The Naughty List
by
Jodi Redford
Dedication
To Drea, for making me laugh and sharing the same crazy sense of humor as me. Love ya, chickie. Also to my super fantabulous editor, Sasha, who also has an amazing gift for making me laugh. Not only do you make me a better writer, you save me time after time from the exclamation point cop. One of these days he’ll figure out who really killed the semicolon…
Chapter One
No doubt about it. Bram Colton and Ryan Hollister were the proud owners of the hottest buns in Macomb County. No, make that the entire state of Michigan.
Mentally wiping the imaginary drool from her chin, Lacey McGuire pulled her gaze from the tight back ends of the two men in question and instead stared at the receipts piled on her desk. Unfortunately, those amazing posteriors belonged to her business partners and best buddies. Okay, and frequent stars of her sexiest fantasies, damn it. Which only made her desperate need for concentration more difficult—and necessary.
“Hey, Lace. What do you think? Better angle?”
Bram’s deep baritone managed to snag her focus from the data she’d been inputting into the electronic spreadsheet. Rather than a pair of firm butts, she was met with the equally tempting visual of broad, muscular chests—one covered with a sporty navy blue Henley and the other by a hunter green flannel shirt. Both men wore jeans today, making it all too easy to notice the intriguing bulges behind their flies. Not the angle Bram had been referring to, though it was definitely fantastic.
Cheeks flushing, she lifted her scrutiny to the velvet painting of Elvis that Ry and Bram had thoughtfully positioned on the adjacent wall of her office. The tacky thing was her consolation prize for chickening out on their dare to sing “Like a Virgin” on karaoke night while dolled up in the accompanying Madonna getup. Like there’d been any chance in hell of that happening.
Which meant she was stuck with Elvis. For life. Or until the damn painting perished courtesy of a mysterious accident. She transferred her gaze to Bram’s and Ry’s smug grins and ground her teeth. “You do realize I have two voodoo dolls in my drawer that bear striking resemblances to you both, right?”
Bram snickered. “Doubt there’s space left for more pins.”
“Trust me, I’ll make room.”
His hearty laugh holding no trace of repentance, Bram ducked around Ry and opened the door to her office. Boisterous noise from the bar rushed inside the small room before Bram exited and snicked the door shut, sealing off the cacophony. Ry continued fussing with the Elvis painting, obviously wanting to make sure she had the best possible view from her desk.
Asshole.
Despite her annoyance, her gaze lingered a tad longer than necessary on the broad expanse of his back. Although it was now covered with flannel, she’d seen it plenty of times gloriously bare. There’d been that summer three years ago, when he and Bram had worked the entire month of August at her house, installing her new deck. They’d saved her a small fortune by eliminating the need to hire a contractor, but her sanity and libido had barely survived the constant sight of Ry and Bram right outside her screen door, their tanned, buff torsos glistening with sweat from the relentless heat.
Her vibrator had burned through a ton of batteries those four weeks. If she added up the cost, it probably would have been cheaper to pay a carpenter.
Ry stepped away from the picture and hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his jeans. “Well, I think that looks pretty damn groovy, baby.”
She squinted at him. “You did not just say groovy.”
“I’m trying to keep in spirit with the sixties and Elvis theme.” He rocked his pelvis in a dead-on impersonation of the King.
Her mouth went dry. Holy crap, those hips should be outlawed. Squirming in her seat, she scowled and returned her stare to the velvet painting. “That butt-ugly thing should take a cue from Elvis and leave the building.”
“Not gonna happen, sweets. And in case you were cooking up an evil plot in that pretty head of yours, Bram and I paid the artist extra to use flame-retardant fabric and paints.”
Damn. They knew her too well.
His grin crafty, Ry plopped down onto the couch and stretched out his long legs. Faded denim pulled snug over powerful thighs, cupping that impressive package between his legs. Gulping, she tried to remember what she was supposed to be doing instead of ogling her best friend’s crotch. Oh yeah. Logging last night’s receipts. She scrambled for the stack and began adding the figures to the spreadsheet. All the while she was hyper aware of Ry lazily sprawled less than five feet away from her. Why oh why did he have to decide to park his gorgeous fanny in her office when her horniness meter seemed to be at an all-time high? She was about to demand that very question—well, minus the last part, obviously—when she recalled the Christmas decorations taking up most of his and Bram’s quarters. Normally the artificial tree and evergreen garlands and wreaths would be out in the restaurant and not squirreled away in one of the offices, but with the big Beach Party shindig this coming weekend, every inch of the bar had been taken over with tropical-themed festivity.
Damn. She was stuck with Ry and her repressed hormones.
Maybe not jumping back into the dating pool after the fiasco with Dan, her ex fiancé, hadn’t been so smart. Frowning, she mulled over the sad state of her sex life. It’d been almost a year since she’d broken their engagement after learning that Dan had slept with the stripper from his bachelor party. At the time, she’d been devastated to the point of never wanting to put her heart through the turmoil of loving someone again. It’d taken several more months for her sexuality to return after the bruising it’d suffered, but even so, she hadn’t been ready to entrust her body or heart to another man. Instead she’d relied on her trusty vibrator and made do with her erotic fantasy men—Ry and Bram. Only lately, her fantasies were constantly intruding at the worst times, making it difficult to concentrate on even the most mundane tasks.
Yes, this obsession with her best friends was pathetic. And probably unhealthy.
The lively—and incredibly annoying—opening bars of “Who Let the Dogs Out” blasted from her cell phone, announcing an incoming call from Bram. She shot a glare in Ry’s direction. “Is it your guys’ mission to make work impossible for me today?”
Ry lifted his linebacker-sized shoulders in a negligent shrug. “Maybe he misses you already.”
She snorted before returning her attention to her computer monitor. Ten seconds later, her cell chirped as a text came in. Fingers flying over the keyboard, she gave Ry another peeved look and he laughed.
“Why am I getting the evil stare? He’s the one bugging you.”
“Probably because you put him up to it.” It’d always been that way. Ever since high school, there hadn’t been a dare Ry issued that Bram didn’t feel challenged to take on. It was for that very reason the three of them became friends. As a teenager, she’d been gawky and shy. Okay, as an adult, she wasn’t much better, but at least the braces were history. During their sophomore year, Ry had gotten it into his head to bet Bram that he didn’t have the balls to partner up with her—the smartest student in class—during chemistry lab. Seeing how Bram had always tended to be the class clown who thought homework was a four-letter word, Ry had been justified in his assumption that she would tell Bram no way. Little had Ry counted on Bram pulling a fast one on him by offering her ten bucks to partner up. They became the three amigos shortly after that. There were still days when she wondered what weird cosmic alignment sandwiched her in the middle of Bram and Ry—two of the sexiest playboys gifted to womankind.