I swallow past a thousand razor blades in my throat. I need to be certain. “That’s your daughter?”

  Please say no. Say this is a massive misunderstanding. Say you’re kidding.

  There’s no way that Sloane Elizabeth is the daughter of the man who’s just offered me the job opportunity of a lifetime.

  He sighs happily and picks up the photo. “That’s my darling daughter, Sloane. She’s a great girl. You’ll meet her someday. I’m sure you’ll love her.”

  The trouble is, I’m pretty sure I already do.

  My heart is numb. I’m going to have to end the most wonderful relationship I’ve ever had before it’s even truly begun.

  That night when I see her, we don’t kiss when she gets out of the cab. I tackle it right away. “That job I’ve been interviewing for? It’s with your father.”

  Her jaw drops. “Are you kidding me?”

  “I only wish I were.”

  She purses her lips. “So what does this mean?” Her voice trembles, thick with tears.

  And then I can’t resist her. I haul her in for one last kiss. A deep, hungry, needy kiss. A kiss that says I’m sorry. A kiss that says We can’t be together. A kiss that says I wish everything was different.

  When I break the kiss, I stroke my fingers down her cheek. “Sloane, I’ve accepted the job. I can’t be involved with my boss’s daughter.”

  She nods, taking it on the chin, understanding completely. “That would be a mistake.”

  “I hope you know I’ll always look back on this last week with—”

  She holds up her hand, shakes her head. “Don’t say it. I have to go.”

  I let her leave, with her voice breaking, her shoulders sagging.

  But what else can I do? Life is full of choices. This is the one I’m making right now. Even though, as she walks away, I already feel like a boat taking on water, sinking in a sea of regret.

  Seven years later, I see her on this very same street where I’m faced with another choice…

  * * *

  Malone and Sloane’s story continues in Satisfaction Guaranteed, available everywhere!

  * * *

  Read on for a preview!

  Satisfaction Guaranteed Preview

  Prologue

  Dude-bros will tell you the pinnacle of male sexual prowess is to make a woman meow.

  I will tell you, that’s a dumbass metaphor.

  Literal, figurative, it’s complete bullshit.

  Cats meow when they’re hurt, hungry, or just plain chatty. A feline might be stressed, pissed, or simply want you to open the goddamn bedroom door at night.

  So, the cat’s meow is a myth. I should know.

  But the purr? The magical, mysterious, wondrous purr? The aural indication of pussycat pleasure? That’s the mission impossible a man ought to be making come to life. Cats purr for a couple reasons, but the most common one is to show they’re satisfied.

  Yes, satisfied.

  That’s a man’s job, and that’s why I don’t play small stakes kitty-cat games. No cat’s meows, no pajamas either. My one goal when I get a woman between the sheets is to make her so immensely pleased that she purrs.

  I’m not an over-and-out type of guy. There’s no one-and-done for me. I’m a believer in delivering satisfaction in every way, in and out of the bedroom.

  That’s exactly what I want to do with a certain someone.

  Trouble is, that someone is most definitely off-limits, so it’s time to put a leash on this dog.

  But then I learn something wildly unexpected about her, and there’s no way I can turn away from that kind of challenge.

  1

  She’s gorgeous. An absolute stunner, with captivating green eyes, high cheekbones, and strong legs. Her silky black hair is long and luxurious. She stretches, showing off her nubile body.

  I can’t keep my eyes off her.

  Or my hands, for that matter.

  I run a palm down her back, and she arches against me.

  “Doesn’t she seem rather . . . lethargic?” her mistress asks, concern etched in her eyes. I peer closely at the little lady in question.

  Those whiskers. That tail. “Sabrina’s mood seems fine. Her heart rate is perfect. Her fur looks great. I see one very healthy pussycat. Why do you think she’s lethargic, Lydia?” I ask as the silky black feline swishes her tail back and forth, rubbing against my hand on the exam table.

  Lydia fiddles with a necklace that dangles between her breasts. “She’s not playing with her toys much.”

  “Does she normally like to play with toys?”

