The definition of trouble is a pro football player. Change my mind.
Ryder Summers - The big, bad New York Vulcans linebacker with an anger-management problem to match. He's being sent to an exclusive beachside retreat to "heal" and "refresh." Read: save his career. And I'm the sucker who has to escort him.
I didn't go to Harvard to babysit an oversized toddler who can't control his temper, and I'm sure as hell not giving into his endless pickup lines and bad boy wiles. I'm a professional. I don't fall for guys like Ryder, even if he is a hundred kinds of hot - sinful, seductive, and oh so gorgeous. But the more I get to know him, the more I wouldn't mind a taste, just a teaser of what it's like to actually live.
One "O" - one back-breaking, headboard-shaking climax is all I want, just to know it's not a myth. I have no doubt Ryder can deliver, but the secret I'm guarding could destroy both our careers, nothing but disaster incarnate to follow. So why the hell am I hungering for his touch, ready to throw caution to the wind and whip my panties off?
One thing's for sure, sports fans. Things are about to get crazy.