Former rugby player Liam Kelly wants to keep his edge without losing his cool. The sexy Irishman needs

someone to help him work out a little healthy aggression outside the office so he’ll avoid punching his difficult boss. He needs an adversary who will goad him, insult him, and drive him. Someone to push his limits. What he needs is a professional nemesis. So when Sam

responds to his online ad with plenty of cheek and smart-assedness, Liam knows he’s found the perfect guy.

Except Sam isn’t a guy.

She’s Samantha Hess. Very much female, newly

unemployed, and eager to turn up the volume on her “nice girl” image. Goading Rugby Boy through texts and emails to run an extra mile each day is like therapy for assertiveness—and she’ll get paid. She just needs

to convince Liam “Samantha” can get the job done just as well as “Sam.”

Samantha’s a smokin’ hot, sassy woman with a girl-next-door vibe who doesn’t have a problem challenging Liam mentally. But how can he take her seriously now, when all he can think about is convincing her that his next workout should be in her bed?

And how will Sam keep her adversarial edge—and her heart—safe from the man who’s her perfect match?

Contemporary, sexy stories for sassy women

Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon. www.millsandboon.co.uk/cosmo

The Nemesis Affair

Erin McCarthy

Contemporary, sexy stories for sassy women

Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon. www.millsandboon.co.uk/cosmo

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter One

“I’m a cliché.”

Samantha Hess flung herself down on her friend Katrina’s couch in overly dramatic frustration and pushed her glasses up her nose. “An overeducated twenty-four-year-old unemployed woman, single and living in Brooklyn in an apartment with no windows. Total cliché. It’s ludicrous.”

“The only thing that would be even more ironic would be if you were Jewish,” Katrina said, cramming a piece of bruschetta into her mouth. “Then you’d basically be a cable TV sitcom.”

“I am Jewish!” Samantha protested. Though she hadn’t set foot in a synagogue since she’d made her bat mitzvah, it still counted. She reached for her own piece of cheese-smothered bread. She needed carbs, stat.

Katrina gave her an amused look. “I know you are. I was being facetious.”

“Well, don’t. Your clever wit isn’t going to pay my rent.” Sam pulled her phone out from under her butt cheek where she’d sat on it and started what had become a three-hundred-times-a-day ritual of searching for any open job positions on all the known employment posting sites. It was hopeless. She knew it was hopeless. Marketing jobs for entry-level employees were as scarce as square footage in New York. “There are no jobs. At. All. I’m going to be forced to move home to Boston and listen to my mother tell me how she was right and I should have become a nurse.”

“Oh God, a nurse?” Katrina made a face. “You’d have a terrible bedside manner.”

“I know, right?” She clicked and scrolled, before thinking about what her friend had said. “Wait, did you just insult me?”

“Is assuming you wouldn’t be interested in wiping someone’s ass an insult, or just proving how well I know you?”

Uh, no. No ass wiping. She could own it. “Yeah, you totally nailed it. I would rather prostitute myself than change diapers, either adult or baby.” Slight exaggeration, but just slight. She had a very sensitive gag reflex. Which, then again, might make prostitution a poor career choice, as well.

Fabulous. She was going to starve to death, end of story. “Why can’t there be jobs for brutally honest people? I’d be good at that. Or jobs for people who can wrap presents thoughtfully with great color schemes. Or people who are really, really good at catching a cab when it’s raining?”

Those were no small achievements.

“I don’t know about the first one, but the latter two sound like being a personal assistant. I don’t think you’d be so crazy about that either.”

Hmm. Good point. “Probably not. I was good at my job, you know. It’s just this damn economy.” And now she sounded like those two old guys in the theater box on the Muppets. Damn economy. Grumble, grumble. “Being downsized is like the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech when you’re dumped by a guy.”

Samantha reached for another piece of bruschetta. Two months. She’d been out of work for two months and unemployment only went so far.

“I’m sorry. Have you tried more nontraditional sites for jobs? I know people have actually found positions on social media.”

“I can find a job on Twitter?” For what, she couldn’t imagine. “Color me skeptical.”

Katrina folded her legs underneath her, chocolate-brown cable-knit tights pulling taut. “You can find anything online. Literally anything. Like I bet you could use Google to search professional ass-kicker and find a job posting.”

