From author Parker S. Huntington comes an emotional new enemies to lovers romance, and you can read an excerpt right here.
Forty-five minutes after I’d arrived at the clinic, the receptionist twisted her face in my direction. I could tell she hated my presence, but she couldn’t kick me out.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” she announced to the empty room.
I looked up from the manuscript. “Good luck?”
She shot me a dark look. “I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
She pointed a manicured nail at me. “Don’t knock on his door.”
“You have my word.”
The minute Brunette Barbie was out of sight, I jumped up from my seat and practically lunged myself at the guy’s office. A golden sign hung on the wall, but I couldn’t read it when I was all the way across the room.
Now I could.
Tatum Marchetti, MD.
The name descended on me like the entire sky, hammering me to the ground.
As in, Kellan’s brother.
As in, the asshole who had a hand in making Kellan hurl himself off of St. Paul’s roof exactly four years ago.
What were the odds?
Not horribly bad, a vicious voice inside me snapped.
In high school, I’d never bothered checking who Tate was or what he did for a living. I’d never googled him or asked Kellan. I just knew he worked insane hours and night shifts.
Now it all made sense—he was a doctor.
And he was here. A door away. The man I’d wanted to strangle from the moment Kellan entered my life. Eight years and counting. My hatred for him had time to stew, build, simmer, and flourish.
My throat rolled with a swallow, and my eyes narrowed at the door. I was not a reckless person. Everything I did was planned to the finest detail. Especially since The Night Of. But the realization that Kellan’s brother was here undid every single positive trait I’d honed after that fateful night.
My fingers curled over the doorknob. I waited for my sensible side to tell me to stop. To turn around. To come to my senses.
I flung the door open without knocking (I’d promised Miss Bitch I wouldn’t).
Took a step inside.
Froze in my spot.
I blinked, trying to digest the scene I’d walked into. A sheet of long blonde hair cascaded down a deep-cherry desk in waves. The owner of the hair had her mouth open in an O-shape, her eyes squeezed in pleasure and concentration as the man between her legs thrusted into her ruthlessly.
One of her tan legs wrapped around his waist. The other extended over his shoulder. He was fully clothed in dark cigarette pants and a matching cashmere sweater that highlighted his insanely muscular physique.
He was also looking straight at me. I met his eyes disobediently. The woman he was screwing was still oblivious to my presence. After all, I hadn’t knocked.
Blood rushed up from my neck to my cheeks. My face grew impossibly hot. A slow, taunting smirk spread over his lips. I realized two horrific things at the same time:
1) He looked exactly like an older version of Kellan. Unruly auburn hair, tousled and glossy, light gray eyes, and the angular cheekbones of a titan. No, he was not Hollywood hot. He was deity-hot. He was screw-your-life-up hot.
And 2) He enjoyed me being here, watching. A lot.
Every bone in my body screamed at me to turn and run away before I got arrested. Or maybe he’d be the one getting arrested for sexual harassment. I didn’t know, but I felt strongly that one of us should be handcuffed and not just for funsies.
Only, I wanted to rattle him like he rattled me, so I stayed rooted in my spot.
“Yes, Tatum! Yes! I’m coming. Fuck, I’m coming. Oh. Oh. Tatum. Tatum,” the woman screamed, her eyes squeezed shut in pleasure.
Tate brought his hand between the two of them, sliding his thumb into her. He slipped it into his mouth, sucked the juices, and freed the finger with a pop.
“You like that?” his husky, low voice snarled.
Chills ran up and down my arms.
My eyes narrowed at him.
No, I hate it.