Laydi Michaels woke with a start. The glare of sunlight stabbed like a two-ton
sledgehammer into her pounding brain, and she slammed her eyes shut. Not that a two-ton
hammer existed, but with how she felt—headache, nausea, and alarmingly, yet deliciously sore
in certain places—that was the only apt description.
She had the hangover of all binge drinkers. One that rivaled her high school days, where
she would disappear with Dad’s fifth of Jack, a bag from Burger King, and her best friends, until
not a drop remained in the bottle and they’d mastered the latest Pop hit.
At the top of their lungs.
Forward and backward.
Her stomach recoiled at the memory, and away from any mention of alcohol. Keeping her
eyes closed—because yes, her spinning vision didn’t do anything for her nauseous stomach—she
took stock of her surroundings. From the brief glimpse, she hadn’t recognized the bare white
walls, or the rose-colored drapes hanging in front of a large window.
This wasn’t her room, where the walls were a sage green and the windows had blackout
curtains—something required in her investigative line of work, due to her overnight surveillance
Next noticeable concern? She was completely naked, just as the day she was born. The
sheets against her skin—not that she moved much; no, her stomach revolted against that—were
soft, smoother than the Egyptian cream-colored ones back home.
And the most alarming detail of all? The very heavy and thick arm wrapped around her
waist. She lay slightly on her side, but her hip touched a warm thigh. From the uncomfortable
poking sensation and the stillness of this male body next to her, something was up before the
actual man was.
Raking her mind, she tried to remember anything, something from last night, a clue to
explain where she was and who she lay next to. But all she could come up with was how she’d
started the night by meeting, and then making an absolute blathering fool of herself to her boss,
She paused and gave a little girly sigh. Tall, well over six-feet, built like a Greek God,
and not the ones learned about in History class. No, this guy had romance novel written all over
him. Combined with the charm of a gentleman, and the resemblance to Chris Hemsworth; ladies
fell all over themselves in his presence. And with his dating history, Andrew wasn’t one to shy
away from attention.
His hair was dark blond and a few weeks past needing a haircut. Bangs fell across his
forehead when he typed furiously on his computer, or when he interviewed a suspect and got
really into the story. His eyes changed colors depending on the shirt he wore. They could be
either blue or green, and were wide-set, startling to the female population. She’d seen many
women trip over their feet when taking in Andrew, and if his height, six-days-a-week I-work-
out-at-the-gym body, hair, or eyes didn’t do it, the silky velvet of his voice caused thighs to
tremble with anticipation.
He should have been a radio DJ, or a phone sex operator, instead of the CEO for Off The
Record Private Investigations.
He had a smooth southern drawl that spoke of being raised somewhere in the state of
Georgia…sexy as hell. She shuddered at the memory.
Two things happened next: her stomach lurched and bile rose, her body’s way of telling
her she had indeed indulged in one or two too many drinks last night.
Second, as she snapped her eyes open and dove from the bed, she caught a glance at the
mysterious stranger with her, who was really no stranger at all.
Gloriously sexy, sleepy—and familiar—blue eyes widened in surprised and concern
before she bounded across the room for the bathroom, where she promptly regurgitated last