That made her laugh. “No way.”

“Sam.” Trina gave her a long look. “I found an eBay listing for gently used condoms. And another for a woman’s placenta, at the bargain price of two hundred bucks.”

Oh dear God. She made a face. “Ew. Double ew.”

“I’m telling you. You can find anything online.”

Katrina was right. She knew she was. “I’m Googling professional ass-kicker right now. It’s probably going to take me straight to some site where people are looking for BDSM partners.” And while that might be fun, it wasn’t going to solve her immediate lack of cash flow.

“Then don’t use ass-kicker. Use a different word. Like enemy. Or bully.”

Samantha was typing rapidly, seeing what would pop up in her search bar. “Oh my God, Professional Nemesis Wanted. Right here! That can’t be real.”

“Told ya.” Katrina looked smug.

As well she should be since she had a job, a hot boyfriend and a cute apartment.

Not that Samantha was bitter or anything. Much.

“Wanted: Nemesis to help former rugby player work out his aggression in a healthy manner outside the workplace,” she read.

“What? What does that even mean?” Katrina asked. “He wants a workout partner or something?”

“I have no idea. Wait, there’s more. ‘Looking for someone to challenge, goad and push me via texts and email so I get both a full physical workout and learn to focus my energy in a positive way.’”

“He sounds like a hipster. How much is he paying? You can goad, can’t you?”

Goading was something she wasn’t all that familiar with and frankly, sounded awkward as hell. “I’m not sure I can, actually. You know I’m really terrible at telling men what to do.” It was why she was currently single. She had a very bad habit of choosing strong men with even stronger attitudes and losing herself in the relationship. After a particularly bad breakup she had decided she needed to learn to stand up for herself just a wee bit better before hitting the scene again.

“That is true. But think of this as the opportunity to push yourself. How brutal can you be? I say apply for the job. At the very least it will be entertaining. ‘Drop and give me twenty, loser.’ Like how fun would that be?”

Sam rolled over on the couch and reached for the wine bottle. Her glass was mysteriously empty. Pouring, she rolled her eyes at her friend. “You are so full of shit. You wouldn’t be able to do that any more than I am capable of it. Let’s face it—we can tell off a cab driver, scream at the bicycle messenger who runs into us and shoot daggers at the bartender who stiffs us on vodka, but when it comes to men, we want to be enlightened and beyond the shrew, so to speak. In the end, I just have every ill-mannered, flannel-shirt-wearing douche bag Brooklynite running roughshod over me.”

“Which is why you should be a nemesis. You can’t get any more Brooklyn than that. I love it. It’s genius.”

It was kind of genius. And Sam was a little intrigued. Maybe part of the reason she couldn’t find a job was because she was passive. She sat nicely in interviews and waited for them to ask questions, which she then politely answered, and afterward nobody ever called her back. It was a bizarre reality that she had no problem being entitled when it came to vying for a subway seat, but with men and the job market she had zero chutzpah.

“I might as well message him for more information. Maybe he wants to pay in vegetables or something completely bizarre.” Nothing would surprise her at this point. “Emailing now.”

She typed quickly. Can you please provide more details on the nemesis position? Such as pay and tasks required?

But when she read it out loud to Katrina she realized it was all wrong. Pushing her glasses up on her nose, she deleted. “I need to be more aggressive, don’t I? I mean, it’s an ad for someone to boss him around. I need to channel an attitude.”

“You totally do.”

Having never played sports or done anything competitive at all, aside from beer pong as an undergrad at NYU, it wasn’t exactly something that came naturally. But that was the point. “Okay, so how about... I’m available to start immediately. I’ll need your current workout regime and your goals. Until then, remember that if you’re not first, you’re last.”

Katrina started laughing. Samantha felt a little smug as she hit Send. “That feels kind of good, you know that?”

“I wonder if he’s hot? I mean, rubgy player sounds hot.” Katrina took a sip of her wine and raised her eyebrows up and down suggestively.

“The odds of that are about as small as my bank account.” She held up her fingers a hair apart. “Teeny-weeny. Dis big.”

“You never know.”

“What I do know is that Rugby Boy is desperate to have his ass kicked because hello, he already responded.” She turned her phone for Katrina to see. But then didn’t give her friend time to look because she was curious what he’d said.

