Finally, with a long-suffering sigh, she strode forward as if sheweren'twearing nearly nothing. Even worse, she managed to look stupidly elegant doing it, almost as if she were walking down some fashion runway in Milan – and not some porch in northern Michigan.
It wasthistwisted observation that made me suddenly realize why she looked so annoyingly familiar.Holy hell.She was a model – anunderwearmodel. Swimsuits, too. Her name was Imogen St. James, and I'd seen her on television just last month as part of some prime-time lingerie extravaganza.
Well, this was just great.
Not only was Flynn cheating on my sister. He was doing it with one of the hottest models in the world.What a total cliché.
But what did it matter?
Cheating was cheating, right?
As she strode forward, I kept backing up until I was in serious danger of toppling backward down the front steps. But then, just as she nearly reached me, I sidestepped around her and bolted straight for the front door.
From behind me, she squealed, "You little bitch!"
Hah!She was ten times bitchier than I was, because unlike her,I'dnever sleep with a guy who was taken.
Already I could hear her scrambling up behind me.Too fast, even in high heels.
Crap.
In a burst of raw desperation, I took a flying leap for the handle of the front door, only to have the door itself swing magically open just as my fingers stretched out toward it.
With an embarrassing little scream, I soared through the open doorway, and landed with a thud on the ornate entrance rug. On impact, the stupid thing slid forward across the glossy wooden floor, moving like a bobsled on ice – and carrying me along for the ride.
Damn it.
When the rug finally stopped moving, I flopped over onto my back and lifted my head, looking up at the guy whose hand was still on the interior door handle. He was tall and muscular with thick blond hair and piercing blue eyes.
He was frowning and shirtless above his faded jeans. His waist was lean, and his torso was a mouthwatering work of art – not with ink, but rather with muscles cut so fine that I couldn’t help but stare.
When my gaze dipped to his abs, I swallowed with an audible gulp – andnotbecause I'd just had the wind knocked out of me.
Trying not to drool, I jerked my gaze upward. From the look on his face, he was just as surprised to see me as I was to see him.
I knew exactly who he was.
But hewasn'tmy sister's fiancé, which meant…what, exactly?
Chapter 3
Becka
I could hardly believe it. I was looking at Jack Freaking Ward, my all-time favorite author.
He was still frowning – except now he was frowning at Imogen, who was standing in the open doorway, griping up a storm. Even worse, she sounded stupidly elegant doing it.
It was the accent. Ithadto be.
She concluded her little tirade by saying, "And I don't appreciate the intrusion."
At this, I couldn’t help but snort. "Yeah, right."
Her gaze snapped in my direction. "Pardon?"
Like an idiot, I was still lying on the rug. As I scrambled to my feet, I said, "I guess I'm just wondering why you'd be standing outside in your underpants if you didn't want any attention."
She was glaring again. "I saidintrusion, not attention."
