Make Me Sin

  Also by J.T. Geissinger

  Bad Habit Series

  Sweet as Sin

  The Night Prowler Series

  Shadow’s Edge

  Edge of Oblivion

  Rapture’s Edge

  Edge of Darkness

  Darkness Bound

  Into Darkness

  Novella

  The Last Vampire

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2016 J.T. Geissinger, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503951525

  ISBN-10: 1503951529

  Cover design by Eileen Carey

  For Jay, always.

  Contents

  Start Reading

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The moment I first heard love, I gave up my soul, my heart, and my eyes.

  —Rumi

  The last time I saw Chloe Carmichael, she threw a glass of champagne in my face and called me an asshole.

  I deserved it, of course. I am an asshole. To her more than anyone else.

  Seventeen days later and here I am, standing outside the trendy flower shop she owns in West Hollywood—the sign above the green awning reads, “Fleuret, a bespoke floral boutique,” whatever the fuck that means—and I wonder what name I’ll make her call me today.

  I wonder if it will gut me as much as it did last time.

  “A.J.! Are you comin’ in or are you just gonna stand there with your dick in your hand?”

  Standing under the elegant green awning at Fleuret’s glass entrance door, Nico looks impatiently back at me, where I’m lingering at the curb. Barney, Nico’s driver/bodyguard, has just dropped us off, and his fiancée, Kat, has already gone inside to talk wedding flowers with her girlfriend. Why the fuck I’m here is anyone’s guess.

  Oh, yeah. I’m the best man.

  Two words that no one, ever, in any other situation, would use to describe me.

  I take a final drag on my smoke and flick the butt into the street, which makes a MILF in a passing BMW shout at me from her open window. I flip her the bird and slowly make my way across the sidewalk, toward the entrance to my own personal hell.

  I’m starting to sweat.

  “If I had my dick in my hand, Nico, traffic would be stopped in both directions so everyone could witness the miracle of my enormous junk.”

  Nico doesn’t even bat an eye. “If your junk is even half as big as your ego, brother, that is a miracle. Now get your surly ass inside this shop. And remember what we talked about.”

  Right. I’d gotten “the talk” several times already. Pearls of wisdom along the lines of “You don’t have to like Chloe, you just have to get along for the sake of the wedding.”

  Horseshit. I don’t “get along” with anyone I don’t want to get along with. Other people’s opinions of me count for nothing on A.J. Edwards’s Give-a-Shit scale. Which Nico, having known me for years now, knows perfectly well.

  Another gem: “It really upsets Kat when you’re mean to Chloe.” Translation: “My woman has my balls in a death grip, she’s giving me mountains of lip over how you treat her friend, and I’ve lost all control over this situation. Please help a brother out.”

  Tough shit, Nico. You’re the one with his stones in a jar in his girlfriend’s freezer, not me.

  But the best piece of advice I’d gotten from Nico so far about the Chloe Carmichael situation? The timeless “If you can’t say anything nice about her, don’t say anything at all.”

  If I took that advice, I’d be mute for the rest of my life.

  Because I can’t say anything nice about her. I can’t say anything nice to her. I can barely even look the woman in the eye.

  When I do, it gets hard to breathe. It gets hot, even if it’s freezing cold out. And suddenly, I feel like I’m ten years old again, on the last good day of my life, unwrapping the last Christmas present I’d ever get from my mother before she’s dead from the final bang of heroin that killed her, and I’m left alone in a ghetto brothel in southeast Saint Petersburg with nothing but a new toy drum and the clothes on my back.

  Hope. Fuck you, hope. And fuck you, too, happiness. You’re both two-faced, lying bitches.

  I stride past Nico, push open the door to Hades disguised as a flower shop, and go inside.

  Sorry, Chloe, but I’m about to ruin your day again.

  It’s the only way I can be near you without wanting to make something bleed.

  I see him through the windows of my shop, and anxiety pretzels my stomach.

  Ambling toward the front door, A.J. Edwards, drummer for the infamous rock bank Bad Habit, is all careless swagger and cocksure smirks, yet he somehow manages to radiate a dangerous intensity, as if he’s about to burst inside, brandish an assault rifle, and rob the place.

  I wouldn’t put it past him.

  When I grit my teeth and look down at the design portfolios spread over the table between us, my best friend, Kat, glances over her shoulder and sighs. When she turns back, her green eyes are sympathetic. She knows how much I’ve been dreading this.

  “Just ignore him, Lo.”

  “Ignore him?” I mutter, brows raised. “The fire-breathing dragon who looks at me like he wants to rip off my head? Will do. No biggie. Isn’t everyone used to having random rock stars hating their guts for no apparent reason?”

  She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “C’mon, he doesn’t hate you. You’re way too sweet for anyone to hate.”

  “Bet you ten bucks he proves you wrong before we’re done here today.”

