Walsh

Meet Lauren Halsted. It's all the little things-the action plans, the long-kept promises-that started falling apart when my life slipped into controlled chaos. After I fell ass-over-elbow into Matthew Walsh's arms, I couldn't decide whether I wanted to run screaming or rip his pants off, and most days I wanted a little of both. If I was being honest with myself, it was rip his pants off, ride him like a workhorse, and then run screaming. Meet Matthew Walsh. A rebellious streak ran through Lauren Halsted. It was fierce and unrelentingly beautiful, and she wasn't letting anyone tell her what to do-unless, of course, she was naked. She wasn't looking for me and I sure as shit wasn't looking for her, but we found each other anyway, and now we were locked in a battle of wills, waiting for the other to blink.

Patrick: That hair. That fucking hair. It was everywhere, always, and I wanted to tangle my fingers in those dark curls and pull-and that would be fine if she wasn't my apprentice. Andy Asani was nothing like I expected. She was exotic and scary-brilliant, and the slightest murmur from those lips sent hot, hungry lust swirling through my veins. Andy: My wants were few: good eats, tall boots, sweaty yoga, interesting work. One incredibly hot architect with the most expressive hazel eyes I ever encountered and entirely too much talent in and out of the bedroom wasn't part of the original plan. Wine was my rabbi and vodka was my therapist, and I would need plenty of both to survive my apprenticeship. Especially with Patrick Walsh leaving love notes in the form of bite marks all over my body.

Sam: I can read women better than any blueprint. I understand their secret desires and insecurities, and I know how to get rid of them once I get off. But all bets are off when Tiel Desai slams into my life. I can't read the gorgeous conservatory-trained violinist, but she's the only one keeping me from shattering by small degrees, and I can't let her go. Tiel: My past-and New Jersey-are far behind me, and now my life is blissfully full of music: playing, teaching, and lecturing, and scouring Boston's underground scene with an annoyingly beautiful, troubled, tattooed architect. I'm defenseless against his rooftop kisses and his deep, demanding voice. I have Sam Walsh stuck in my head like a song on repeat, and I'm happy pretending that history won't catch up with me.