“Who is the other woman?”

“His ex-wife.” She grimaces. “The ex has photos and videos of her having sex with the hero. Unbeknownst to the heroine, those were all taken years and years ago when they were still married, but the bitch is making it look like it’s all happened recently.”

“She’s a gem,” I comment lightly.

“Oh, I hate her. Her name is Misty.” Lo throws her head back and laughs. “If the real Misty ever reads this book, she will claw my eyes out.”

“She’ll have to get through me first,” I mutter calmly, watching Lo’s beautiful face as she talks about her work. Her eyes are shining and her cheeks are glowing. She’s excited about her work.

“Anyway, I haven’t figured out how the hero is going to convince the heroine that the ex is just being a vindictive bitch.” Lo begins to sway to the music again, and I just can’t keep my hands off her for one more second.

I lower my roller to the pan and stalk over to her, wrap my arms around her middle from behind, and bury my nose in her neck, hugging her close. Her body tenses and her hand stills, the roller braced on the wall. “You smell fantastic.”

She sighs and leans into me, tilts her head back to rest on my shoulder, just as a slow song begins on the stereo. I begin to move slowly, swaying side to side, enjoying the feel of her firm body in my arms. She lays her free hand on my arm and moves with me.

I inhale her sweet scent and drag my nose down the slope of her neck before pressing my lips to the soft skin where her neck and shoulder meet. My hands begin to roam across her tight belly.

“Your stomach is so firm. I don’t think I’ve ever known a woman with washboard abs before,” I murmur into her ear. I want to see her abs.

She chuckles lazily. “It’s the swimming. Great for your core.”

“I might have to take it up.”

“Nothing wrong with your abs,” she mutters.

I smile against her neck. Yeah, I know she appreciated the show she got in my driveway yesterday. Remembering the way her eyes glassed over as they made their way down my chest and stomach makes my dick twitch against her firm ass.

Just as the song reaches the bridge, her body tenses and she pulls out of my arms, her eyes wide, and drops her roller in the pan, splashing paint onto the drop cloth.

“That’s it!” she exclaims, and runs from the room toward the office.

I frown after her and stare around the room, wondering what in the bloody hell I’m missing, then follow her down the hall. When I reach the doorway to her work space, she’s already sitting in the desk chair, her feet pulled up under her, and she’s typing furiously on her computer, her lips clamped between her teeth and a crease on her eyebrow as she concentrates.

I guess she figured it out.

I chuckle and return to the family room and finish the first coat of paint, then go back out to my car and unload the groceries I brought with me. I’ll make her dinner while she works her ass off.

It still stuns me that she’s the author of some of the most well-loved novels in the world. Her books are a sensation. Millions are in print, and when I dug deeper, using Google and Facebook to find out more after being with her last week, I learned that not only has she sold the movie rights, but the film is moving forward. The movie company is currently casting the characters, and millions of women have nothing better to do than hang out on social media discussing who should play whom.

It’s amazing.

It seems that Lo, or Peyton Adams, is also something of an enigma. She won’t release publicity photos and won’t give live interviews, which has fans and industry people alike in an uproar.

I pray to God she has a good entertainment lawyer.

I walk out onto the deck off the kitchen and fire the propane grill to life, clean the grates, and let it burn while I go back inside to season two rib-eye steaks and throw together a large green salad.

I whisk together a vinaigrette dressing, then carry the steaks out to the grill and lay them on the grates with a loud sizzle.

There’s nothing like red meat on a grill.

It’s a guy thing.

While I stand outside, enjoying an early-autumn evening, my phone rings in my pocket.

“Hello?”

“Well? Did she like it?” Jill asks.

“I don’t know if she pulled it out of the bag. We’re painting her house.”

The line goes silent and I pull the phone away from my face to make sure I didn’t lose the call.

“Jill?”

“I’m here. You’re painting her house?”

“Well, one room of it. She was working on it when I got here.”

“Huh.”

“What did that mean?” I check the steaks.

“When I asked you to help me paint my house, you hired a company to come do it.”

I smile and shake my head. “I told you then, I didn’t have time to paint your house. What are you bitching about? You got out of doing it yourself.”

“I just find it interesting, that’s all.”

“Shut up, Jilly.”

She laughs. “Have fun painting. It might be fun to paint each other, now that I think about it.”

“I’m hanging up now.” I press the off button and pull the medium-rare steaks off the grill, kill the gas, and saunter inside.

Just as I finish plating the steaks and salads, ready to carry them to the table, Lauren comes barreling into the kitchen and, without saying a word, launches herself into my arms. She jumps up onto me, presses that sweet body against mine, and wraps her legs around my waist, her arms around my neck, and plants a kiss on me that would make the gods weep. My hands plant on the globes of her ass, holding her up to me as her mouth moves confidently yet softly against my own. She slides her tongue along my lips, nips my bottom lip with her teeth, and sinks into me again.

Impatient to touch her, I prop her on the island countertop and glide my hands up her sides to cup her breasts and brush my thumbs over her nipples.

She inhales sharply, pulls back, and stares at me, panting, eyes wide. My hands slide up to hold her face as I turn the tables and take her mouth, softly at first, nibbling at her lips. My fingertips brush down her cheeks to her jaw and around her neck to thread the silky strands of her hair around my fingers and hold her tightly.

A soft moan escapes her lips and her hips circle as she pushes her center against my cock. She’s on fire, and I know without a doubt that she wouldn’t object to my ripping these flimsy shorts off her and sinking inside her, losing myself in her for the rest of the night.