An idea percolated through her alcohol-soaked brain. She didn’t need to go to Johnny’s for satisfaction. She could take care of herself—with the proper inspiration. Rising to her feet, she staggered to the foyer and dug through her tote bag until she found her laptop. Tucking it under one arm, she used the other to brace against the wall. Her head lolled toward the kitchen, and her eyes lit on the sweets on the counter.
She just wanted one. After the day she’d had, didn’t she deserve it?
Stumbling into the kitchen, she set the laptop on the stove and surveyed the bounty. She tore open the box of Tinks, grabbed one of the off-brand sponge cakes, and made her way back to the living room. There, she set the Tink on the coffee table, plopped down on the sofa, and squinted at the keys of her computer. Her vision doubled as she typed in a search for something to put her in just the right mood.
The Hot Hometown Hunks site should do the trick. She selected a video at random because she was too drunk to critically assess the offerings. Not that it mattered. One hometown hunk was as good as another, and if all went as planned, she wouldn’t be watching very long anyway.
Thirty seconds in, Raven realized she’d made a terrible mistake. The video was set in a frat house filled with douchey yet admittedly hot hunks, and the blond lead actor looked unnervingly like Dimwit Paulson. Worse, double vision meant two Dimwits, far exceeding her quota. With a shudder, Raven tossed the computer on the coffee table.
Nearly at the point of tears, from either her misery or the absurdity of her circumstance, Raven snatched the Tink, then lay down on the sectional, and gave in to the only pleasure she seemed to be able to give herself tonight. Bringing the cake to her mouth, she ripped open the cellophane wrapper with her teeth. A bit of pasty white icing touched the tip of her tongue, sending a rush of sugary euphoria over her brain.
It’d been ages since she’d last slipped and allowed herself a taste of something so decadent. It was reckless. Terrible. Delicious. She’d pay for it in the morning—if she remembered it. She hoped she wouldn’t remember it.
Raven paced herself, savoring the exquisite torture. She took a small bite. The thick, creamy icing was almost sinful on her tongue. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she reveled in its sweetness. Raven’s tongue swept across her drunk-numb lips.
Damn, she wished she had someone to kiss.
Not someone like Dimwit, or the frat boys from the video, or even one of the locals who’d be at Johnny’s Roadhouse.
Tonight, she was in the mood to order up her ultimate fantasy, the ever-elusive, non-existent Mr. Perfect. He was the nuclear option, dusted off and deployed only in truly desperate times. Raven couldn’t get hooked on Mr. Perfect because he’d ruin her for real, live men.
Handsome beyond compare, he was tall, broad-shouldered, with hands as big as a bear paw, and his face looked as if it’d been sculpted by God herself. He had it all: sharp square jaw, angular cheekbones, soulful eyes, a dimple, and velvety, kissable lips.
Raven yawned. The soft pillows in the corner of the sectional cradled her like a baby. Despite being nearly naked, she was warm and cozy, though that probably had more to do with the alcohol coursing through her bloodstream than the forced air pouring through the heat registers. Raven’s eyelids grew heavy, drawing themselves closed like roller shades.
Yes, Mr. Perfect was the solution. And she’d deploy him just as soon as she finished resting her eyes.
Chapter 3
Jack Baines followed the commands of his GPS navigation through the streets of Heron Harbor Island, anxious to find the house that would finally get him off of the road. It’d been a shitty drive after a shittier day. Nights like this, hours stuck in traffic, dodging rainstorms, and clueless drivers, made him question his ritual of celebratory solitary confinement.
By all rights, he should be ecstatic about what he’d just accomplished. Most guys he knew would rent out a bar or host a weekend of golf with their buddies. He’d do that, eventually.
For now, this destination was his personal penalty box. His time out for aggressive play.
“Turn right in one hundred feet on Beach Drive,” the GPS’s British accent directed.
Jack squinted through the fog and rain to find his turn, then pulled into the driveway behind a white BMW. The house was exactly as his friend, Lark Donovan, had described. She’d mentioned that the neighbors sometimes used the driveway as overflow in the offseason. A large weeping willow tree marked the property line between the houses. The porch light was on, and the inside was illuminated, too. It was a nice welcoming touch. Very Lark. He’d have to remember to thank her.
Yes, this house would do just fine. Presuming the beach was as beautiful as she’d promised, he’d get his shit together and be back to the hunt in no time. He was Jack Fucking Baines, after all. He couldn’t afford to be out of commission for more than a long weekend.
Jack turned up the collar on his overcoat and ducked against the rain as he grabbed his bags, then ran up the porch steps. He keyed in the code, and stepped into the foyer. Dripping wet, he set his bags down, then stripped off his overcoat and hung it on the old-fashioned coat rack. He’d go exploring and settle in, but first, he needed to wash up.
He headed down the hall, and paused at a closet door that was slightly ajar. A tote bag lay sideways on the floor, its contents scattered all around. It must have fallen from the overhead shelf. Jack scooped it all up, tucked the bag back into the closet, and shut the door. After he found the bathroom, he headed to the kitchen, then stopped short when he registered the food that Lark had delivered for his arrival.
His head tilted as he surveyed the landscape of candy, chocolate, and what the fuck, sweet beef jerky, which covered the countertop.
Whenever they saw each other, Lark rode his ass for eating anything that wasn’t vegetarian, organic, non-GMO, free trade, and blessed by nuns living in a tenth-century abbey. Okay, so that last part was an exaggeration, but it was hard to believe she’d indulge his worst food tendencies, even on vacation. Unless that spiritual sixth sense of hers had keyed in on why he needed to get away so badly.
Maybe she’d sent this stuff to screw with him. The joke was on her. He’d brought his own food with him. He had more than enough to get him through the long weekend, especially if he went out to dinner on the island or onto the mainland.
Jack headed down the main hall, past a formal dining room and then a library, toward the living room. The house was warmly appointed in what his artist and designer friend, Andre, would call “beach house chic,” white walls and sand-colored area rugs over straw-stained wood floors. The furniture complemented the rooms in shades of camel, teal, and linen.
Jack laughed at himself for noticing that shit. There was a time he couldn’t tell the difference between green and blue, let alone jade and seafoam. Back then, his ex had wanted to collect art, and since he didn’t know his ass from his elbow when it came to painters, he’d hired Andre to advise him on what to buy. When he and Alannah split, she got the art, and he got Andre. No question, he got the better end of the deal.
Jack noticed a ruby red stiletto lying on its side in the hall, all alone, as if discarded. He stooped to pick it up and cradled it in his hand. Four-inch heel. Sexy as hell.
Whoever the cleaning service was, they needed to step it up. And whoever the last renter was must be missing this baby.