“What?” I ask, eager to deal with her issue so I can get on with my evening.

  With her mouth gaping, she points like the box is infected with…a spider? A snake?

  I cross a few feet to the open box, then groan, annoyed when I see the issue.

  A pair of silver gleaming handcuffs.

  Jessica plucks the handcuffs out of the box with two disgusted fingers. “Brittany will not want these. You’re just embarrassing yourself!”

  Embarrassed is right, but not for the reasons Jessica thinks.

  Embarrassed because I’d bought these to give Brittany for her birthday coming up. I even got a pink bow to tie around them. I’d been gearing up, too, to finally tell her why I wanted to play around with handcuffs. What I hoped it could do for us. How it might even help our relationship.

  So, yeah, Jessica’s tirade feels so fucking great right now.

  “The cuffs can stay then,” I say evenly. I don’t want to let on that she’s hitting below the belt. Taking the cuffs, I drop them on the entryway table.

  Jessica raises an eyebrow all the way to Mars. “You’re keeping them? For what? The freak of your dreams?”

  That’s enough. I march ahead of her and swing open the door, then gesture to the hall. Somehow, I swallow down a leave right fucking now.

  “Goodbye,” I hiss.

  She lifts a haughty chin. “Handcuffs,” she mutters.

  I bet someone will love them, I want to shout.

  But I don’t.

  When she’s gone, I slam the door shut. Once I hear the elevator whisk her away, I leave too. As I hit the button to call the next one, my next-door neighbor leaves her home. “Hold the elevator, handsome,” the blue-haired lady calls out as she shuts her door.

  “Anything for you, Myrtle,” I say with a grin, then comply once the elevator arrives, hitting the hold button.

  When she joins me a few seconds later, Myrtle tuts, shaking her head. “You’re better off without the ex. She was nothing but trouble.”

  Thanks again, Brittany, for broadcasting my kink to the whole building.

  “Thanks,” I say. “It’s good to be single again.”

  When we reach the lobby, Myrtle pats my arm. “And there’s nothing wrong with a spanking. That’s what I usually order on Whipper. In fact, I’m off to see a playmate right now.”

  Whoa. She uses that app? “Um, have fun,” I say in a strangled voice.

  She winks. “I always do.”

  I wish the last several months of my life had been fun, but I wasted them on someone who didn’t even get me.

  I swear I will never date a good girl again.

  The guys are meeting up at my favorite haunt in Venice Beach, a local dive bar called The Happiest Hours right off the main drag, for my Free At Last poker party.

  Drew and Axel—one’s my quarterback, the other’s his cousin—are at the table, and my buddy Milo is in town with his girlfriend, so he’s here too. Drew said we need to celebrate my being single again. Far be it for me to turn down a chance to take their money.

  Besides, “free at last” is right. Several months with Brittany felt like a lifetime. I frown at the cards in my hand. Does that make me forty-six? Ouch. I’ll definitely be out of the NFL then. Don’t want to go there any sooner than I have to.

  Axel shoves a ten dollar chip into the pile on the felt and offers an opinion for free. “I’m just going to be blunt. I never trusted Brittany anyway.”

  I look up from my cards, surprised. “Really? Why not? Did you catch her, I dunno, scrolling through Tinder some night while we were all out?”

  Across the table, Axel stares at me and scoffs, “Seriously?”

  Drew snorts. “Seconded. Get the fuck out, Gabe.”

  Milo gazes soberly over the top of his black glasses. “Dude, we would have told you if she’d done that. Keeping that kind of thing to yourself is grounds for expulsion from the dude club.”

  “True words,” Axel confirms. “A lifetime ban.”

  “Good to know,” I say, but I’m much more interested in what my buddy saw in my ex. We had a good vibe at first, which is why I was able to look past our sexual incompatibility. We had fun together, going to basketball games in the off-season. She seemed like the perfect sports girlfriend, and I did enjoy the hell out of trash-talking other teams from the stands with her.

  Everything seemed good.