“It’s like a whole list of what he does to work out in a day and it’s completely ridiculous. Who does two hundred squats in one day? Plus he says he wants to push himself to run up to five miles because running is his weak spot.”

Then she saw the disclaimer. Only interested in working with a guy.

Pfft. What did a guy have that she didn’t?

Besides a penis. How would he ever know? The ad said emails and text messages. “I’m totally doing this,” she told Katrina. “I don’t even care how much it pays. This is going to be an interesting exercise for me. It’s like therapy to learn how to be assertive. He wants a guy, but whatever. I’ll just imply I’m male.”

“As long as he doesn’t expect you to ever meet him in person. Because if he does, I’m pretty sure he’ll figure it out.”

“I’m not going to meet him. He could be a complete creep.” She watched crime TV. There was no way she was going to meet a guy who was nuts enough to want to hire a nemesis. Hell no.

“My name is Sam,” she typed back in response, speaking her words out loud for Katrina’s benefit. “And unless you’re eighty, you can do five miles. If you are eighty, I still expect three.”

“Ha-ha, he answered immediately.” Entertained, Samantha grinned. “‘I like your style,’ he says. ‘Let’s give this a trial run. One week? Five emails a day. Show me what you got. I’m Liam.’”

“It’s a deal, Liam.”

For the first time in weeks, Samantha wasn’t wallowing in self-pity. Being an asshole was invigorating.

* * *

Liam Kelly sat at his desk in his cubicle and tried to keep his expression neutral as his boss spoke. His complete bugger of a passive-aggressive boss, who had absolutely no reason to behave the way he did, other than that he clearly enjoyed it.

“So let’s not have that happen again, all right?” Greg clapped him on the shoulder as if they were buddies. But it was a con. A sham. He was enjoying giving Liam a dressing down. It was his way of feeling powerful or some such shit.

All Liam knew was that he left the bank every day wanting to punch a brick wall repeatedly. Or punch Greg in the face while emphatically stating with total satisfaction, “I quit.”

But he couldn’t quit. The only way he was allowed to stay in the US was if he kept his job and therefore his work visa. So there would be no punching in the face no matter how often Greg made him want to, and there would be no tearing apart his cubicle walls in total defiance, or ripping his tie off and rappelling with it down the side of the building to the street for an escape. All of which he had considered at one point or another.

He’d never been meant to work in an office. It wasn’t in his genetic makeup. But after retiring from rugby, he’d found himself needing a job in finance per his university degree or risk being sent on a plane back to Ireland. And while he loved the country he’d been born and raised in, he equated going back with failure. He’d have to stand in front of his father in Kinsale and tell him that the sacrifices he’d made for his son had ended in nothing. He’d failed at rugby, he couldn’t fail at banking, too.

Plus there was no minimizing that he was well paid, too. After a year at the bank, he had a solid savings account and had a decent apartment on the Upper West Side. It was all as it should be, except for the fact that his nine-hour days inside a skyscraper made him feel like his skin was too tight and his head might explode.

So that’s where the crazy idea for a nemesis had come in. It had been his roommate, Travis’s, suggestion. Hire someone to fire him up outside work. Get his aggression out. It had seemed pure madness, but Liam was willing to give it a go. It couldn’t hurt.

“Sure thing,” he told his boss, keeping his voice calm, cool. Collected. All while wishing he was on the playing field, barreling his way through his opponents. His fist flexed open and closed before he even realized what he was about.

“See you tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Greg. Have a nice night.”

“Got a hot date actually,” Greg said, adjusting his tie with a grin. “So I can guarantee my night will be much more than nice.”

Greg wasn’t a bad-looking guy, though he was short. Liam supposed a woman in search of an arrogant asshole as a companion would find him attractive. But it did burn his britches a bit that Greg was scoring and he was not. He hadn’t been on a date in three months, hadn’t had sex in longer than that. Which might be because he refused to do dating sites and apps, finding the concept bizarre and impersonal. There were eight million people in New York. It shouldn’t be so bloody hard to find an attractive woman in her twenties who’d want to date an Irishman. Didn’t American women like sexy accents?

