1.Hate-screw my high school nemesis.
2.Remember to hate him.
3.Prove my brother wrong.
It should be easy.
It isn’t.
As the owner of Pick-A-Dick, New Orleans’ premier hook-up website, my job is simple. Connect two people for a no-strings, no-expectations hook-up. The plus for my clients is that I’m the one who gets to sift through the dick pics—except this time, they're required.
My problem? My brother, co-owner of Pick-A-Dick’s sister dating site, doesn’t believe it’s possible to hook up with someone three times and not fall in love.
I disagree. I know it’s possible.
And my disagreement is exactly how I end up reconnected with my high school nemesis, Elliott Sloane. The guy who asked me to junior prom and then stood me up. Who egged my car when I rejected him, and convinced my senior homecoming date to ghost me.
It should be easy to hate-screw him. If only he was still that person, instead of a hot-as-hell single dad, working as a builder to make ends’ meet, fighting for custody of his daughter.
Not to mention packing in the pants department...
Three hook-ups.
One outcome.
Right?
“Is she okay with that juice?” Peyton watched her go.
I selected the Blu-ray from the cupboard and shot a smirk
her way. “Sorry to break it to you, but you’re getting a juice box.”
“I can live with that.”
I turned away and hit the eject button on the player. “You
didn’t have to say yes to her, you know.”
“Of course, I had to. Have you seen those eyes? How do you
say no to her, ever?”
“I think of all the times she screams and swings her arms
like a tiny terrorist, and it’s pretty easy.” I put the disk in and turned
around.
Peyton had one eyebrow raised. “See, now, I’d think that’s
reason to say no.”
“It depends on the day. Sometimes it results in her being
put to bed to calm down, which means she ends up taking a rare afternoon nap,
and I get some peace and quiet.”
“That’s a thing around her? She was talking to me for thirty
minutes flat about what I did and didn’t like.”
“Only thirty minutes? Lucky you. She has about three hours
of material of that.” I took a seat on the sofa, making sure to leave space
between us for Bri. “Did she get started on hedgehogs yet?”
Peyton looked a little confused. “Hedgehogs?”
“YouTube is the devil.”
“That…was quite the jump in subject.”
I laughed as the main menu music hit on the TV. “I’m going
to preface this by saying kids are weird.”
“Some get that from their parents.”
I blinked at her for a second. She wasn’t wrong if half
these people who had a mini-career opening fucking toys on YouTube were
parents.
“There are a bunch of stupid videos on YouTube, and
apparently, watching people open toys is thrilling.”
Now, she looked really confused.
“And on one of those she watched, the person had a pet
hedgehog who wasn’t having the nonsense of her opening a Hatchimal on camera,
so it stole the egg.”
She blinked several times in quick succession. “I have no
idea what you just said, and if I’m honest… Please don’t explain it.”
I laughed and hit play on the TV.
“Here’s your dooce-box,” Briony said, handing Peyton two.
“And das mine. I can’t do the straws.”
“Oh. Right. Okay.” Peyton looked at the two juices that had
been thrust at her.
Smiling, I took one from her. I pulled the straw off the
back, out of the tiny plastic slip, and poked it through the foiled hole in the
top. “There you go,” I said to Briony. “What do you want for dinner?”
She put the straw in her mouth and pursed her lips as she
sucked the juice up. Peyton watched her, lips twitching, as she put her straw
in place.
“Pizza!” Briony announced.
Oh no. I’d eaten too much pizza lately.
Was there such a thing as too much pizza?
Maybe if the toppings were changed up…
“Peydon, do you want pizza?” Bri asked, leaning right into
her.
“I like pizza,” she replied, smiling sweetly down at her.
“What’s your favorite?”
“I like spots and cheese.”
“Spots?”
I coughed on my water. “Pepperoni,” I explained. “They look
like spots on the pizza.”
Peyton’s eyes met mine for a minute. Silent laughter shone
back at me. That really was toddler logic at its finest.
“You know,” she said, looking down at Peyton. “Spots are my
favorite, too!”
Once again, Briony gasped. “Reawy?”
“Really, really. I love spots.”
Oh, Jesus.
It might have been a mistake introducing these two. Not only
was my daughter becoming increasingly obsessed with someone who seemed to be a
brunette, adult version of her…
No, that was the problem. Peyton was the brunette, adult
version of Briony, attitude and all—and if there was anything my daughter
didn’t need, it was someone who could teach her a thing or ten about sarcasm.
“I’ll order pizza,” I said, going to stand.
“Oh, you got it last time. I’ll go call them.” Peyton put
her juice on the side table and tried to move, but Briony stopped her.
“No. Mimi told me that only gentlemen buy dinner. Princesses
sit and look priddy.”
Peyton looked down at her. “Sit and look pretty? I like to
buy my own pizza sometimes, and that’s okay.”
Without missing a beat, Briony said, “Princesses sit and
look priddy so the mens buying dinner don’t know dat we can kick dere butts.”
By day, New York Times and USA Today bestselling New Adult author Emma Hart dons a cape and calls herself Super Mum to two beautiful little monsters. By night, she drops the cape, pours a glass of whatever she fancies—usually wine—and writes books.
Emma is working on Top Secret projects she will share with her followers and fans at every available opportunity. Naturally, all Top Secret projects involve a dashingly hot guy who likes to forget to wear a shirt, a sprinkling (or several) of hold-onto-your-panties hot scenes, and a whole lotta love.
She likes to be busy—unless busy involves doing the dishes, but that seems to be when all the ideas come to life.
Emma Hart is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over thirty novels and has been translated into several different languages.
She is a mother, wife, lover of wine, Pink Goddess, and valiant rescuer of wild baby hedgehogs.
Emma prides herself on her realistic, snarky smut, with comebacks that would make a PMS-ing teenage girl proud.
Yes, really. She's that sarcastic.
About Emma Hart
