, hard to tell.

He knew better than to let his little
brother talk him into throwing a party. Sure as shit he knew better than to
drink that much. Thirty-seven was too old to be acting the ass, a freshly
divorced thirty-seven at that. No matter how cranky he might still be about
that whole situation he had no excuse.

Alex rolled onto his back, throwing an arm
across his face to ward off the searing brilliance of the day. Something silky
soft slid across his chin, catching on his stubble. He dared a peek, flinching
at the blinding brightness. But it didn’t stop him from noticing the dark gray
satin and lace beside him. A bra. In fact, one strap had wrapped itself tightly
around his wrist.

What the fuck?

There’d been no cross-dressing. He’d
remember that. He’d definitely remember that.

The bed held no one but him, now. Sometime during the night he’d rolled into the middle of the mattress. He
always started on the right-hand side out of habit. Jane had liked the left.
But he’d wake up spread across the middle every morning, alone as ever.

Last night’s events were a haze past a
certain point, about when the shots of vodka started. Ciroc, his favorite. Such
a damn good drop. Come closing time, people had flooded the Southern Cross Bar
and the private upstairs apartment. Seems word of Duncan’s afterhours party had
magically spread far and wide. Instead of kicking people out at the end of the
night, they’d wound up letting them in. Upon reflection, not the best idea
they’d ever had. He’d blame it on the shots.

He and his two brothers had inherited the
Southern Cross Bar and Restaurant from their parents a decade back. Alex had
been sharing the apartment with his younger brother and fellow bartender,
Duncan, for the past year. Ever since he’d found his beloved wife blowing
someone in their bed. He slapped the thought aside before the memory could take
root in his mind and mess with him again.

What happened last night?

Duncan enjoyed partying a bit too much,
truth be told. He wasn’t the best choice of flatmate. Their elder brother and
head cook, John, had a house a few blocks away but he made obsessive-compulsive
control freaks look liberal. No way could Alex stay there without fratricide
being committed. Surviving childhood with the uptight idiot had been hard enough.
Usually he managed to avoid Duncan’s parties but last night, he’d succumbed.
Something about receiving the final papers had done him in. There’d been
relief, but other stuff too. Letting loose had made perfect sense at the time.

But how the hell had he ended up covered in
lingerie?

Alex turned onto his side and sniffed the
nearest pillow. Some faint flowery scent rose up to greet him and his heart
jumped about in his chest.

No. Not possible. Or was it?

Rising up on one elbow, he looked around.
An open empty condom wrapper sat on the bedside table.

Huh. Wow.

“Yes!” He punched the air, bra swinging
wildly about. His cheeks hurt from smiling so hard. Fuck, he felt like he could
sing. The evidence was irrefutable and the joy in his heart unending. His ex hadn’t
managed to neuter him after all. The drought was broken but his dick was not.

Oh, thank God for that.

He’d been worried. Hell, he’d been scared.
There’d been no signs of life from his libido in over a year. Blonde, brunette,
tall or short, didn’t matter. No reaction. Nil. Nothing, up until now.

He sagged back against the mattress with an
almighty sigh. What a wonderful day.

If his mystery bed buddy had stayed he’d
have sucked on her toes, licked her pussy and done her all over again, twice.
Then he’d have cooked her breakfast and written her bad poetry.

He held the bra up, inspecting it
carefully. Judging by the size, his mystery lady most definitely had curves. It
smelt faintly of feminine sweat and the same soft, floral perfume. He tested
the flimsy material between his fingers. It looked expensive, well made. Any
money there was matching panties to go with it. Thong or bikini? Boy-leg
perhaps?

Just the thought sent his blood surging
south. He wrapped a hand around his hard-on and gave it a squeeze. Damn that
felt good. Ah, virility. He remembered it well. Never again would he take it
for granted.

Man, he loved her, whoever she was. He
wanted more. He needed it.

And clearly, no one else would do.

* * * * *

What the fuck had she done?