But when he spent all his time in a cubicle or with a bunch of sweaty rugby players, cute girls were few and far between. Though he’d worry about his sex life later after he got a handle on the whole wanting to stuff Greg’s bollocks back inside his body thing. One step at a time.

“Enjoy yourself, then,” he told Greg. “I’m off for a run.” He reached under his desk for his gym bag.

Greg made a face. “It’s Friday, man, loosen up.”

Uh-huh. He was working on that. Though he’d never thought of himself as uptight. It was just that he’d spent his growing-up years swinging a stick or tossing a ball or rowing a boat. Being sedentary was making him tense.

Ten minutes later he had changed and was heading down in the elevator with three other people. The guy who’d responded to his impulsive ad, Sam, had sent him a text. Liam had briefly wondered if it was wise to give a total stranger his number, but he figured he could always block the guy if things took a downturn.

What’s on tap for your weekend? Expanding your beer gut?

Fighting the urge to take a selfie of his abs to prove that he did not have a beer gut, Liam responded. Running home from work actually.

Jogging or you mean that figuratively?

Literally. I am running.

Or he was about to, anyway. It was exactly four miles from his office in Midtown through Central Park to his apartment.

Shit. Did he admit that?

He was trying to reach five miles. But it was Friday, after all. He had plans with Travis to grab a pint later.

How many miles?

Four.

So you’re sixty-three years old then?

Damn it.

Twenty-seven.

Then you can go the extra mile. Ha-ha. Pun intended.

Liam laughed as the elevator dinged open and he followed the petite woman in front of him out. She glanced back and gave him a sour look. Feeling lighter already, he just smiled at her. She was unmoved. Cranky. Liam didn’t want to morph into that type of person. Not even leaving the office on a Friday made this woman happy? Not good. It had heart attack written all over it.

He texted Sam back. Fine. I’ll push for five.

You got this, man.

There was something odd about texting with a person he’d never met. Liam knew people did it all the time. They met on dating sites, answered ads for everything from apartments to bikes and had no problem with it. But to Liam, it felt foreign, unnatural. He needed a face to visualize. He needed to know the guy he was communicating with wasn’t a complete and total freak. Any more than the average freak. Otherwise, it was like texting with a nonentity and he wasn’t comfortable with it. Maybe it would make sense to meet up with Sam for a pint, just to get the guy’s measure.

I’ll text you when I’m done. But we should probably plan on meeting up in the next day or two and make some payment arrangements.

I’m out of town this weekend.

Monday then? I get off work at six. I can meet you anytime after that. Where do you live?

Brooklyn. So how will I know you actually jogged the five miles?

You’ll have to trust me. I’m the one who wants the benefit, remember?

Liam stepped out onto the street, appreciating the temperate fall weather. It was the perfect day for a run, crisp and clear. Putting his phone away, he started down the sidewalk, weaving in and out of the crowd of people. He didn’t imagine he’d ever get used to the sheer volume of human beings in New York. The town he’d grown up in was on the coast, a fishing village filled with colorful cottages and colorful characters. It was small, intimate, rainy, and a bit tired about the edges. Nothing like Manhattan at all, and while he loved his adopted city, there were days where he wished everyone would clear out and leave him be.

But today he didn’t mind navigating his way through the city as he ran. It just felt good to pump his arms, steady his breathing, find a rhythm. Once he’d gone a few blocks he felt better. Tension left his body and his head cleared. By the time he entered the park, he felt great, and he pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked his texts. Distance running was something he’d never mastered and usually by mile three he was struggling. He liked the short sprinting and the hard-hitting aspect of rugby better.

From Sam: The ladies will appreciate your increased stamina.

Then a second text. Or the gents? However you roll, leg strength is a positive attribute. :)

Yeah, this definitely felt weird. He had no interest in discussing his sexual preferences with someone he’d never met. Yet it seemed rude not to answer and it wasn’t as if Sam had asked something particularly personal. Using voice command, he responded. In my case, the ladies. Though not many ladies these days.

Why, are you ugly? Or married?

That made him laugh again. For some reason he was picturing Sam as the type of guy who was always the water boy at sporting events. Small, wiry, quick with a quip, slightly nerdy.

I’m no pretty boy but I don’t make babies cry either.

No one who wants a nemesis is pretty.

