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CHAPTER ONE

Lily McIntire pulled to a stop in the crumbling driveway of 102 Willow Street in Fantom, Ohio. Dust settled around her car, revealing the decaying building in front of her, its slats weather-beaten, front door padlocked, and porch stairs splintering. You know, the place where she’d be getting absolutely no sleep tonight.

She chewed on her lip and reconsidered leaving the sanctuary of her car. But she had to. A gauntlet had been thrown, and thrown by a man she refused to lose to. Again.

Dammit.

“Probably just full of spiders, anyway,” she said aloud as she unbuckled her seat belt. Her voice came out paper-thin and not infused with the courage she so desperately needed, but she ignored that. She also ignored the fact that she hated spiders, and any number of creepy-crawly things, all of which were probably living in communal harmony inside the decrepit building.

“Look on the bright side,” she grumbled, climbing out of the car. “Spiders are better than what is allegedly lurking around here.”

This might have been the one and only case where spiders were preferable.

It seemed dangerous to admit, even to herself, that she was scared half out of her wits being there, let alone staying overnight. But she sure as hell wasn’t going to give Marcus Black the satisfaction of winning the stupidest bet on earth.

One night in Willow Mansion would earn her a four-day, five-night trip to Hawaii. All expenses included. After two years of busting her hump as one of two lead designers at Cameron Designs, she had earned it. The dare Marcus had thrown at her feet? It was a no-brainer. If she lost, she’d owe him one date. One work date. She could do this. She would do this.

Straightening her shoulders, she tromped to the front of the house, kicking loose gravel and crunching stray leaves as she went. The foliage had changed from green to burnished gold a few weeks ago. Some leaves stubbornly clung to the trees, but the majority lay strewn in the overgrown grass and clogged the warped gutters overhead.

Lovely.

Other than a few obvious building code violations, the house didn’t appear too ominous in the daylight. And under the wide, bowing maples, Willow Mansion was almost…well…charming. Not that she’d recommend refurbishing it into a summer home, but one night wouldn’t be that bad.

A pleasant breeze kicked up and blew her hair into her sticky lip gloss. She tugged at the strawberry-blond tendrils before smiling at the relic before her with newfound appreciation. Maybe the rumors about the mansion had been wildly exaggerated.

A creak sounded overhead, drawing her attention to the upstairs window. An ancient shutter shifted on its hinges, let out a grating whine, and crashed to the ground. She squeaked as a spray of pebbles dusted her shoes. Heart hammering against her ribs, she reconsidered going inside. Spiders or ghosts were the least of her worries. Having a ceiling collapse in on her, on the other hand…

“Get me through this,” she said to the Man Upstairs. “And I’ll never drink tequila again.”

All bad ideas started with tequila. And usually ended with it, too.

After work on Wednesday, she’d allowed herself to be talked into a celebratory shot-and-beer night by her (mostly) well-meaning coworkers. They’d won the bid on Reginald London Superstores and had gone out to celebrate. The first store would open in Ohio in June of next year, and their design had been chosen out of designs submitted by twelve other big-name firms.

London was a huge coup for Cameron Designs. It had taken them nearly three months of late nights and weekends to perfect the proposal, and they’d prevailed. The account would bring in more profit than Lily’s best friend, Joanie, had seen since she and her husband, Clive, launched their small-but-mighty firm. Lily was beyond proud of her friends, who deserved every good thing that came their way.

Then there was the matter of her co-designer, asshat Marcus Black…

Though a consummate prankster, the man was an integral part—if not the superior cog—of landing the Reginald London account. But that didn’t mean she had to swoon over him like the rest of the female population. Just thinking of him raised her hackles—his know-it-all attitude, his cocky, better-than-you half-smile, the train of blondes he paraded at the Retail Space Design dinner every year.

This year, he would be accepting the coveted Designer of the Year award. If the award were judged on personality, she was sure he’d have lost to someone far more pedigreed. And now she was being mean.

She’d been vying for that award since the start of her career four and a half years ago and had been sure (sure!) she’d nailed it this year.

So, Marcus wasn’t quite the asshat she’d convinced herself he was, and honestly, there were times when parts of her beneath her skirt stirred in his presence. And okay, fine, his know-it-all attitude and barbed jokes often came with a good-natured grin, punctuated by a deep dimple in one cheek.

Her heart fluttered as she thought of him now, and she immediately chastised herself. Attractive or not, dating her coworker was strictly off-limits. Forever. If she expected to be respected—and win the Designer of the Year award for herself in the future—she couldn’t think with her lady-parts. She was more brains than boobs, no matter what her ex said about her.

At the thought of Emmett Webster, her lip curled. She would never, ever repeat the mistakes she’d made with a certain degenerate jackhole in the past.

Sure, she’d let her imagination cross a line with Marcus on occasion. Like on one particularly late night, when they were hovering over several designs and a few containers of Kung Pao chicken. She’d watched in awe as he slid his pencil over a fresh sheet of paper, sketching the design that would be the one London preferred over all others.

He was hard not to admire.

Retail space layout wasn’t the sexiest genre of design, but he knew it well. His capability spoke for itself. When his masculine hand dusted with dark hair had moved across the paper, it’d been like watching a painter capture a sunset. She’d leaned over him, captivated, while his aftershave tingled her senses, and his deep voice penetrated her shell. The rare moment of amicable peace between them had made her wonder if she’d misjudged him initially.

“Whatever,” she said now. She made a wide arc around the shutter and walked to her car.

She needed to believe that Marcus, with his serial dating history and captivating brand of charm, was no different than the other talented, good-looking jerks she’d dated in the past. And if she could get her hormones on board with her brain, she’d have no problem avoiding a situation like the one with Emmett.