BRAD
Something is seriously wrong with me.
Out of all the women I’ve met—out of every meaningless date, every shallow flirtation, every night spent with someone whose name I forgot before sunrise—why the hell is Mia the one my mind refuses to let go of? I don’t do complications. I don’t chase mess. I don’t let people under my skin.
Yet here she is, lodged beneath it like a splinter I can’t dig out.
I have this goddamn urge to kiss her—still—and it pisses me off more than I care to admit. Ever since that dinner, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her mouth. Those pink, plump lips—Jesus Christ—it’s like someone branded the shape of them into my brain and now I can’t think straight.
This isn’t supposed to be a relationship. It can’t be. It’s an arrangement—clean, mutual, and bene