  Until she started asking me questions about other women. Like, about the barista at the coffee shop we went to. She keeps looking at you, Gabe, she’d say. Did you lead her on the last time you were here? Um, no. Then, when we were out one night at a bar, my ex asked point blank if I was sleeping with the bartender who’d just batted her lashes at me.

  The answer was hell fucking no.

  “All right,” I say to Axel. “What red flag did I miss?”

  He deals me a hard, stern look—sort of his regular look but kicked up a notch. “When we all went to the Jane Black concert, she said irregardless. ‘Irregardless of what you heard, Jane has a new song she’s debuting tonight.’ And—news flash—irregardless is not a word.”

  Drew cracks up, smacking the edge of the table. “Called it. I knew the irregardless would come back around and grind Axel’s gears,” he says, then wiggles his fingers toward Milo. “Pay up.”

  Milo sighs, aggrieved, then forks over a ten dollar chip. Drew uses it to add to the pot on the table.

  I laugh, a little incredulous. “You assholes bet on whether Axel would mention that my ex used a word that didn’t exist?”

  Drew shrugs like yeah, so, then nods toward my playing cards. “What have you got? You in?”

  Hell yes. I slide in a chip, then slap down the cards. “Three jacks. Which means…” I scoop the pile of chips my way. “I win. I’m free of my ex, and I’m beating your sorry asses. It’s like a double victory.”

  “Damn right it is.” Drew speaks with the same intensity he has in the huddle. “Don’t date women who abuse the English language. You need a woman who reads. Like, a lot,” he adds, with a thump on my shoulder and a wiggle of his brow. His fiancée is a big-time reader.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Axel says.

  “Of course you’d say that. You’re a writer,” I point out.

  “But I don’t see you disagreeing, Gabe,” Milo adds, then lowers his voice. “And you shouldn’t. Because women who read are usually a lot more…fun.”

  There’s a twinkle in his blue eyes. He doesn’t sleep and tell—none of us do—but his message is clear.

  A well-read woman is more fun in bed.

  Hmm.

  Maybe a bookworm would like to be bent over the bed, fastened to the headboard, or tied to a chair. Would take a hard smack to her ass and beg for more.

  “I like fun,” I deadpan as Drew gathers the cards. It’s his turn to deal.

  “Then maybe focus on that. We’ve got less than a week till training camp,” Drew says, a leading tone in his voice as he brings up our trip to San Diego.

  A week sounds perfect for a rebound. But if I go for a rebound, I don’t want someone who’ll shout you kinky fucker at me at the end of the week. It was bad enough the way Brittany stormed out. What if a woman comes up to me on the football field and does that for the media to hear? Shudders.

  “It’s my last year, though, so it’s best that this old dog stays focused on the game,” I say, with a resolute shrug. “No distractions.”

  “And sex is both distracting and dangerous, man. You could get injured screwing in the shower,” Axel offers helpfully.

  “Dude. Do you work to be a buzzkill, or does it come naturally?” I ask.

  “I’m just saying. It’s a thing. Be careful, old dog,” Axel adds, with a smart-ass wink.

  And ouch. Like I don’t already know that, in football years, I’m as old as Yoda. “Hey, now. I don’t want to hear about sex injuries till I’m way past forty. Maybe even fifty.”

  Drew sets down the deck and lifts his glass of beer. “Let’s drink to staying healthy in your final year. No football injuries and no dick injuries. Just getting banged up on the field.”

  Laughing and rolling my eyes, I lift my beer and toast to football. At least she always likes it rough.

  After taking a drink, I set the bottle on the table. As Drew shuffles the deck to deal the next round, my gaze strays to the window where a sexy-as-sin brunette chats on the phone as she walks a little dog down the street.

  The woman’s got a swing in her hips and a pouty fullness to her lips. She looks like a piece of candy, all effortlessly delicious in tight jean shorts, cut off and raggedy sexy, and a purple halter top that shows off her pierced belly. I’d like to peel that top off her, lick a path between her tits and down her stomach, then tug on her belly ring with my teeth. As I stare unabashedly a little longer, she starts to look damn familiar.

  She reminds me vaguely of picnics, barbecues, Thanksgivings. Then, a Christmas party. A moment under the mistletoe, maybe.

