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I’m a woman on a mission when I step off my last flight at six o’clock at night, annoyed it took me an entire freaking day to get here since I made my plans at the last minute. As soon as I leave the rental car desk, I’m headed for my first destination. Logan’s shop. He’s never going to know what hit him. My skirt is short, my heels are tall, and my hair, skin, and nails are perfect from the pampering I managed to sneak in this week. I pull into the parking lot an hour and a half later, mostly because I was so busy singing along to every kick-ass female anthem on my playlist that I missed the turn and went fifteen miles in the wrong direction. But no one needs to know that little detail. The lights are still on, and Logan’s truck is parked in its normal spot alongside the building. No other cars remain in the lot. I pull out my phone and switch it out of airplane mode. I told myself I kept it there all day because I was worried about the safety of my flights and obviously because of the FAA regulations, but that’s total bull. I didn’t trust myself not to answer what must be at least a few messages from Logan. I wanted this to be a surprise. Like when Logan thought I might be pregnant, this is a discussion that needs to happen in person. A few text messages pop up from him immediately, and they’re progressively more . . . let’s call it assertive. My Sexy Man: Bruce, call me. My Sexy Man: Seriously, babe. Call me. My Sexy Man: CALL ME. My Sexy Man: This radio silence shit will not fly. Call me, Bruce. My Sexy Man: Banner Regent, don’t even try to dodge me. I know where you are, and I will come to you and show you how a real man handles this situation. A smile spreads over my face. I’ve come to terms with a few things in the last twenty-four hours, and one of them is that I don’t care if I’m the first one to say those words I’ve been holding back. I love Logan Brantley, and I’m not going to let another day go by without telling him. To his face. After I park, I slide out of the car, careful not to pull a Britney and flash anyone my vag because I’m going commando under this skirt, and strut my ass up to the entrance. I push on the door that opens into the waiting room, but it doesn’t budge. Locked. Well, dammit, that’s not part of my plan. I bang on it, but no one comes. The beat of whatever rock song he’s listening to is thumping through the walls. I pull my phone out of my wristlet and text him back. Banner: Open the damn door. A response pops up in seconds. My Sexy Man: What door? Banner: I’m waiting.
Meghan March has been known to wear camo face paint and tromp around in woods wearing mud-covered boots, all while sporting a perfect manicure. She's also impulsive, easily entertained, and absolutely unapologetic about the fact that she loves to read and write smut. Her past lives include slinging auto parts, selling lingerie, making custom jewelry, and practicing corporate law. Writing books about dirty talking alpha males and the strong, sassy women who bring them to their knees is by far the most fabulous job she's ever had. She loves hearing from her readers at meghanmarchbooks@gmail.com.
REVIEW:
I loved that it was hard for Logan to resist Banner, "Logan pulls me against his potato-spattered chest. “Jesus, woman. You make it effing impossible to be mad at you when you say things like that.” I loved this book, Banner was just perfect for Logan.
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