Have you met Carver Jones? He’s starring in Battle of the Sexes against a sexy opponent named Amity Gallum. (Girl power!)
Read on for a little tasty snippet. It’s just $1.99! 
Swiping a set of files from the corner of my desk, I spread them in front of me in a haphazard, I’ve-been-doing-this-all-day kind of way. Not that I haven’t been working since before the sun came up. I have. That’s not the point.
The point is this: first impressions matter most. It sets the stage for every other interaction, regardless of the relationship. The relationship I’m about to have with Amity Gallum as opposition in some fucked up competition to win the CEO title of our fathers’ company will be the most important one of my life.
Hell, it might be the only one in my life, but that’s beside the point.
The door handle flicks. I bow my head and appear to be so invested in the numbers in front of me that I don’t hear it.
My stomach knots as I wait for her to say something. I imagine her standing in the doorway, a load of binders and clipboards in her hand, as she looks at me over the top of those clunky glasses she wore when we were kids. I hope to God she upgraded those in the last twenty years.
Frustration grows with each second she doesn’t bother to speak. If she can’t get the balls to say hello, how in the hell does Dennis think she can run the company? So stupid.
I finally look up to get it over with.
Holy. Shit.
One thing is clear—this is not Amity Gallum. There’s no way this stunner is the braces-wearing, freckle-faced, nerdy little girl I knew at fifteen. No. Freaking. Way.
After making a quick mental note to tell Marissa to specifically name everyone here to see me, I feast my eyes on the voluptuous visitor. My lips twist into a smirk as I try to keep myself composed. “Good afternoon,” I say smoothly.
“Yes, it is.”
It takes every bit of effort I can manage to keep my jaw from dropping. Even after all this time, I recognize that voice.
It can’t be.
Black stilettos do nothing but extend long, lean legs that are capped off with a black skirt. A white top, rounded at the chest by a full set of tits, has a tailored black jacket on top. Loose, blonde curls touch her shoulders.
She. Definitely. Upgraded.
“Can I help you?” I grin, rifling through all the ways I can, and hope to be, helping her later.
Her blue eyes pin me to my chair, clearly not amused by my reaction to her “fuck me” body. “No, but I can help you find a restraining order if you don’t stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re a fifteen-year-old boy that wants to pick me for Seven Minutes in Heaven.” She throws me a narrowed glare so cold I’d shiver if I had feelings.
Memories of a night a long time ago filter through my mind. I haven’t thought about that in years. Noah dared me to use my uncanny ability to stop the bottle from spinning when it landed on her. I was never one to back out on a dare. I had a reputation on the line. Besides, maybe I’d thought about kissing her a time or a hundred million in the previous six months. This simply gave me an excuse.
“You still think about that?” I ask.
“Yes. You come to mind any time a guy is being an asshole.”
