One night. One game. One bad idea in the form of top-shelf tequila. When my college besties and I made a pact to play Truth or Tequila at each of our bachelorette parties, I knew I'd regret it eventually. And it seems like tonight's that night. I know I should be at home, reviewing notes and researching baseball terms for my early morning meeting, not in a bar making questionable decisions. But then he walks in. Tall. Lean. Muscles packed into a tight white tee like it was stitched directly onto his body. Hair long enough to curl behind his ears, the kind you want to tug on while doing something reckless. He watches me all night, ocean blue eyes tracking every move I make, every laugh, every flip of my hair like he already knows how I taste. So when my friends' dare lands me in his lap with one simple goal-get him to kiss me-I expect it to be easy. Instead, I get heat. Chemistry. A low, rough voice that says he wants to kiss me... but won't. Not when I'm this drunk. So I leave with tequila on my lips and a dare hanging in the air between us. Fine. I'll survive the rejection. I mean, I'm never even going to see him again. Or so I think. Until I walk into my meeting the next morning and see the tantalizing stranger from last night. Apparently, he's Seb Miller, star catcher for Miami's major league baseball team. And the man whose familiar eyes lock on mine like he wants to finish what we started last night. And God help me, so do I. There's just one problem. Now, he's my client . . . And strictly off limits.
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