Was that true? Liam wasn’t sure. It wasn’t as though he had looked into it ahead of time. Plus he wasn’t even sure he was the type who wanted a nemesis. He was just desperate.

Ego just a tiny bit nicked, he decided to send a picture of himself playing. You couldn’t really see his face in it. Just his dirty uniform, his arm muscles. It was a cool shot he’d lifted off the team’s website, taken during a match the previous season. So take that, Sam. He was no namby-pamby.

The minute he actually hit Send he felt like an idiot. This wasn’t Tinder or Zoosk. He wasn’t looking to impress a chick. It was to release tension and the fucking ridiculous feelings of inadequacy his job, and his retirement from rugby, inspired.

Now the very fact that he was trying to impress the nerdy nemesis he was paying to bully him, made him feel like a gigantic asshole.

When the fuck had it all come to this?

As his mother always said, every man is wise until he speaks. The modern amendment should be until he sends a text.

Liam put his phone away and ran faster, harder.

Chapter Two

Samantha ogled her phone screen. “Shut the door, Trina. Figuratively of course. Liam just sent me a picture. Is this real? This can’t be real.” She hoped it was real.

“Why, is he like a troll or something?”

“No.” Sam dodged a garbage can as they walked to the deli down the street from Katrina’s apartment. Trina’s boyfriend, Drew, was bartending that night so it was Sam’s job as the single best friend to keep her company until Drew got off work at eleven. At which time she was expected to make herself scarce so the happy couple could get naked. Samantha would then go home to her windowless apartment solo, most likely mildly buzzed, and fall asleep watching Game of Thrones. It was a glamorous life, what could she say?

A life which had suddenly gotten way more interesting since she’d embarked on her new career as Professional Nemesis a few hours earlier. It was unlikely it would be a sustainable career path but it beat the hell out of asking her mom for money and it was proving to be fairly entertaining. Liam seemed to get her teasing and jokes, but he wasn’t taking the bait. She figured it was only a matter of time before he realized she was übercharming and utterly adorable. Though he had said he was straight, so how adorable he would find her thinking she was a man, she couldn’t say. But something about the freedom of texting a total stranger at random with no necessity to impress him was amazing and liberating.

Not only did she not have to impress him she could be as bossy and flippant as she wanted. It was awesome.

And if this picture was real, Liam was a sweaty, muscular mountain of manliness she wanted to climb.

Damn. “He’s hot. I mean, I can’t really see his face, but what I can see is all hard and yummy.” She tilted her phone for Katrina to see it. “Rugby. Men legally shoving each other in pursuit of balls. I love it.”

Katrina laughed. “So now you’re a rugby fan? Please.” She took the phone and studied the picture. “This is one masculine man, I agree. But this is a professional picture, you know. I bet it’s lifted from a social media site. It’s probably not even him.”

Well, that would spoil all the fun. “Really? You think so?” Katrina was a social media expert, so if anyone would know if something was sketchy, it was her.

“Let’s do a reverse image search and find its origin.” Katrina tapped and swiped. “It’s a picture from the website of the Brooklyn Rugby Club.”

That was deflating. “So it’s probably not him, is it? Shit. I really like the idea of bossing around a hot guy.”

“It might be him, but it could be a classic catfish case.” Katrina handed her the phone back. “Make him send you a time-stamped selfie to prove it’s him. You know, him holding today’s Wall Street Journal.”

“It’s a tangled web of deception we live in these days, isn’t it?” she said, texting Liam, calling him out on the photo being from the rugby website. “And who knew there is a Brooklyn rugby team, by the way? Because I didn’t. Why don’t we go to those games?”

“Um, because we have better things to do?”

“I don’t.” She meant that most sincerely. “I’m unemployed, remember?”

“And by the way, I don’t think you can be butthurt about being catfished when you told him you’re a man.”

Huh. Good point. “That’s not the same thing.” Never admitting she was wrong was another one of her thoroughly unmarketable talents. “I never actually lied and said I was a man. I just implied I was.”

Katrina pulled the door to the deli open. “True. And you said you didn’t want to meet him. But now that there is an albeit remote possibility, but possibility nonetheless, that he is this foxy rugby player, you totally want to meet him, don’t you?”