  Lydia drags a hand down her chest. “Oh, she enjoys toys so very much.”

  Dammit. I walked right into that one.

  But I’m practiced in the art of deadpan deflection. “Well, that would indicate she doesn’t need my services. She seems full of energy here. Is there something else going on at home with her that I should be concerned about?”

  Lydia doesn’t look at the kitty. She flicks her chestnut hair off her shoulder, her eyes pinned on me, ignoring the vet tech in the room completely. “She seems to need a little more attention. I feel like that’s what she’s telling me.”

  I maintain my completely-unaware-of-her-double-meaning routine. “But you give her lots of attention?”

  “I do, but it’s solo, Doctor Goodman. I think she wants it from others, if you know what I mean.”

  Yep, I don’t need to be Inspector Poirot to crack the mystery of that case. I figured it out the instant Lydia prowled into the exam room with a cat who is as fit as an Olympic athlete.

  I slide around her efforts with a standard vet answer: “Cats are fickle. Some want attention. Some are fine without it.” Sabrina rubs her head against my hand, cranking up the volume as she marks me. But hey, she’s allowed to. Also, cats like me. Dogs like me. I am an absolute animal magnet, and the feeling’s quite mutual.

  “See? She likes you. She might want affection from you . . .” Lydia’s eyes take a long, lingering stroll up and down my body.

  Time for the full-scale oblivion shield. There’s a fine line between playing dumb and looking stupid, and as a veterinarian, I can’t afford to look bad in front of clients. But as a man, I definitely need to pull off the clueless-to-her-advances act with a particular kind of balance and finesse.

  I ask Jonathan, the tech, to hand me a thermometer.

  “Of course, Doctor Goodman,” he says, hamming it up as if it’s his utter delight to deliver the device.

  Meeting Lydia’s gaze, I brandish the thermometer with a grin. “Sabrina might not be so keen on me after this.”

  This is the moment when Lydia will back down, I’m sure. They nearly all do when the mercury comes out.

  Instead, Lydia emits a sort of coo, like a songbird. “Oh, I bet she’d love that. I’m up for . . . I mean, she’s up for anything.”

  Jonathan snickers, and I sigh. I focus solely on the cat, rather than on this cat-and-mouse game of cat-and-woman sublimation. Fortunately, Sabrina’s just fine, and I tell Lydia so when I’m through with the exam. I snap off my gloves, wash my hands, and tell her to keep an eye on her feline. “If anything changes, let us know.”

  She smiles seductively at me. “Oh, I will. My pussycat’s health is quite important to me.”

  Stay stoic, Malone. You can do it. You’ve done it before. “Yes, I can see that.”

  She waggles her fingers. “And if anything changes for you, Doctor Goodman, let me know too.”

  Blank face. I give her the 100 percent tabula rasa. “Thanks for coming in today.”

  “I’m glad I did.” She rakes her gaze over me. “You’re a regular Doctor Doolittle.”

  I’ve only been called that, oh, twelve times a day. But it’s a compliment of the highest order, so I treat it as such. “Thank you.”

  She takes a step closer, her stare dropping down, down, down. “Or should I call you Doctor Doolarge?”

  I stifle a strangled chuckle—I don’t want to give her any encouragement, especially since I do like her cat, as in the actual feline. “Let’s stick to Doctor Goodman.”

  After I say goodbye to Lydia, Jonathan clears his throat, adopting a high-pitched feminine voice. “Tell me, Doctor Doolarge, is it hard being so good-looking?”

  I laugh. “It’s the family curse.”

  “And such a cross to bear. However do you manage?”

  “It’s not easy. Someday, I’ll teach you.”

  “Yes, please. I want to know all your secrets.” He shifts to all-business mode. “You have a few clients who requested phone calls.”

  I glance at the clock. It’s almost closing time, and I have a show tonight. “No problem. I have time.”

  He hands me the call sheet, and I head to my office and pick up the phone. When I’m done, I swing by the front desk where Jonathan and our office manager, Sam, are debating the best spots for craft beer in the West Village.

