I am cursed. Seriously. Since I was born on the thirteenth day of October—Friday the thirteenth, no less—I feel justified in declaring myself to be cursed. Why else would I get my dream job only to discover it’s a nightmare? I’ve admired Raisa Volkov for years and followed her legal career like a true fangirl. Becoming her paralegal seemed like an awesome gift. I get to work alongside the toughest, most successful divorce attorney in New York.
Except she’s hated me from day one. She snips at me, snaps at me, barks orders at me, and generally makes me wish I’d taken a job at McDonald’s instead. I suppose I should be comforted by the fact she makes everyone feel that way, but it doesn’t comfort me at all.
And this is only day two. Thank God it’s Friday.
Now I understand why Raisa’s former paralegal, Mia, gave her two-week notice sixteen days ago. Her Royal Snippiness tasked Mia with hiring her own replacement.
That would be me. The cursed Elena Linwood.
While I fantasize about murdering my new boss, I raise a hand to get the bartender’s attention. I just sat down at the bar a minute ago and desperately need booze. I mean desperately. Two days with Raisa have left me drained and depressed. So here I sit, in the swanky hotel across the street from the office, on a Friday night, about to drown my sorrows in a margarita. The bartender takes my order, smiling and calling me “babe,” though not in a creepy way. He’s cute and sexy, but way too busy to flirt with me. “Sure thing, babe” is all I get out of him.
God, I need a hot guy to flirt with. To dance with. To do all sorts of naughty, naughty things with.
That proverbial light bulb goes off in my head. A bright, flashing, neon-pink bulb. What do I need to lift my spirits? Why, a steamy fling with an anonymous piece of sizzling-hot ass.
You’re brilliant, Elena.
I congratulate myself on my awesome idea for about thirty seconds. Then reality slams down on my head as I glance around the bar. It’s full of older couples and middle-aged men on their own who look like they probably just got served divorce papers and want to get hammered. I have a feeling a lot of men who get served by Raisa Volkov wind up in this bar after their first meeting with their wives’ attorney.
No hot prospects. Looking at these guys makes me want to face-plant on the bar.
So I do. And I moan, like the pathetic wage slave I am.
“You still want the drink?” the bartender asks.
I don’t bother to raise my head, instead waving my hand to indicate that yes, I do want that margarita. I plan to guzzle it like a sorority girl at a frat party. As soon as I can peel my face away from the shiny, cool surface of the bar. I hear the cute bartender set my drink down.
Maybe I should’ve ordered straight-up tequila.
“Are you all right there?”
That voice. It’s not the cute bartender. The man who spoke to me has a silky British accent and a husky voice that makes me want to crawl onto his lap without even looking at his face. Since I am cursed, I know if I do look, I’ll find out he has the face of a bulldog and the body of a sumo wrestler.
But that voice…
A warm hand touches my arm. Since I’m wearing a sleeveless blouse, I get to feel his skin on mine. Oh, it feels sooo good.
“I said are you all right?” he asks.
“Mm-hm.” I finally peel my face away from the bar—and sit up straighter. Blue eyes. Blond hair. A body to die for. Lucky me. Everything south of my waist wakes up from its months-long coma and tingles in all the right ways when he smiles at me. I smile back. “I’m fine, but thanks for asking. I love polite British men.”
Why did I say that? Stupid, stupid Elena.
He lifts one brow and smirks. “How do you know I’m polite? I’ve barely spoken five words to you.”
“Seven, actually. Unless you count the ones you said twice, which would mean eleven words. Not including what you said a second ago.”
Oh. My. God. Why do stupid things keep pouring out of my mouth? It’s not like I’ve never seen a hot guy before.
He leans against the bar, his beautiful blue eyes twinkling in the subdued lighting. “It’s comforting to know you’re intelligent enough to count to at least eleven.”
“I can count to twelve in German.”
“Can you?” He’s still smirking, but damn, that expression makes me start to tingle above the waist too. His voice gets even deeper, even sexier, when he says, “Let me hear it.”
What the hell. I slant toward him a little, enough that I can smell his spicy cologne, or maybe it’s aftershave. Either way, the scent makes me want to lick him from head to toe. “Eins, zwei, drei, vier, fünf, sechs, sieben, acht, neun, zehn, elf, zwölf.”
“Say zwölf again. I love the way you pronounce it.”
He loves my pronunciation? I really hope he isn’t making fun of me.
The sexy Brit leans in to brush hair away from my face, his fingers grazing my skin. “Say it again, please.”
I grin. “See, you are polite.”
“For the moment.” He trails his fingertips down my cheek to the corner of my mouth. “Say zwölf again, and I’ll kiss you.”
“What if I don’t want to kiss you?”
He drags one finger across my mouth, slowly, sensuously. “You do.”
Yeah, okay, I do. My fling idea sounds better and better every second.
I lick his finger and say, “Zwölf.”
