LITMIR.BIZ

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      Copyright

       Epigraph

      Prologue: Fear of Flying

      Chapter One: Strangers On A Train

      Chapter Two: Holder Tight

Chapter Three: Intern Flat

Chapter Four: Blackberry Curve

       Chapter Five: The Other Side

       Chapter Six: Metamorphosis

       Chapter Seven: Raising the Bar

       Chapter Eight: Run, Baby Run

       Chapter Nine: Do Not Disturb

       Chapter Ten: Just Desserts

       Chapter Eleven: The Legend of Jerry Fitz

       Chapter Twelve: Time and Tide

       Chapter Thirteen: Save A Prayer

       Chapter Fourteen: Oh! Pretty Woman

       Chapter Fifteen: Naughty and Nice

       Chapter Sixteen: Sleeping Beauty

       Chapter Seventeen: Ripples and Waves

       Chapter Eighteen: A Close Shave

       Chapter Nineteen: Revere

       More from Mischief

       About Mischief

       About the Publisher

       Prologue

       Fear of Flying

      I always carry too much baggage. Though I managed to cram a couple of weeks’ worth of sassy tropical vacation clothes into one gigantic carry-on, stuffing it into the small compartment over my seat proves well nigh impossible.

      ‘Dammit.’ I punch the pink canvas bulging out of the cubby.

      ‘Miss? Do you need help?’ asks a silky male voice.

      Startled, I whip around to see who my concerned fellow passenger is, hoping his sonorous intonation is matched by an equally attractive face.

      Alas, not a meet-cute. Just some retiree in golf duds, who looks like a plump version of Woody Allen and clearly has had some vocal training. His eyes drop to my chest.

      ‘Thanks.’ Though I try to keep my voice pleasant, three sleepless nightstend to affect one’s delivery. Sweet, complacent Lily Dewitt is still at a bitsy flat on Agassiz Street, curled up in an even bitsier ball on her futon, crying her eyes out about the man who never loved her back.

      She can stay there.

      ‘I’m fine.’

      Woody shoves horn-rimmed spectacles up the bridge of his nose, not even bothering to look up from my tits. ‘If you’re sure …’

      Hands on hips, I ask, ‘Are you going to be sitting next to me this entire flight?’

      ‘No, though that would be delightful.’ He stops ogling long enough to meet my eyes. ‘Would you like me to join you?’

      ‘Wow, really?’

      He looks away. ‘I could switch with someone.’

       You have got to be fucking kidding me.

      ‘Seems you’re holding up the line.’ I give an encouraging, not so subtle shrug. ‘I got this.’

      Several passengers waiting behind him nod and mumble their support to me. Thanks, team. He sighs, quite put out by my obvious lack of gratitude and snooty demeanour. I turn my back on him and go on shoving my bag into the reluctant overhead. But it’s like trying to squeeze my bum into skinny jeans halfway through winter. Ain’t gonna happen.

      Well … perhaps my annual garment squish isn’t the greatest comparison, since my build has changed. My drawstring linen pants are hanging off my hips, and spring has only just sprung. This is the smallest I’ve been since high school, and it doesn’t suit me one bit. I’m supposed to be a curvy girl, no two ways about it. But a few weeks of stress, Olympic-athlete sex, a few ballet lessons, a lot of falling in love, topped with a dollop of utter devastation? Winning combo. Makes for a quick and simple crash diet.

      Simple, but not easy.

      I’ve got Dorian Holder to thank for my Doctor Oz non-approved weight-loss plan.

       Thanks, Dorian.

      He’s probably already got a patent on it already. The man owns fucking everything, and breaking

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