Violet Moore shoved her handbag into one of
the staff lockers and slammed the door shut with more zest than necessary. Fury
didn’t cover it and frustration barely skirted the edges. She had only herself
to blame.

She’d made promises, lots of them. And
she’d meant every last one, damn it.

No more stupidity, time to start behaving
like an adult. She’d enrolled in a long-distance education course and stopped
sharing an apartment with Sarah the stoner. She’d gotten a mortgage and stopped
dating bad boys. Her shit had officially been gotten together. It had.
Everything had been going great. Dumb-ass decisions made in the spur of the
moment were done with, totally.

Except they weren’t, were they?

Because here she stood, third day on the
job and about to get her ample ass fired. Her parents would be so proud,
thirty-one years old and still fucking things up with aplomb.

Not that she’d ever tell them. She’d had
enough of their disappointed looks to last her a lifetime.

Fuck it.

She smacked the flat of her hand against
the locker door. A zing of pain ripped through her palm. It suited her mood to
perfection.

There’d be other jobs, other opportunities,
sure. But she’d wanted this one, damn it. The Southern Cross had a reputation
as one of the best bars in the area and its clientele and conditions reflected
it. Marie, the restaurant manager, had wanted to train her to take over and
Nicole had been so excited. God, it had all sounded so great.

Her heart took a dive for the dozenth time.
Had, past tense.

And there was no one to blame but her own
sweet self.

She paused in front of the mirror to
straighten her favorite black pencil skirt and pat down the fringe of her
straight red hair. At least she’d go out with style. Wearing the black suede
heels decorated with little white skulls might have been overkill, but frankly,
she’d needed the boost in confidence if not in height. The thought of calling
in sick had occurred to her more than a dozen times. But Violet version 2.0,
the good girl, didn’t do that sort of thing.

Of course, good girls also didn’t screw
their bosses second day on the job, did they? No.

Enough evading, it was time to face her
doom.

Down the back hallway and out into the bar
room she strode, shoes click-clacking alarmingly loudly across the wooden
floor. Nerves rioted in her belly. Her breakfast churned. It was barely eleven,
and already customers sat at tables. A song by the Jezabels hummed through the
sound system. But no one spoke, bizarrely enough. In fact, no one even seemed
to move. It felt as if she’d wandered into the twilight zone. The bar had
somehow become a frozen tableau, stuck in time. Every eye in the place was
fixed upon the couple standing in the front doorway.

The woman was petite, pretty. When Violet
had been little, she’d pretended she looked like that. Even back then men’s
preferences had been glaringly obvious. Big with bouncy bits almost always lost
out to tiny and trim. But fuck that. She was fine with her own skin and all the
flesh beneath. No more apologizing.

The other component of the couple was him,
of course. Her nemesis. Her downfall. Her destruction. Six foot plus worth of
ridiculously hot and handsome that she should have walked away from but hadn’t.
God help her. Her body took immediate attention, irritatingly enough. Between
her legs awoke instantly. The man packed the punch of a double espresso so far
as her sex was concerned. Stupid, stupid sex.

But hell, look at him. She bit back a
heartfelt sigh. Who was she kidding? Given the chance to do it all again, she’d
take nothing back. Last night had been the best sex of her life. Climbing all
over him had been a dream come true.

So, given her dreams had a tendency to turn
into nightmares, this must be the girlfriend. They certainly looked perfect
together. And like everyone else gathered, she stopped, watched and waited,
caught up in the picture-perfect moment.

In something akin to slow motion, the woman
in the doorway raised her hand high. Dazzling sunlight glinted off the rings on
her fingers. Her hand flew and the flat of her palm struck the man hard across
the face. The sharp sound of impact cut straight through the crowd.

Somebody gasped.

Someone else dropped a teaspoon. It
clattered on the floor.

Without further ado, the woman turned on
her heel and stalked out of the bar.

No one even dared breathe.

