Prologue
Emelia
One Drunken Night…
"My life is over," Ava groans, tipping her wine glass back until the last little drop lands on her lips. Her blue eyes are glossy and dilated, her cheeks flushed. She's wasted.
"It's not over," Seraphina promises, upending the bottle of wine over the coffee table. "Having Dawson as your stepbrother isn't the end of the world." She shakes the bottle, scowling at it. "This is. Where did the—?"
"We drank it," Nova chirps.
"Dammit." Seraphina shakes the bottle like it's a Magic 8 Ball, refusing to give up the goods.
Okay, so maybe Ava isn't the only one trashed in my living room. We're three bottles deep, hurtling toward bad decisions and early morning regret. I can work with that. I'd rather be wine drunk with my besties than overthinking in my bed. Again.
New clients give me stress. So why did I just agree to represent Royce Elliot, the world's hottest goalie? Oh, right. Because I have no self-control and a bank account that could use a boost since my favorite client, Teo Kirby, retired.
"Here." Nova thrusts a fresh bottle into Seraphina's hands, earning a drunken grin, before she turns to Ava. "She's right, though, Ava. It's not so bad. Try living with Satan's sister. That's bad."
"You need to move," I tell Nova, who shoots me a glare. It's an old argument. Her roommate is evil, but she stubbornly refuses to move out and let the woman win their cold war.
"Yes, it is!" Ava cries, flopping backward on my sofa. "He hates me. I'm destined to spend every holiday for the rest of my life across the table from a man who despises me." She plucks a throw pillow from the couch, burying her face in it with a loud groan.
"I doubt he hates you," I murmur, tugging the pillow away. "He's just…Dawson."
Dawson Iverson, who plays football for the Sabres, is hot as Hades…and grumpy as sin. I'm also 90% sure he's obsessed with Ava. She refuses to believe it, though. She's convinced he loses his mind whenever she comes around because he hates her. Believe me, hate doesn't look like it wants to bend you over the table in front of your parents.
She narrows her eyes at me, fuming. "He calls me half-pint."
My lips twitch.
"I'm twenty-six!"
She's also five-nothing with the face of an angel.
"At least he's hot," Seraphina says, sloshing wine across the table.
"He's my stepbrother," Ava growls.
"So?" Seraphina tries—and fails—to waggle her brows. "It's not like that's a lifelong thing. It just happened. And I've seen what you read, bish. You'd be into it."
"Someone take her wine away."
Seraphina gasps, cradling the bottle to her chest like it's a baby. "No way. I earned this. My boss is the devil."
"A hot devil," Nova mutters, earning a giggle from Ava.
"So hot," Seraphina agrees miserably. "Too bad he's a total nightmare. I'd rather smother him than sleep with him."
"Maybe that's our problem," I mutter, glancing around at my closest friends.
"We don't commit enough murders?" Nova asks.
"No." I pause as the faces of a few of my clients drift through my mind. Whoever said dealing with professional athletes all day would be a lucrative walk in the park lied. They're all pains in my ass. I should have listened to my mom when she tried to talk me out of following in her footsteps. "Well, maybe."
Nova holds her hand out for a high-five. She's always been a savage. It's part of what I love most about her. She's loud and bright and never backs down from anything. Ava is a shy little bookworm with stars in her eyes most of the time. And Seraphina? Well, Seraphina spends most of her time trying to wrangle the one coach on the planet who takes pleasure in making her job impossible. She has the patience of a saint, enough love for ten women, and a burning hatred for her boss.
"We need more hot men in our lives," I explain when they all look at me expectantly.
