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Authors: Kendall Ryan

The Fix Up

BOOK: The Fix Up
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The Fix Up

Copyright © 2016 Kendall Ryan

 

Copy Editing and Formatting by

Pam Berehulke

 

Cover design by

Hang Le

 

Kindle Edition

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

About the Book

From New York Times bestseller Kendall Ryan comes a sexy new standalone novel.

 

My tempting and very alpha friend Sterling Quinn is someone I consider off-limits.

It’s not
just
that we’re friends, he’s also cocky, confident, and British, which means he’s a walking aphrodisiac.

But lately he’s been giving me the look. You know the one. When he thinks I’m not paying attention, and his gaze lingers for too long.

When we start working together, that’s when the sexual tension between us gets so thick, I want to hack through it with a machete. I want to make all these deep feelings I’ve harbored for him disappear, because there’s no way this can end well.

The lines between business and pleasure become irrevocably blurred, and I’m stuck between a rock and Sterling’s very, very hard place.

Rather than keep a level head about our growing attraction, Sterling wants to go all-in, showing me just how explosive we can be together.

But I’ve been around long enough to know that this British bad boy is more than my heart can handle. I’m not about to be cast aside like yesterday’s underwear when he’s done having fun.

Sterling’s never been told no, and he’s not about to put his ego aside and play by my rules. But I never thought he’d fight so dirty.

Prologue

From
The New York Post
:

One of New York City’s most eligible bachelors, twenty-eight-year-old Sterling Quinn, is set to receive a long-forgotten inheritance from a distant relative in England, if and only if he marries. The British playboy has six months to wed, and is apparently being flooded with marriage proposals from interested women around the globe.

It’s a stunning twist of irony for one of New York’s top divorce attorneys, a self-proclaimed confirmed bachelor, and the entire city is eager to see how this will play out.

Chapter One

Sterling

 

A warm hand grips my cock, stroking unevenly.

I usually appreciate this form of wake-up call, but her choppy strokes leave a lot to be desired. She twists her palm, creating an unpleasant friction.
Seriously, who taught this girl how to toss off a cock?

“Ow! Fuck.” I sit up suddenly, yanking my cock out of her grasp. The damn thing is stinging like he got a rug burn. Her sloppy technique almost makes me want to teach her how to properly handle a man’s most important appendage.
Almost
.

“What’s wrong, sexy?” she purrs, and reaches for my jutting dick again. The fucker is still hard.

I shudder.
No
. I consider again demonstrating for her.
Curl your palm lightly around, just below the crown, slide up . . .

“I have an important meeting this morning.”

“On a Sunday?” she says with a pout.

Rising to my feet, I grab a pair of sweats from my dresser and tug them on. “I have to be at church in an hour.”
I’m totally going to hell for that lie.

She nods. Her blond hair is matted on one side, not that I can fault her for that; I’m pretty sure I got cum in it last night. Things got a little wild, and apparently I broke my own rule about letting a hookup stay over. Still, I always treat women with respect, so even if she was just yanking on my cock like it was a garden hose, I’m not going to yell or throw her out.

Trust me, she’ll be leaving in five minutes, tops, but she’ll do so with a pleasant smile on her face, and a
thank you for last night
on her lips.

Why, you ask?

Because I’m Sterling Fucking Quinn, successful attorney, one of New York City’s most sought-after bachelors, and in addition to a rather nice appendage, knickers melt when I open my mouth. I grew up in England, and my British accent is like lube. It makes girls wet instantly.

While she dresses, I grab my phone and see I have forty-two missed calls and dozens of voice mails and texts. Most of them are from my uncle Charles, who I haven’t spoken with since the last ten-year family union. And several are from my best friend, Noah.

What in the hell?

I dial my uncle Charles and wait while it rings.

“Sterling, thank God I’ve reached you. I have some rather shocking news.”

My first thought is that something happened to my mum. I pad barefoot out to the living room to give my guest some privacy in the loo. I stand there, phone pressed to my ear, my jaw hanging open and one hand down the front of my pants, checking my sore cock for injuries as I try to comprehend what Charles is saying.

Something about my mother’s grandfather, who I never met and honestly didn’t know was still living, and a will and millions of dollars at stake.

“Get to the bloody point, Charles. What are you saying?”

“Are you near a TV?” he asks.

I grab the remote and turn the TV on.

An image of my face is on CNN. The picture is one of me smiling in a Yankees T-shirt, taken this summer. It’s from my personal social media account.

What the fuck?
The newscaster is saying something about an inheritance.

“In a plot suited for the big screen, this is anything but fiction. Sterling Quinn, a New York lawyer, is reportedly set to gain a multi-million-dollar inheritance upon marrying.”

I hear footsteps behind me and click the button on the remote, silencing the TV.

“I’ll call you back, Charles.” After I go throw up.

“Is that you?” the girl whose name I can’t recall asks, her eyes widening at the headlines flashing across the screen.

I make a noise of agreement, suddenly fucking speechless.

“You have to get married?” she asks, her voice softening. Cum-Hair Barbie is looking at me with renewed interest.