Slowly, the man, Alex Stuart, turned to
face the assembled crowd. The imprint of the woman’s hand was emblazoned bright
red across his cheek. He glared at his younger brother. His shoulders shook and
his eyes spoke of murder.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” he
growled.

Duncan, the youngest of the three-brother
management team and a pretty party boy if she’d ever seen one, took one look at
the enraged man, turned and fled.

Alex’s head filled with a red haze, the
thumping headache long forgotten. His face felt on fire, mostly from
embarrassment. Mary or Meredith or whatever the hell her name was—what the hell
did he care? She wasn’t the woman who’d gotten him going—hadn’t really hit him
all that hard. If he remembered right, the woman had a temper. She’d been less
than impressed when he’d bailed on her offer of hot sex a few months back.
Little wonder his text message had set her off.

Correction. Duncan’s text message on
Alex’s
phone.

He caught up with his brother in the back
office and tackled the fucker, taking him down to the ground. Doing as much
damage as he could.

“Shit. I’m sorry,” Dunc said between bursts
of laughter. A well-placed blow to the bastard’s ribs stopped that.

Duncan grunted and twisted, maneuvering
around to face him. Before Alex knew it, they were a tangle of flying fists on
the floor, just the same as when they were kids. An elbow caught him in the
shoulder and knuckles grazed his mouth. They were pretty evenly matched in
height and weight these days but anger gave him a clear advantage. He was
fucking furious.

“I told you not to do it!” Alex raged. “Why
don’t you ever listen?”

Duncan panted and blocked another jab to
his ribs. “It was just a joke. Calm down.”

Everything was a joke to the asshole. If
anything, the piss-poor excuse made Alex wilder. He snarled, his fist landing
square in his brother’s eye.

Duncan howled and kneed him in the guts in
return, making his belly cramp in pain.

“You said you had to find her!” Duncan
yelled.

“Not by sending random fucking texts to
every woman on my phone!”

Hair pulling was soon involved, as was
biting. They fought brutally dirty, with all the familiarity only brothers
could muster. No weak spot was left unexploited.

Until someone let loose a whistle shrill
enough to break even their concentration.

Hell, it sounded loud enough to shatter
glass. It echoed through the confined space and bashed around inside his skull
until his frontal lobe felt as though it would implode.

His ears rung and rung, the pain was
indescribable.

“Holy shit,” Duncan whispered eventually.

Alex looked up to find his older brother
John standing over them. Marie and the new girl, Violet, stood alongside him.
Two fingers were tucked between Violet’s shiny red lips.

“Wow,” said John, fingers still embedded in
his ears.

“Uh, thanks, Vi.” Marie gave the woman a
squinty, pained smile. “That’s impressive.”

Violet shrugged and put her hands by her
sides, thankfully removing the threat of an immediate repeat of the noise. Her
gaze stayed firmly off him and his brother. He couldn’t blame the girl. How
bloody embarrassing, watching your bosses beat the shit out of each other on
the floor. Damn it.

“Why don’t I just get back to work?” she
said.

Yes, he and Duncan must look highly
unprofessional.

From where he lay, Alex had an awesome view
as she about-turned in her high-high heels and walked toward the door. He’d
always made a point of not noticing members of staff, curves or no. Just then,
however? Fucking impossible.

Holy shit, the girl had been made stacked
in all the right places. The glory of an hourglass figure couldn’t really be
underestimated. She didn’t fit his usual choice, but his hands would look
perfect wrapped around her waist. And those spectacular tits would overflow his
fingers for sure. Not that he would ever go there because she was staff. They
had rules, standards, but damned if he could look away. A neat ponytail of
shiny, improbably colored red hair slid across her back, and she stopped dead
in place. As if she could read his mind and was giving him just a little longer
to stare at her ass, bless her, but no.

“You did a flow chart of women’s breast
sizes?” she asked. Because she’d stopped to stare at the whiteboard hanging on
the wall, hadn’t she?