Busted. “If that remote possibility proves to be reality, then yes, I won’t lie, I do want to meet him.” She stepped into the deli. “Despite my omission of truth, I am a woman, and I find his physical type hot, I can’t deny it. But, I can’t meet him. For multiple reasons, not the least of which is that even if he were to forgive me for failing to mention my gender, he is precisely the type of guy I should be avoiding. I don’t need a competitive man in my life.”

Pulling her knit hat off her head, Katrina stuffed it into her hobo bag. “You’re nuts, and I regret my suggestion for you to search Craigslist for a job. You obviously can’t handle it.”

“Hey!” She laughed. “I can handle Craigslist.” Glancing up at the menu she added, “What I can’t handle is all this meat. OMG, I thought being vegan was in these days. Look at the size of those corned beef sandwiches, holy crap. I’ve seen smaller smart cars.”

“We need a base in our stomachs before we go out and drink cheap wine at the bar.”

“I can’t afford cheap wine. I’m down to like my last ten bucks, I swear.”

“I’ll spot you.”

“No, because I have no idea when I’ll be able to repay you.” Unlike her student loans from college, she didn’t want to defer paying Katrina back indefinitely, so it was better not to get in debt to her friend.

“Think of it as a congrats for getting this nemesis deal.”

After ordering a corned beef sandwich the size of her head, Samantha was debating how much energy she had to continue to argue with Katrina when her phone buzzed.

It was a picture from Liam. He was wearing a smirk on his face, and have mercy, he was shirtless. In front of his very studly chest, he was holding up the newspaper. Pinching it to make it bigger Samantha checked the date. Yep. Today. Then he sent another pic with a sign that he’d written on. It said Jealous? There was an arrow pointing to his six-pack abs.

Six-pack abs that were sort of oily and sweaty and looked very lickable. His arms were muscular, strong. Capable of throwing a rugby ball, knocking over the competition and lifting one petite Jewish girl with red glasses above his waist while he pumped hard into her...

“I need that cheap wine, after all,” she told Katrina. “Fuck me, Liam is hotter than my apartment in August.”

Suddenly her Friday night didn’t look so sad and lonely after all. She could send sexually ambiguous texts to a man so hot the fire department should be hosing his ass off. Silently, eyebrows raised, Katrina held her hand out.

When her friend studied the photos, her mouth dropped. “I stand corrected. It appears he is actually the dude on the rugby team website. Which is admittedly very cool. But now I’m just confused as to why a hot guy needs someone to verbally kick his ass. Doesn’t he have coaches and whatnot to do that?”

“I have no idea, but I’m not about to complain.”

Truthfully, Liam was not pretty or handsome in the classic sense. His features were too imperfect for that. But he had a sparkle in his eye and an aura of such pure masculine mojo that she basically wanted to drop her panties for him. And she hadn’t even met him in person. Imagine what would happen if that occurred. It boggled the mind. Pushy, aggressive, dominating, bossy, hot sex, that’s what would happen.

Sitting down, she crammed her mouth full of meat. “I think going all this time without dating was a mistake. Or at least, I should have created a reliable booty call because suddenly the lack of sex in my life feels like a crisis.”

“The guy is pointing to his penis,” Katrina said, sounding sympathetic. “You’d hardly be human if that didn’t affect you on some level. He is your type, too. But remember that is precisely the type of guy you’re trying to avoid.”

“I know, I know.” Grumble. “I can’t go back on that one. Dating competitive and aggressive guys just left me as a perpetual wet noodle. It’s not a good look.” Pushing her glasses up, she allowed herself a sigh. “The whole point of taking on this weird sort of job is not just to make some extra cash but to learn to be more assertive. When I was with Ben, I basically became whatever he wanted that day. I don’t know why I do that, and I am determined not to repeat it.”

“So don’t meet Liam. Simple.”

“He wants to meet next week to work out payment options. I also think he wants to screen me.”

“Instead of meeting him, why don’t you just Skype? Come clean about being a woman after he’s seen how awesome at giving him shit you can be. Then suggest an online chat or phone call.”

That might work. It would mean she would have to admit that she was very much female, but if she wowed Liam in the meantime maybe he wouldn’t care. Either way, she could probably only hide her gender for a few more days before he caught on. “That is probably wise.”

