1.Get over my best friend’s brother.
2.Remember that I’m over him.
3.Prove I can date other people.
It should be easy.
Setting up a dating website with the guy I’ve been in love with since I was five wasn’t my smartest idea.
Especially since he’s my best friend’s brother—thankfully, she’s okay with the fact I’m pulling a Sandy and I’m hopelessly devoted to him.
Which is why it’s time to get over him.
So I do something crazy and ask Dominic Austin to find me a date. He does—if I find him one, too.
Since we own Stupid Cupid, it should be easy, right? And it is.
My date is perfect. His date is perfect. Everything is perfect.
Until he kisses me…
And a big-ass mess…
“The fuck are you doing here?”
“Elliott said you needed help. Here is your help.” Peyton gestured extravagantly to herself before she shut the door behind her. “And I know it’s about Chloe and her date, so cut to the chase.”
Girl-talk. Of course she already knew.
“I need to fill out her application,” I told her. “But I’m stuck.”
She rolled her eyes. “And you can’t ask her to do it?”
I stared at her flatly.
“Right, no, of course,” she drawled, a tiny hint of her New Orleans drawl twanging at every word. “Why would you ask the woman you’re in love with to fill out her own dating record?”
“Can you shut the fuck up and help me?” I threw my hands out to the sides. “I found her a match. Help me out here, Peyt.”
My sister stilled. “You found her a match?”
“Of course I did. I said I would, so I did.”
“Wow. You’re actually going through with it. Kudos, bro.” She rounded my desk and perched on the arm of my chair.
I glanced at her. “Can you put your chest away?”
She tugged at the neckline of her shirt and pulled it right up. “Put away. Let me see what you’ve written so far.” She snatched the mouse out of my hand and scrolled. “Jesus, Dom,” she said after a minute. “This is basic. This won’t get her laid.”
I didn’t want to get her laid. I wanted to get her a good date, not a fucking orgasm.
“Whatever. Can you make her attractive to a random stranger?”
“You can’t?” Peyton quirked an eyebrow and looked at me. “You’ve been attracted to her for at least ten years. Surely you can do better than this.”
“Peyton. I want your help, not your bullshit.”
“Good luck with that,” she muttered. “All right, move your ass. Let me do this for you.”
“Don’t make her sound too attractive.” My voice was no louder than hers had been as I stood and made way for her to take my seat.
She snorted, deleting everything I’d written except the first couple of questions. “I’m gonna make her so attractive that she has every eligible bachelor in New Orleans clambering for her attention.”
By day, New York Times and USA Today bestselling New Adult author Emma Hart dons a cape and calls herself Super Mum to two beautiful little monsters. By night, she drops the cape, pours a glass of whatever she fancies—usually wine—and writes books.
Emma is working on Top Secret projects she will share with her followers and fans at every available opportunity. Naturally, all Top Secret projects involve a dashingly hot guy who likes to forget to wear a shirt, a sprinkling (or several) of hold-onto-your-panties hot scenes, and a whole lotta love.
She likes to be busy—unless busy involves doing the dishes, but that seems to be when all the ideas come to life.