  “It’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

  What I see is that Kat is living in a fantasy land where A.J. Edwards is a gentleman, and not Lord Voldemort disguised as an enormous, tattooed musician.

  When I say enormous, it’s not an exaggeration. He’s built like a mountain. A mountain I’d very much like to rig with dynamite and blow a hole clean through.

  The bell on the front door jingles as the door opens and closes. The Jerk is now insid
e. Last time he was here, when Nico first bought flowers for Kat seven months ago at the beginning of their relationship, it felt as if all the air had been sucked out the minute he walked in. A.J. has a way of negating all the space that surrounds him. He’s a dark hole that devours all the light.

  I already feel devoured, and he hasn’t even been here for ten seconds.

  But he can’t know that. I’m determined that he’ll never again get a rise out of me, no matter what he says or does. So I take Kat’s advice, adopt a casual tone, and say, “I was thinking we’d use white peonies as the focal flower for the centerpieces, bridal party bouquets, and gazebo, and incorporate lavender roses for a touch of contrasting color. That will give the design more dimension than an all-white palette.”

  Distracted from the talk of A.J., Kat asks hopefully, “We can get peonies in August?”

  “They’ll be imported from Holland, and therefore ungodly expensive, but considering how much they mean to you and Nico . . . yes. I’ll make sure we get them.”

  She beams. Then Nico walks up behind her, leans down and kisses her on the temple, and she beams so bright she’s incandescent.

  I now have two members of the most famous rock band on earth in my shop, and all I can think of is how fast I can get them out.

  Not that I have anything against Nico. Quite the opposite. He makes Kat so happy she floats, which is because he treats her like a queen. Which she totally deserves. We’ve been best friends since high school, and she’s the funniest, most honest, and most loyal girl I know. But Nico comes with A.J., and A.J. comes with thunderclouds boiling over his head, and now he’s standing by my flower cooler glaring at a bucket of happy yellow gerberas like he wants to murder them. I feel a migraine coming on.

  Sixty seconds and the man is already wreaking havoc on my nervous system.

  This was such a bad idea. Stupid wedding planner and her stupid insistence on the “cohesiveness of the wedding party” and “including the men in the process” and yada yada yada. I don’t care that I’m the maid of honor and A.J. is the best man and that we’re both adults and should act like it—I can’t stand the guy! He’s just . . . mean. It’s unnerving how easily he gets under my skin with nothing but a look.

  A withering, arctic look like the one he’s just turned to give me.

  I pretend like I don’t see it, or him, and smile at Nico. “Hey, Nico. Good to see you. I was just telling your bride that the peonies are a go.”

  Nico grins. This is like watching the sun burst through fog. He wasn’t named People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive three years in a row for nothing. Jet hair, blue eyes, and a set of dimples that can kill a woman on the spot . . . Occasionally, I have to remind myself not to stare. It’s not that I’m interested in him—he and Kat are crazy in love, and I’m perfectly happy with my boyfriend, Eric—but not appreciating Nico’s looks would be as criminal as standing in front of the statue of David at the Galleria dell’Accademia in Florence and spending the entire time texting on your phone.

  Right now I’m too busy not looking at A.J. to appreciate the full effect of Nico’s beauty.

  “Good to hear, darlin’. Unless there’s some other flower you can recommend that’s a symbol of a happy marriage, peonies are definitely what we want.” Nico sits down next to Kat, stretches out his long legs under the table, picks up her hand and kisses it. Slanting her an adoring look, he murmurs, “Make sure we get plenty of lavender roses, too.”

  Lavender roses are symbolic of love at first sight. Long story short, Nico grilled me once on all the different meanings of the colors of roses before he chose lavender for an outrageous birthday surprise for Kat. If only Nico’s best man could channel an ounce of that sweetness, I wouldn’t be sitting here acting indifferent toward the third ugly sneer he’s sent my way.

  Not that I’m counting.

  Only I am, because the experience of being loathed by a complete stranger is new to me. If I’m being perfectly honest, it kind of freaks me out. Okay, it really freaks me out. Almost as much as when Grandpa Walt stuck his dentures in the mouth of the pig my father spit-roasted for the luau-themed birthday party my parents threw for me when I was fourteen.

  I had nightmares of grinning pork chops for months. To this day, I still can’t eat meat.

  Continuing my charade of indifference, I say, “How about if we add some Stephanotis into Kat’s bouquet? They smell amazing, and they symbolize marital happiness, too.” I show Kat and Nico a picture of the tiny white star-shaped Stephanotis. They both nod in agreement.

  As Kat, Nico, and I continue our conversation, A.J. begins to rove around the shop like a restless tiger in a cage, sniffing things out. I find that even more unnerving than his bad attitude. He’s supposed to be participating in this meeting, or at least feigning interest to support the groom, but instead he’s . . . what? Ogling the merchandise? Looking for something to break?

