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“Are you kidding? When you wear those glasses, and give a stern lecture about properly handling delicate materials?” Reeve gives a shiver. “Gets me hard every time.”
I give him a playful shove. “See, if I’d known what turns you on, I wouldn’t have squeezed myself into that Spandex on Halloween. I could have shown up in pajamas, and still had you panting.”
“Next time,” he says with a smirk. “Although, if you feel like giving my Indiana Jones costume a try, I may have a lead on some more treasure for you.”
“What?” I blink in surprise. “Where?”
“A buddy of mine is researching for a movie about lost art, that the Nazis stole during World War Two,” he explains. “He has all kinds of letters, that might lead to a hidden stash. Raphael. Van Gough. Even a Klimt or two.”
I feel a shiver of excitement, I can’t help it. I love the thrill of the chase. And the prospect of digging through more dense historical archives. “I’m in,” I tell him, snuggling closer. “But as long as you come, too. I’ll need a capable assistant, after all.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.” Reeve chuckles. “I already told you, I’m here to cater to your every need.”
What I need right now is to get him back to the hotel ASAP, so I can tear his clothes off, and show him just how much I love having him as my partner.
My love.
“I changed my mind about walking,” I say, and put my arm out to hail a cab. The lights of Paris glitter around us, an adventure I never dreamed about. “Let’s go”
THE END.
Thank you for reading! The fun’s not over yet: keep scrolling for your sneak peek of the next book in the series. Hazel’s hot and hilarious romance is just getting started in The Tropical Romance Test - available to order now.
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Discover Hazel’s hot and hilarious
rivals-to-lovers romance…
Chapter One:
Hazel
I’m notthe kind of woman to drink vodka neat at 9 a.m. on a Wednesday morning in an airport bar—or any time, to be honest.
I like my drinks fruity and sparkling, like I’m powering through aSex and the Cityrewatch, about to gab with Carrie and the girlies about our wild adventures. Sure, I prefer the comforts of my cloud couch to the noise of a nightclub these days, and the closest I’ve been to a sexy adventure all year is the time I accidentally sat on a foaming bath bomb in the tub, but you get the picture.
Knocking back a shot of Stoli before I’ve even gotten started on my toasted everything breakfast bagel with extra cream cheese? Not my style.
But this morning, the usual rules don’t apply.
“What do you mean, the butterflies have migrated?” I slam the empty shot glass down and shudder at the taste of the vodka, sitting on a stool at the bar in the middle of the crowded Departures terminal.
My temporary assistant, Anna, melts down over the phone. “They’re gone!” she blurts. “The butterfly sanctuary just called. They weren’t supposed to migrate for another couple of weeks, but I don’t know, they said something about rainfall patterns and wind speed? It’s global warming, and they’ve gone!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “There are supposed to be a thousand tropical butterflies soaring over the beach at sunset,” I say slowly. “Perfectly matching the dazzling array of rare orchids that are sitting on the runway in Miami in temperature-controlled vans. The power is still running to the vans, isn’t it?” I ask, struck with a sudden panic – and the vision of ten thousand irreplaceable blooms wilting in the midday sun.
“I’m babysitting them right now,” Anna reassures me. “We borrowed a dozen generators from the local Fire and Rescue department, just in case the power goes before takeoff.”
“As long as everyone has their priorities straight,” I say dryly.
This is what I get for selling my soul – and artistic skills – to the highest bidder. I’m usually a production designer: wrangling sets, lighting, and costume to make movies look gorgeous and atmospheric, so when I got the offer-slash-desperate last-minute plea to take over planning a lavish wedding for Hollywood starlet Avery Lawrence and her mega-bucks producer fiancé, I figured, why not? The cameras would still be rolling, just forVogueinstead of a movie. I’d get an all-expenses paid tropical vacation out of the deal, and the fact I got to name my price and work with an unlimited budget, too?
Immediate yes.
Now I know it was a trap. Because there is no amount of beachfront massages and room service French fries that could justify the circus I’ve been trying to wrangle. And I haven’t even touched down at the resort just yet.
“Hazel?” Anna prompts me, sounding desperate.