She thought about what to text in response as she took another huge bite of her sandwich.

Then she typed. Not jealous. Confused.

Confused about what?

Why you want a random stranger to boss you around when you have coaches and teammates.

I’m retired. Don’t want to lose my edge.

“He’s retired,” she reported to Katrina.

“Good to know.” Katrina sipped her iced tea. “Are you going to be texting with your nemesis all night? Because it’s leaving me staring at my roast beef with no one to talk to.”

Oh, please. That was rich. “You’re on your phone all day. You can’t go five minutes without sending a kissy emoji to Drew. It’s an addiction we all share.” It was a smartphone thing. She couldn’t help it. But Trina was right. They were hanging out together so she vowed to send one last message and put the phone away for a few hours. “But I concede your point. One last text.”

“That’s fair. And I promise not to send any kissy texts to Drew for the next two hours.” Katrina bit her sandwich and chewed. “Best thing about him working, besides the fact that I get to hang out with you? I can eat grilled onions on my patty melt and don’t have to worry about dragon breath. It will have time to recede, like an onion tide, before he’s off work.”

So not the Trina of a few months ago. It seemed the honeymoon phase of their relationship was over and her best friend was feeling quite content with her man. Sam wanted to laugh, but resisted the urge.

“The wine will overtake it,” she reassured Katrina. “Best thing about being single is I don’t have to worry about that ever. Or waxing.” There were other benefits as well, like total freedom and time to reflect on who she was and what she wanted. The suck-ass part? She was lonely. She could admit it. Yes, she missed sex but she also missed just touching someone. An affectionate hand on her back, the right to touch a man’s chest. She missed those little things, and at almost twenty-five she wasn’t really interested in going out to a club and hooking up with some random guy.

That didn’t prevent her from drooling over Liam’s bare chest, though. Look, but don’t touch. Nothing wrong with that. Staring at his picture again, she composed her final text before dropping her phone back into her purse.

I’m an advocate of taking the edge off.

It was a little flirty. But she couldn’t help it. It seemed so harmless.

But it nearly killed her to ignore her phone for the next ninety minutes as agreed upon.

When she and Katrina were done eating and had walked to the bar where Drew worked, she gave in to her compulsion and checked her phone when Trina went to the restroom.

I’m not sure what you mean.

Oh, he knew exactly what she meant. But he was trying to keep it professional. Damn it. He texted again.

Since I’m done with my run, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Thanks.

He clearly didn’t need or want a flirt buddy the way she apparently did.

Roger.

Samantha saluted her phone. It felt necessary.

She looked at the shirtless picture of Liam again and resisted the urge to send another text, poking further. Instead, she just saved the picture to her camera roll so she could look at it frequently and repeatedly.

And this was her Friday night.

Wow. She really needed to get a life.

* * *

“I’m uncomfortable with all of this.” Liam tipped back his glass and took down a third of his Guinness. “Taking this ad out was a fucking mistake.”

“You’re getting drunk,” Travis told him with an amused look. “Your accent is so thick right now I need an interpreter to understand you.”

“Fuck you.” That’s how he felt. Fuck you. Just fuck the fuck out of all of it. “Maybe I’m drunk, but that doesn’t change the fact that I never should have listened to you. I should have just signed up for a decathlon, not put a bloody ad out on Craigslist. I’m not comfortable texting someone I’ve never met, but pushing this guy to meet me feels like I’m asking for a date.” It was all just not him. He couldn’t do it. “I’m going to fire him.”

“You just hired him like five minutes ago.” Travis shook his head and reached for his own beer.

They were in a pub they frequented around the corner from their apartment. It was unusual for Liam to have more than one or two beers but on last count, he’d gotten up to four tonight. He couldn’t shake the vibe of being put off by texting with someone who could be a convicted felon or a con artist looking to steal his identity or something. “I want to ask him to send me a picture of himself, but that sounds like flirting, doesn’t it?”

Travis nodded. “Yes. Yes, it does.” A day trader, Travis was still wearing his work clothes, and with his expensive taste in business wear and his dark good looks, every woman in the bar was checking him out. Liam had a feeling his buddy was going to go home with a few phone numbers whereas he was just going to go home with a massive bar tab.

