Novels by collinpeters766

Erica’s POVI was still standing there, mouth slightly open, staring at him like an idiot, when I realized he'd said something else. Words. Actual words, apparently, that had come out of that perfect mouth while I'd been too busy cataloguing his jawline to register a single syllable of them."…sorry, what?"He grinned wider, clearly delighted by my malfunction. "I said, you can take a picture if you want. It'll last longer."Oh. He was one of those.That snapped me right out of whatever trance I'd fallen into. I crossed my arms, narrowed my eyes, and gave him my best don't-test-me stare - the one I usually reserved for mothers-of-the-bride who thought they could renegotiate my contract mid-ceremony."Who are you?""Maverick!" Heather's voice rang out behind me before he could answer, and she came bounding up the hallway like she'd been waiting all morning for this exact doorbell. "Oh my god, thank you so much for coming this fast, you're a literal lifesaver."I blinked. "You two know

Erica's POVThe line disconnected with a soft, final click, and then Malcolm turned that same cold, deadly stare on me. "Get out of my hotel." My hotel.The words landed like a second hammer on a nail I didn't even know had been driven halfway in already. And that's when it hit me - really hit me, all the way down - because I'd been so busy drowning in the shock of his face that I'd completely blanked on his last name. Vale. Malcolm Vale. How does a person forget the surname of their own high school nemesis? How is that even possible? And yet there it was, arriving minutes too late to save me any dignity at all. I must have looked exactly as stricken as I felt - rooted to the spot, mouth slightly open, doing quiet, catastrophic math in my head - because he had to say it again, louder this time, with all the patience of a man addressing a nobody. “I said get out." That did it. Whatever thread of composure I had left snapped clean through, replaced by pure, scalding embarrassment.

Erica's POVThe doors slid shut behind us with a soft, final hiss, and for one horrible, suspended second, all I could do was stare.The coffee - dark and spreading - had already soaked through the front of his shirt and down one leg of what were very obviously custom trousers. His shoes - expensive Italian leather, no doubt - were ruined, glossy with it. And the documents. God, the documents. Whatever was printed on those pages was bleeding into an unreadable mess of black ink and brown stain, curling at the edges like they were trying to escape their own destruction.Then I looked up.And the floor of the elevator tilted sideways beneath me.Malcolm.Malcolm…And suddenly, I was fifteen years old all over again, standing in front of the boy who used to sit two rows behind me in class, all sharp jaw and easy charm, the boy I'd written his name in the margins of all my notebooks like an idiot. The same boy who had hurt me so badly and left a deep gashing scar in my heart…I was so bus

Erica's POVI was still floating somewhere between Bear and Erica when I pulled into my driveway, that soft, lingering feeling still sitting in my chest.The second I stepped out of my car, I heard it. That awful, grinding, metal-on-metal screech coming from my neighbor's garage, like someone was trying to resurrect a car that died with dignity years ago and refused to let it rest."Oh, come on," I groaned, keys still in hand, glaring at the fence between our properties like it personally offended me.This was the third night this week. I'd bought this house with my own money - money I'd earned wearing two different faces, building two different empires, sleeping maybe five good hours a night for the privilege - and some man I'd never even met was out here at ten p.m. running power tools like he was building an airplane in there.I stormed inside, slammed the door a little harder than necessary, and stood in my kitchen breathing like I'd just run a marathon instead of walked twenty fe

Erica's POV7:58 PM.I checked my phone for the third time in five minutes, which was embarrassing, because I knew exactly what time it was. I'd known since I lit the candle. I'd known since I picked this blanket over the cashmere one because it was softer, and because he liked soft things even though he'd never admit it.I adjusted the blanket anyway. Smoothed a wrinkle that wasn't really there.I set the hot chocolate on the table, close enough to reach, close enough that the steam curled up between us like it was trying to fill a silence that hadn't even started yet.Then I checked the file like a force of habit: Friday Client. Session #7That was all it said. No name. No age. No photograph. Just a number climbing higher every week, counting the ways I'd let a stranger sit beside me and call it comfort.It was better this way. No judgment. No breach of confidentiality. No feelings.I almost laughed at myself for that last one."He'll complain if the chocolate isn't hot enough," I m