  “Hey, Doctor Doolarge,” Jonathan says, leaning back in his chair, stroking a hand over his bearded jaw. “Got a hot date tonight?”

  With her pink hair tied in a huge bun on top of her head, Sam shoots him a skeptical stare. “Don’t ask him that. It’s personal. You shouldn’t pry.” She turns to me, adopts a cheeky smile, then whispers, “But tell me. Are you meeting a secret lady at Gin Joint tonight?”

  Laughing, I roll my eyes. “Just my sister and the mic.”

  “But it would make such a yummy story. Vet moonlights as lounge singer and meets the love of his life at underground speakeasy. I can see it now.” She spreads her arms wide, making a marquee sign. “They’d want me to play her in the Broadway version of your life story.”

  Jonathan scoffs. “You can’t even sing.”

  She shoots him a withering glare. “Please don’t ruin my daydreams.”

  I rap my knuckles on the counter. “Speaking of dreams, I have a set tonight then a hot date with some paperwork. In fact, it’s the sexiest, steamiest paperwork I’ve ever seen.”

  “Just a couple more days, right?” Sam crosses her fingers.

  “Here’s hoping,” I add.

  “Me too,” Jonathan says.

  I head for the door, grabbing the handle.

  Jonathan calls out, “Have fun with your paperwork, Dr. Doolarge.” Every syllable drips with mockery.

  I will never live down this new nickname with my staff.

  But if the deal goes through, I can live with it.

  What’s a nickname when you’re about to make your dreams come true?

  2

  That night at Gin Joint, I sing a Dean Martin tune then slide into conversational mode, tapping a few notes on the piano as I chat with the audience between numbers. “Ever want something so badly you can taste it? Like, on the tip of your tongue?”

  A handful of patrons nod, murmuring yes.

  “And it tastes so good, so tantalizing, it’s all you can think about?”

  A brunette at a table near the front kicks her high-heeled foot back and forth, mouthing yes.

  “When I get like that, that’s when I need to lose myself in one particular song.” I dive into Louis Armstrong’s “What A Wonderful World.”

  As I play, I’m not only focused on the tune, but on life, and my life is good. In forty-eight hours, my business partner, Doug, will return to town. He’s told me he wants to have dinner to discuss a business proposition, and that’s why I’ve been dotting my i’s and crossing my t’s, prepping the paperwork so I can finalize the deal to buy out his half of the practice.

  It’s what we’ve both wanted for the last few years. What we’ve both been planning for. The practice will belong to me, and I can take it to the next level.

  Then I’ll have everything I could want: a successful business, a sweet apartment in the Village, and dates whenever I want them.

  The icing on the cake is this—singing to a packed house tonight. Fine, that packed house might only be fifty people, but I don’t care. I’m not trying to make a career as a lounge singer. I’m just enjoying my second-favorite hobby.

  Decked out in a sharp dark-blue suit, I have the audience enrapt with old standards. Men and women sip Moscow mules from copper mugs and gin and tonics from tall glasses garnished with lime wedges. Toes tap in rhythm to the music.

  As I dive into the closing number, an update on “The Curse of an Aching Heart,” made famous by Frank Sinatra, my eyes land on a trio of women in jeans and black tops, likely on a girls’ night out.

  A pretty brunette runs her finger along the rim of her glass and bats her lashes at me. Ah, the telltale sign that tonight could be another lucky night.

  “You made me what I am today. I hope you're satisfied.”

  I’m not saying I sing at Gin Joint a couple times a month to score.

  I’m saying it doesn’t hurt.

  Mic and the piano, the perfect prologue to my first-favorite hobby. But there’s something I want more than sex tonight, so I’m going to be an absolute choirboy when my set draws to a close.

  “That's the curse of an aching heart,” I sing, finishing the tune.

  “Thanks so much for coming tonight. Be sure to keep all your loved ones close. I’m A Good Man, and I’ll see you again sometime.”

  I weave my way through the crowd, and the brunette nibbles on the corner of her lips and offers, “I can break that curse.”

  “Thanks for coming tonight,” I say, setting a hand briefly on her shoulder, then make my way to the bar. I’m giving myself a commendation for good behavior.