  Wait.

  Hold the hell on.

  Is that…?

  No fucking way.

  Another memory flashes before me of Ellie Snow. One of the times I babysat her.

  3

  A THING FOR BAD BOYS

  Ellie

  I dread calling my mom back, but I hung up on her when I got into my house. I used my pee-mergency as an excuse, but I’m a little freaked out over any news about my ex.

  Still, I have to know the score. I grab a pair of pink flip-flops—with a flower between the toes—then shove my feet into them.

  Except, this shirt is a little gross. I did drive in it all day. After a quick freshen up, I tug on a purple halter top, then leash up my leading lady and hit the road.

  Our first walk in our new town. Too bad I’ll have to use it to get the lowdown on my ex. But a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. I stab Mom’s contact name, my gut swirling with worry.

  I’d heard rumors that LGO had picked up a series about my infamous ex-boyfriend—Dexter Longfellow, aka Fabio. The timing couldn’t be worse professionally.

  Mom answers on the first ring with a relieved sigh. “There you are. I was getting sick,” she says.

  “I was only gone for a few minutes,” I reassure her as I turn down the block toward Abbot Kinney Boulevard. “What’s going on with…” I gulp, then woman up and blurt out the name I wish I could avoid. “Fabio’s List.”

  “The Hollywood Scoop ran the piece today that LGO officially picked up the documentary. They’re going to run it in the fall, the story says. Rikki Finch is the reporter, and she’s never wrong.” My mom is apologetic, as if it’s her fault the show was greenlit.

  My nerves speed through me like they’re on the Jumbotron race car track at the ballpark. “Mom, do you think the producers are pissed that I turned down their request to do an interview for it? Can they mention me by name without my permission?”

  “They better not, or they’ll answer to me for it.” I can picture her shaking a fist at the sky. Her mama-bear ferocity eases some of my worries. It always has. “But who’ll want to watch this rubbish?” Mom continues. “Your show is going to be so much better,” she assures me. “I have zero interest in viewing a salacious tell-all about a chiseled model who conned hundreds of thousands of dollars from women he found on dating apps. Quelle horreur.”

  I clear my throat and lift my chin. “He didn’t con me, though.” I don’t take just some solace in knowing that. I take all the solace in that.

  “Of course not. I raised you right,” Mom says proudly. “Still, I’m going to organize protests against the show. And you can focus all your energy on The Dating Games.”

  The show I wrote and am producing for streaming giant Webflix starts shooting later this month. It’s why I moved to Los Angeles. But the reality is, my last boyfriend went to prison for swindling women he met online. When word leaked a few months ago that a production company was shooting a salacious doc on his romantic duplicity for Webflix’s rival, Hollywood tongues began wagging.

  Right when I’m about to launch my new career, from actress to TV writer-slash-producer, the last thing I need is a trail of tawdry ex-shenanigans to follow me.

  “I’ll just say no if the producers ask me again,” I say firmly. Like I said no to my ex when he told me he needed money because he was supposedly in danger. Some bad guys were after him, he’d claimed.

  Please.

  I kicked his ass to the curb, but I still don’t want to appear on camera or be named as one of his exes. It’s one thing for a few producers to know—quite another for all the industry. I want a clean slate as I start my new gig. It’s hard enough to be taken seriously as a woman in Hollywood without a link to a scam artist.

  “This is a sign you need to focus on dating good guys,” Mom says, putting on her helpful tone.

  Oh gee, that thought never occurred to me.

  “Yes, Mom. I’m going to check the good-guy box on Boyfriend Material when I get on the apps in LA.”

  “I know you’re rolling your eyes, but you have a habit of picking bad boys. It would be a good habit to try to break finally. Remember senior year when you dated that stoner who skipped school and stole money from me?” she points out.

  “Yes, Mom,” I concede begrudgingly. But that stoner gave me my first O, and I was kinda hooked on Os after that.

  But there have been good guys in my dating repertoire—surely.

  “And then in college, you went out with the guitarist from Astronaut Food. He had a permanent scowl. His fingers were inked. He rode a motorcycle, Ellie! A motorcycle! He was probably the president’s son, like in a motorcycle club.”