“Church. I have to get to church,” I mutter again. This time it’s not a lie. I need to pray to God this is all a dream.

There’s no way I’m ever getting married, not for all the money in the world.

Except . . .

I realize with horror how very fucked I am.

Chapter Two

Sterling

 

“Pick me!” a platinum-blonde in fuck-me pumps calls from the crowd.

“No, choose me! I give great head.” A second girl winks. She’s got a nice set of cantaloupes too, but that’s beside the point.

Reaching down, I pinch the inside of my arm to make sure I’m not dreaming.

Ouch
. Definitely not dreaming.

I quicken my pace toward the doors, intent on getting to safety from the mob that’s been following me constantly. From my office to the doors of my apartment building, they’ve been relentless ever since the news broke five days ago. My love life has been fodder for the gossip rags and page-six columns all week, and I’m cursing Uncle Charles for taking this long to get here as I duck my head and ignore the attention.

After shouldering my way through the crowd, I step inside to the cool air-conditioning and straighten my tie. I’ve never seen so many hopeful-looking women all in one spot before. Evening gowns, push-up bras, and eyelash extensions seem a bit much for seven in the morning, but what do I know? I feel a bit like the guy on
The Bachelor
. But there are no roses to give out, and this is my life, not some goddamn reality-TV program.

Only once the doors to the lift close do I take a deep breath for the first time this morning. This is insane.
Insane
.

I check the text message on my phone to double-check the location of the conference room, and punch the button for the twenty-second floor.

Did I mention this was insane?

When the doors open, I stroll down the hall, desperately trying to keep a calm, neutral expression. I can’t let anyone know I’m rattled by this. Maybe after my appointment this morning, I can swing by and see Rebecca, take the edge off. Nobody knows how to take the edge off quite like Rebecca. She does this thing with her legs; she’s a fucking pretzel.

Shit.
I need to clean up my image. Quickies in the men’s room of my office aren’t going to work anymore. I need to start thinking like . . .

My jaw ticks at the thought, and I suppress a shudder.
Fuck.

A
husband
.

One little word shouldn’t make me break out in hives, but as one of New York’s best divorce attorneys, the idea of marrying scares the ever-loving fuck out of me.

Regardless, Rebecca is a habit I need to kick. She was someone who filled the void, but it’s unfair to let her live on the fumes of hope that she and I can be more. If the scene outside is any indication, I need to get my life sorted out, and that doesn’t include banging my ex when I have an itch that needs scratching.

When I pull open the door to the conference room, I spot a familiar and unexpected face. The hot as hell, and just as unobtainable, Camryn Palmer. Her tousled honey-blond waves rest just past her shoulders, and her glossy pink lips form a polite smile. When my family’s estate manager, my uncle Charles, said he was hiring a public relations expert, I never would have guessed it would be the gorgeous Camryn.

Just because I’ve made the decision to do this doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it. And the last thing I want is the one woman I can never have in my bed overseeing the whole thing. She’s driven and intelligent, but most of all, she’s beautiful, which is an added distraction I don’t need, one that could be disastrous in an already dicey situation. She also sees right past my bullshit.

“What’s she doing here?” I ask as I slip into the chair next to my uncle Charles.

Camryn’s wide-eyed optimism falls, and she pulls her lower lip between her teeth.

Shit
. Now I feel like an arsehole. Her puzzled expression conveys her confusion and hurt.

Memories of the last time I saw her invade my head. It was at my best friend Noah’s wedding. She was the maid of honor; I was the best man. Everything about that night is still crystal clear. The light floral scent of her skin when we swayed on the dance floor during the customary wedding-party dance, her flirty smile and cheerful peal of feminine laughter when I said something undeniably British that amused her.

She was nearly irresistible that night in her long plum-colored gown, her hair trussed up in an elegant twist with fragrant curls framing her face. We shared a dance, some laughs, a glass of champagne. I was thirty seconds away from begging her to go home with me when I saw it.

The way she turned, eager to watch Noah and Olivia share their first wedding dance . . . the unshed tears gathering in her eyes as she looked on.

The excitement and blind faith in her expression was undeniable. She’s a true believer in happily-ever-afters, a slave to the idea of lasting love and forevers. I’m a jaded divorce attorney who can tell you every statistic on marriage and divorce over the past thirty years. I can also personally tell you about the lasting pain that endures for years after the split.

And even as jaded as I am, it was a beautiful moment. So I left her alone and let her enjoy it.

I knew a bit of her history. She’d recently come off a bad breakup, and since I refused to further destroy her belief in men, it was final in my mind. She was lovely, but she wasn’t meant to be mine.

Camryn will never settle for a one-night stand with a guy who has zero interest in commitment. She’s the type of girl who will want it all, and since I’m not the man to give it to her, I wouldn’t allow myself the pleasure of taking her home that night. As far as I was concerned, the petite, curvy, and enchanting Camryn was considered off-limits.

Except here she is, blinking at me, looking hurt.

BOOK: The Fix Up
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