  “Whiskey for you,” says my sister, Truly, who owns Gin Joint, as she slides a glass over. “Also, do I need to grab you by the wrists and lead you out of here right away, so you’re not tempted?”

  “Nah. I’m willingly leaving solo.”

  She hums doubtfully and lowers her voice. “I saw the gal making eyes at you. Were they full-on fuck-me eyes or were they flirt-with-me-and-give-me-something-to-think-about-later eyes?”

  I tap my chin, pretending to think. “I do believe they were take-me-to-your-sister’s-office-and-pound-me-against-the-door eyes.”

  I down some of the drink as Truly smacks my shoulder. “Gross. That’s seriously gross. I need to get that image out of my head, stat. Talk about paper clips.”

  I laugh. “Paper clips are a fantastic invention, not only known for their ability to hold pages upon pages together, but also for their ability to float.”

  She blinks. “Wait. Paper clips float? Is it because they’re light?”

  I shake my head. “Nope. It’s because of surface tension. The water molecules hold tight enough to support . . .”

  She waves a hand. “That’s okay. That did the trick.” She presses her palms against the counter. “How is everything looking for the Friday night dinner?”

  I rap the wood for luck. “If all goes well, the practice should be mine, like Doug and I have talked about for years. At last, right?”

  She sighs happily. “We need to celebrate. It’s what Dad always wanted for you.”

  “I know. I’m glad I can finally do it.” This has been the big dream since I left vet school—to finish what my father started. To take the step he couldn’t take.

  “It’s going to be great.” She pours herself a Diet Coke and raises the glass to toast. We clink and each take a drink. “And when it’s all said and done, will you reach out to Sloane again?”

  That name sends a jolt through me. “Sloane?”

  Truly chuckles. “Yes. Sloane,” she says, like she needs to remind me. She doesn’t—the woman hasn’t slipped too far from my mind since that one intense week together that we shared seven years ago. “Sloane, as in the woman you had it bad for once upon a time. The woman you ask me about every time you bump into her, wanting to know if I’ve discovered some giant loophole that would enable you to pursue her, the woman who’s the reason you sing here.”

  I stumble back, like she just blew me over with the force of her gale-strength words. “When you put it like that, I suppose the name does ring a bell.”

  She laughs. “So, will you reach out to her?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Won’t things change once the deal is done? Can’t you finally be Sloane and Malone? Which, by the way, will never not be funny, the rhyming.”

  “It’s a laugh a minute.”

  “So . . .” Her eyes widen.

  I shrug. “Don’t know. Hadn’t thought about it.”

  She leans forward, a twinkle in her blue eyes, a challenging set in her jaw. “Liar.”

  A high-pitched voice cuts in. “Oh my God, are you guys identical twins?”

  Truly rolls her eyes. She is my twin, and because our coloring is so similar—dark-brown hair, midnight-blue eyes—we’ve fielded our fair share of this ridiculous question.

  I jerk my gaze to the questioner—the brunette.

  “It’s just that you have the same hair and everything,” she says, gesturing wildly from Truly to me.

  My sister answers, “Yes, we are. You might have seen us in the Guinness World Records as the world’s first male-female identical twins.”

  Her jaw drops. “That is so cool. I can’t believe I’m meeting identical boy-girl twins. I thought it was always one gender only.”

  I point to my sister. “She had a penis in the womb. It fell off before she was born.”

  Truly tosses a cloth at me while the brunette stares, slack-jawed. “And you became one. One giant dick.”

  “And on that note, I need to go.” I tug Truly in for a quick kiss on the cheek, and then I'm out.

  As I head down the cobblestoned block lined with trees, I unknot my tie, humming “The Curse of an Aching Heart.”

  I’m lost in thought, and then, looking up, I come to a stop.

  I have to rub my eyes.

  I check my surroundings to make sure I haven’t walked into my own dream life. Everything seems abundantly real, from the air I breathe to the ground beneath me.

  And yet this is a fantasy bar none. I’ve definitely dreamed of those legs, that body, that gorgeous face.