Chapter One
Valentine’s Day, 2011
The moment she rolled over, Johanna regretted last night. It wasn’t just the bright light stabbing through her window and straight into her eyes. It wasn’t even the pounding headache that made her fairly certain she’d drunk the entire contents of the bar last night. Hell, it wasn’t even that it was Valentine’s Day, the entire reason she and her friends had decided to toast the town with a lot of drinking and less dancing—on her part, anyway.
No, it was the bright green eyes and handsome face looking back at her, and the small smile on pulse-poundingly full lips.
Son of a bitch.
“Oh,” Johanna said. “Oh, crap.”
“Hey there.” British accent. Her weakness. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your name. I’m—”
Raising a hand, she groaned and sat up, pulling the sheet over her chest. Her hip rubbed against something hard and hot, and coarse body hair. Shoot me. Shoot me now.
“We probably didn’t share names,” she responded. “Look.
I don’t usually do this. Let’s skip the uncomfortable bullshit and say goodbye.”
His lips quirked. “For someone who doesn’t do this a lot, you sure have the ‘get the hell out of my apartment’ speech figured out.”
She stared him down. The withering look that could cow every kindergarten student she’d ever taught had zero effect on him. He only stared back at her, raising a brow.
“Please,” she said. Mortification made her curt. “Get out.”
He chuckled. “You Americans are quite bossy, you know.”
She hid her face in her raised knees. “Yep.”
“Don’t you know who I am?”
She snorted and rolled her eyes. Typical egotistical male.
“Didn’t we already cover this?”
She heard a chuckle, followed by the rustle of clothing.
Peek. No, don’t peek. Don’t peek at all. She couldn’t. She wasn’t that kind of woman. She held her breath and kept her head down until she heard the rasp of a zipper.
When she looked up he was standing at her bedside, offering a business card. “If you ever want to—”
“Nope. Keep your card.”
He shook his head. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
Her fingers clenched against a pillow. Another word out of his mouth, and she’d throw it at his head. “Yeah. Same to you.”
Giving her one last lingering look, he left. She held her breath until she heard the front door click shut. She sucked in a whoosh of air and collapsed back on the bed.
Holy shit.
Who had he been? Whoever he was, he’d been absolutely delicious—and she hoped she never saw him again. She was just that girl to him, now. Well, as much as an uptight OCD teacher could ever be that girl to anyone.
It figured. The first time she let loose, and she couldn’t even remember what she’d done.
A hot shower didn’t help, or ease her screaming headache.
Hell, neither did the coffee, Motrin, or clean clothing, and by the time Johanna made it to work, she was ready to kill someone. Anyone.
To top it off, Rowling Elementary looked like a nightmare. Red paper hearts everywhere. Streamers. Jaunty love songs on the intercom, adding their shrill notes to the splitting sound of the bells. Would it really be so bad if she set the whole place on fire?
Fuck Valentine’s Day.
…
The Viscount Damon Haymes plucked the invitation from the chaos of paperwork on his desk and eyed it with dismay.
“Can’t I just send them the money?” he asked. “It seems distasteful to purchase a woman for the night. And on Valentine’s night, of all nights.”
“That’s the point.” Sprawling on the plush leather couch, Jeff smirked. “All these single women need something to distract them from their melancholy lives on a night when everyone else is getting laid.”
“You’re such an ass**le,” Damon said, fighting back a smile. “An unfortunately correct ass**le. I still don’t see why I can’t donate the money and walk away. Bloody hell, I doubt any of these women will be under the age of sixty.”
“You never know. You might get lucky.”
“With an octogenarian? God, I loathe these affairs.”
“Yep. But it’s all for the greater good.”
“Says the man who doesn’t have to go.” Damon muttered under his breath.
“Your father loved these events,” Jeff said.
“I’m sure he did. But when Mom died, he just spent the last three years trying to keep busy.” Damon’s eyes burned at the thought of his parents. Though his father had died a mere six months ago, he still felt the loss of both of them far too strongly. “I guess I might get why, now.”
Jeff gave him a sad smile. He cleared his throat and said, “So you’re going to make me come out and ask. What happened last night? Who was she? Was she any good?”
Damon fought back a grin. Leave it to Jeff to change the subject at the first sign of emotion. “Don’t know, don’t know, and you don’t need to know.”
“Aw, she sucked, huh?” Jeff replied, propping his elbow on his leg. “Didn’t know her way around a Brit’s body?
American men are much different, I’ve heard. Brits are pale and scrawny. Unlike myself.”
Damon glanced down at his own flat stomach and quirked a brow. “Really?”
“Yes. Just look at you. It’s sick how scrawny you are.” Jeff gave him a onceover. “Girls as hot as that one need real men.
Men who know how to treat them between the sheets.”
Damon rose to his feet, taking a step closer to Jeff. He towered over his best friend by at least five inches. “You seem to be a bit confused.”
Jeff laughed and clapped his shoulder.
“So, what happened?”
“She had no clue who I was,” Damon said.
“Yeah, right,” Jeff scoffed. “A good actress, you mean?”
“No.” Damon glared. “She woke up, saw me, and told me to get the hell out. Wouldn’t even tell me her bloody name.”
Jeff blinked—and burst into hysterical laughter. “Holy shit,” he managed. “She ki—she kicked you out?”
Damon clenched his fists, shoulders stiff. Growling, he punched Jeff’s shoulder. “If you don’t knock it off…”
Wheezing, Jeff collapsed into a chair and rubbed his eyes.
“I have to meet her. Take me to her.”