  I watch from the corner of my eye as he rifles impatiently through the Lucite rack of designer greeting cards by the cash register, fingers flicking over them in contempt. He abruptly abandons the cards to strut past the tiered display of French buckets filled with fresh cut orchids because he’s spotted the dishy brunette in the short shorts and stilettos browsing the scented candle shelves near the back.

  Of course he’d spot the brunette. This is a man who drafts women like they’re fantasy football picks. Most of whom are of the paid variety. From what I’ve read, seen, and heard, A.J. makes Charlie Sheen look like a choir boy.

  “Chloe?”

  Kat’s voice snaps me back to attention. She and Nico are looking at me expectantly. I realize one of them has said something I haven’t heard. “Sorry. What was that?”

  One corner of Nico’s mouth curves up. I suspect he knows exactly where my attention has strayed.

  I will kill him with my bare hands if he mentions anything to A.J.

  Kat says, “Nico talked to his publicist yesterday about the wedding. The press, and all that.”

  The two of them look like they’re sharing a delicious secret. I have no idea why. “Um. Okay?”

  “We’ve sold the photo rights to People magazine.”

  “Oh. Wow. That’s amazing! I hope they’re paying you a boatload of money—”

  “No, honey, that’s not what I’m trying to tell you.” Kat leans forward over the table. She’s smiling like the Cheshire Cat.

  I look back and forth between her and Nico. “What then?”

  Kat waits a beat before she speaks. When she does, I’m not sure I’ve heard her right. “Along with the coverage of the wedding, they’re going to do a feature on Fleuret!”

  Behind us, the brunette giggles at something A.J. has murmured. They’re too far away for me to make out what he’s said, but her laugh sounds distinctly sensual. I resist the urge to turn and find out if money is changing hands. “What do you mean a feature? Like, they’ll mention my shop?”

  Nico laughs. It’s his signature husky chuckle, genetically designed to make a woman’s ovaries sit up and beg. I’m immune to it now, having heard it so many times; however, judging by the look on Kat’s face, she’s anything but.

  I love how completely in love they are. It’s beautiful. Even if watching them together sometimes makes me feel like I’m missing out on the world’s greatest inside joke. Which is silly, because, like I said before, I’m perfectly happy with my boyfriend.

  But.

  Like death, the concept of true love is one of those things that’s really hard to grasp until you see it. Once you do, there’s no going back.

  Nico says warmly, “No, darlin’. They’re not gonna mention your shop. They’re gonna do a spread on your shop, and you. As in, an entire article about the florist we used to accompany the wedding story.”

  Words swirl around in my mouth, but none of them decide to land on my tongue. Heart racing, I stare at Nico and Kat in utter disbelief.

  Delighted by my obvious astonishment, Kat laughs and claps her hands. “We made
it a condition of the deal. If they wanted exclusive coverage of the ‘wedding of the year,’ they had to do a special article about our wedding florist. Fleuret’s going to be famous, Lo! You’re going to be famous!”

  Actually, what I think I’m going to be, is sick. I whisper, “Dude.”

  Kat laughs louder. Nico says, “You deserve the recognition, Chloe. Your arrangements are fuckin’ amazin’.”

  Nico’s Matthew McConaughey southern drawl makes everything sound sexy, even when he’s cursing. Which he frequently is. Right now, he could be reciting every curse word known to man and I wouldn’t care.

  “You guys.” It’s all I can say because my throat is getting tight. My eyes fill with water.

  All I’ve wanted since I bought the shop from Mr. and Mrs. Feldman when they retired three years ago, was to turn it into the best floral design studio in LA. My parents thought I was insane to try to rescue a failing flower shop—considering the tuition they spent for me at USC while I was pursuing that English Lit degree I’ll never use, I can hardly blame them—but I’ve always loved flowers, and I jumped at the chance to make Fleuret mine and turn it around. I’d started working at the shop part-time in high school, and it’s been my first love ever since. I put every dime of my trust fund into it. I’ve put every dollar I’ve earned back into it. I’ve put countless hours of sweat equity into it.

  And now my best friend and her superstar fiancé are telling me they’ve arranged for me to get press for the shop. Not just any press. People magazine. And not just a little mention. A feature.

  This is quite possibly the best day of my life.

  Holding back a sob, I jump from the chair and crush Kat into a hug. Then I crush Nico into a hug. Then I start laughing madly like the Sicilian from The Princess Bride just before he keels over dead from drinking the iocane-laced wine.

  I think I might be losing it.

  At precisely the height of my joy, a sarcastic voice speaks from over my shoulder. “Let me guess. Sale on grandma panties at Neiman Marcus?”

  On a scale of one to ten, my dislike of A.J. shoots from about a nine to a solid, searing twenty. I stiffen, releasing Nico. Face flaming, I remember that the last time I saw A.J., he called me a “stuck-up, frigid rich girl.” Who, additionally, “wouldn’t know a dick if it hit her in the face.”