“So what do I do?”

“Nothing. Just let him give you shit about slacking off on your workouts. That’s all he’s supposed to do, right? He’s a nonperson. Just an app with free will.”

Travis had a point, but it didn’t sit well with Liam. “That’s not how I am. I just can’t be impersonal with a person.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and put it on the bar top. The pub was dark and murky, atmospherically intending to emulate dives back in the UK and Ireland, but it felt too upscale to really remind Liam of Kinsale. Maybe Dublin. But definitely not like home.

Are you in shape?

Okay, that sounded even worse than asking for a picture. God, he was bloody bad at all this nonsense.

I only run if someone is chasing me.

Liam looked at Travis. He looked at his phone. “I’m in this far, I might as well make a complete and total ass out of myself.”

“What are you going to do?” Travis adjusted his tie. “Please don’t embarrass yourself. That will embarrass me.”

But Liam figured he had nothing to lose. If the whole reason behind a nemesis was to prove he was manly, then fuck it. What did he care what some random stranger thought? Balls. He was reclaiming his.

Let me see what you look like.

That might not be a good idea.

It doesn’t matter. I just want to put a face to the guy giving me a hard time. No big deal.

It shouldn’t matter, but it did. But something was off and Liam wanted to know what the hell it was.

Okay.

A picture of a woman popped up in the text box. A very cute woman with dark brown curly hair and glasses. She looked like a librarian or a writer. A kindergarten teacher. A cupcake baker.

“What the fuck?” He turned the phone to Travis. “This is Sam, apparently.”

“Sam is a girl.”

“It would seem so.” Liam was gobsmacked. But...not surprised. In retrospect, Sam sounded female. Feminine. Flirty. All the f words. “No wonder I was feeling squirrelly. I knew something was off.”

“She’s cute. Doesn’t look like a ballbuster, but she is cute. If that’s who she really is.”

Liam frowned, taking his phone back and studying the picture again. She was cute. Midtwenties. Adorable smile with dimples. She was wearing a floral sweater that his mum might fancy, though he’d never found himself gazing at his mother’s chest. With Sam, yep, he looked, noticing there was a perfect tight pull across a lovely set of breasts. She was nerdy and sexy all at the same time. “You think she or he lifted a random picture? This is why I don’t like this stuff. I have no idea who I’m actually contacting. It’s weird.”

I thought you were a guy, he texted.

Nope. Sam is for Samantha.

How do I know it’s really you?

If it was really her, what was he going to do? “Man, I don’t think I can do this if this is what she looks like.”

“Why?” Travis asked. “She’s not your type. She doesn’t look like someone you’d want to date or anything.”

What did Travis know about his type? He didn’t have a type. But if he did, why wouldn’t it be adorable girls with glasses? “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I see you with a guy’s girl. The chick who can go to the gym with you and who wears a lot of spandex. This girl probably has a bearded boyfriend who wears a beanie and skinny jeans.”

“I could wear skinny jeans,” he said, because he was drunk and feeling contrary. Then he looked at Travis, whose jaw dropped, and they both burst out laughing. “Okay, so that is a false statement. I’d look like a complete idiot in skinny jeans.”

“You’d look like a twenty-pound sausage in a five-pound casing. Some things just can’t ever happen and that’s one of them.”

“I don’t want to wear skinny jeans. I just am wondering why you think I can’t attract the interest of a girl like this.” It offended him, he had to admit. Plus he was attracted to the mysterious Sam, for whatever reason. It was partially her smile and overall appearance, partly her sassy attitude with him.

“Man, you’re a fucking mess tonight,” Travis told him. “I am so sorry I suggested any of this. Next time I’ll just let you punch your boss and get fired.”

Whatever. A text came from Sam. It was her, smiling and pointing to the TV screen behind her. When he enlarged it, he saw it was a Yankees game, the score flashing across the bottom. Glancing up, he looked at the screens displayed over the bartender. Yankees. Playing the Toronto Blue Jays. The score and even the ticker with a news story underneath was the same. It was clearly a live shot. “I think this is really her.” He showed everything to Travis.

“It would appear so. Huh. Not what I pictured a nemesis looking like but maybe she’ll smack you with a ruler if you don’t toe the line. It could be fun.”

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