  Someone has read too many MC romances. Besides, if she only knew…I’ve dated jackholes and jerkoffs too.

  “I’ll also check guys who only drive station wagons,” I say as I head along Abbot Kinney with Gigi. My new neighborhood teems with trendy boutiques and quirky new eateries. This street buzzes with energy, brims with surfers and artists and athletes. Maddox set me up well.

  “I’m just saying, those bad boy types are all over Los Angeles. Instead of joining a dating app, why don’t you let me set you up when you come to Aunt Tilly’s birthday party this weekend? There are some lovely guys here in San Diego. There’s Chad, Joanie’s son,” she begins.

  I blink. She can’t mean that? “Chad literally just graduated from college.” I tug my pup closer while a pack of skaters fly past us.

  “But he’s ready for a long-term commitment,” Mom says.

  Doubtful. More like Joanie wants him to settle down. “I’m not dating your friend’s son. I can go solo to the party. That’s a thing single people do.”

  She squeals. “Perfect. Then I can introduce you to everyone.”

  Oh god, no. That’s worse. “I’ll find a date,” I say, cutting her plans off at the knees.

  “Someone who doesn’t keep a list of women he’s scammed,” she says, oblivious to the irony.

  “Yes, Mom,” I say as I pass a place called The Happiest Hours. It boasts a large window in the front. Through it, I catch a glimpse of a group of guys inside at a table in the corner. I can’t see all of them, but one of them is fiiiiiine from this angle.

  I can just spy his profile, but he looks kind of familiar. Dark hair. Dark stubble. Dark eyes. Crinkles at the corner. Yum. Oh, and ink all over one arm.

  Hello, wet panties.

  I’m just saying.

  Except, I’m sure he’s trouble. Tempting. But trouble.

  Must. Look. Away. After all, Mom was just talking about my preference for bad boys.

  I activate all my powers of resistance and stop staring. Gigi and I leave him in the dust, turning toward our home. A few blocks later, I’m back at 583, where another hottie waits on my porch.

  “At last, she’s here,” my friend Maddox calls out, and I rush and jump into his sturdy arms while Gigi barks enthusiastically at his feet.

  Maddox is as strong as a tree, so he doesn’t wobble, just laughs lightly. “Well, that’s a helluva greeting,” he says.

  I drop to my flip-flopped feet and drink in my friend. In his aviator shades, tailored burgundy button-down, and pressed slacks, he looks every bit like the best sports attorney-slash-agent in the biz. We hit it off at an industry party years ago. The next week, we started training for a marathon together, and he’s been my rock ever since.

  “You’re a godsend for finding me this rental. It’s perfect. And I can’t believe you got me a scooter too.” I flap my arm toward the garage where I found his housewarming gift earlier.

  “Glad you like it,” he says.

  “I love the scooter, and Gigi and I love this cottage, and to thank you, I want to take you out to dinner.”

  He gives a tender smile, the kind that I bet melts all the guys. “That sounds great, except that I’m taking you to dinner. Isn’t that right, Gigi? I’m going to take your person out.” He bends and scratches Gigi between the ears. She lifts her chin approvingly.

  “But I want to treat.” I pout. “You treated me to lunch when I was here a couple of weeks ago.”

  “And yet, it’s still my turn.” He straightens and crosses his arms, challenging me.

  Damn him. He’s stoic, and I know he’d wait all night and never break. I poke his firm biceps. “No wonder you’re the toughest negotiator,” I say.

  “Your words…” he says, his smile teasing again.

  “You know it’s true.” I let my girl inside and give her a quick kiss. “Back soon, lovie.”

  As we walk to dinner, I link my arm through my friend’s. “Maddox, do you think I like bad boys?”

  He scoffs. Knowingly.

  “So, that’s a yes?”

  “You know you do, Ellie,” he says, friendly but firm.

  Maybe I do need to find that good-guy box on Boyfriend Material after all.

  TUESDAY

  A Day for the Naughty List

  4

  A PRIEST, A MONK, AND A MISSIONARY