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Then Jonah Sinclair subletted my roommate’s half of the apartment.
He’s a grumpy, surly, giant piece of man candy, with a hatred of shirts.
No shirts. Ever. Just… abs. Abs everywhere!
The man didn’t even last two nights in the apartment without bringing home a hot woman to do right there on the kitchen counter.
It’s not my fault I fell asleep on the couch or that the word “boundaries” means nothing anymore.
When he catches me watching them and doesn’t stop, I feel…. whoa.
Thankfully, I can escape to work the next morning and get some space.
Only, guess who is sitting in the desk next to me when I arrive.
At least he’s wearing a shirt.
Now I’m fighting hormones at home, hormones at work.
It’s probably time to just admit that the smolder he gave me while giving someone else the time of her life was the best I’ve ever had too.
All I know, is this is my chance to enjoy a hot affair—as long as I can keep from falling for him before he does another fast bolt to the next job, the next town.
