The Devil has met his match
When Tatum O’Shea decides it’s time for some payback, no one is safe from her new game – not even the devil himself. Tate is going to get her happily ever after, even if it means making everyone else unhappy in the process.
But a persistent Jameson, a meddling Sanders, and an amorous baseball player make it very hard for a girl to keep her focus, and suddenly it seems Tate has a few too many suitors for her fairy tale ending.
Sometimes, it’s very difficult to tell who Prince Charming really is …
WARNING: may induce Kindle throwing, screaming at fictional characters, and possibly a few tears. Also graphic sexual situations and sadomasochistic themes.
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Jameson watched the Bentley pull up the driveway. Sanders got out of it, alone. They hadn’t spoken the entire time. Jameson hadn’t called – if he had, he probably would’ve lost his shit. And he didn’t want to do that. Sanders probably hadn’t called for the very same reason.
“Nice little vacation you had there,” Jameson commented, taking in Sanders’ rumpled suit.
“I wouldn’t say that,” the younger man replied, heading into the house and straight into the kitchen. Jameson followed him.
“I almost thought you had left with her,” he voiced his fear. Sanders stopped in front of a cupboard.
“I would never do that. I simply tried to reason with her,” he said.
“Oh really. And how did that go?” Jameson snorted. Sanders snorted as well and pulled open the cupboard.
“Not well. She is severly unbalanced.”
Jameson was a little shocked as he watched Sanders pull a bottle Jack Daniel’s out of the cupboard. He walked up next to him, watched as Sanders got a tumbler out of another cupboard and then poured about three-fingers worth of the amber liquid into the glass.
“She’s also a bad influence. What are you doing?” Jameson demanded. Sanders handed the glass to him.
“This is for you,” he replied. Jameson took the glass.
“Oh god, why?” he groaned, then knocked back the liquid.
“She offered to sleep with me.”
Jameson started choking on the whiskey. Sanders pounded on his back, but Jameson waved him away. Stumbled over to the sink and turned on the faucet, stuck his mouth underneath it. He must have heard wrong. He couldn’t believe it.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped for air, leaning against the counter. “You’ll have to repeat that. What happened?”
“Sex. She offered to have sex with me.”
“I see. Did you take her up on this offer?”
Pause.
Oh my god. I have to kill Sanders. How am I going to do this? That stupid bitch …
Crazy woman living in an undisclosed location in Alaska (where the need for a creative mind is a necessity!), I have been writing since …, forever? Yeah, that sounds about right. I have been told that I remind people of Lucille Ball – I also see shades of Jennifer Saunders, and Denis Leary. So basically, I laugh a lot, I’m clumsy a lot, and I say the F-word A LOT.
I like dogs more than I like most people, and I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t drink. No, I do not live in an igloo, and no, the sun does not set for six months out of the year, there’s your Alaska lesson for the day. I have mermaid hair – both a curse and a blessing – and most of the time I talk so fast, even I can’t understand me.
Yeah. I think that about sums me up.
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