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He has a hard stick and he knows just what to do with it…
Boston’s hockey star and infamous bad boy, Flynn Taylor, has all of the talent in the world. And he’s probably the sexiest man in the entire city, if not the country.
He also happens to be a total loose cannon, and I happen to have had his mouth between my legs before we’ve even been formally introduced.
That’s right, sweet Midwestern girl Savannah Shaw hooked up with a complete and total stranger on her first night away from home.
And the worst part of it is, it was also the hottest night of my life.
But things are never that simple.
Flynn Taylor is off-limits for a whole host of reasons, and continuing to see him, even in secret, threatens to turn my whole life upside down and destroy everything I’ve been working toward these last few years.
The trouble is, I can’t seem to stay away from him. Even though I know everything about him is wrong, when he touches me it feels so right.
I guess it’s true what they say. It’s not the size of the stick, but how you handle it that matters. And Flynn Taylor has a big, hard stick, and he also knows exactly what to do to score. And score. And score again…
HARD STICK is a full-length romance with a guaranteed HEA
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This is definitely not how I pictured my first night in Boston would go.
I’ve been planning it so carefully since I applied to transfer over a year ago. I did intensive research to find the perfect apartment close to Cambridge College’s main building, which houses the psych classrooms. I budgeted for even the tiniest eventualities, calculating exactly how much the cab fare would be from Logan International Airport, taking absolutely every possibility into account.
Except the possibility of losing the key to my new apartment.
I crouch on the landing outside the door and start pulling things out of my backpack. Trident gum, yep. Wallet, yep. Phone, yep. Piles of tissues my mom insists I must have on my person at all time? Yep.
But no cruddy key.
I reach into the pockets of my jean shorts, but nothing. I peer in every nook and hidden cranny belonging to my jacket and suitcase. Empty.
I swear, I had it, when I was getting ready to step off the plane. I’d gazed out at the big city, clutched it in my sweaty little death-grip, thinking, Okay, Savannah. You’re a worldly Boston girl, now. This is where you grow up and stop being little Miss Innocent from Podunk, Nowhere.
Then I promptly . . . what? What the heck did I do with it? I cringe, thinking that maybe I’d tossed it away with my wrapper and balled-up cocktail napkin when the flight attendant came around with the trash bag.
Shoot. I bet that’s what I did.
Worldly Boston Girls probably have enough sense to hold on to their keys.
I jiggle the door handle of the apartment, but it stays put. Then I knock. No answer, obviously, because my roommate, Jen the Swimmer from Connecticut (that’s all I’ve learned about her during our three phone conversations), isn’t arriving until tomorrow. I lean over the railing and try to peer inside the window, but the narrow blinds are closed tight.
Shooty shoot shoot.
A bunch of people pass me on the street, but no one even looks at me, much less asks to help. Funny, as much as I wanted to get the heck out of Podunk, I have to admit Podunkians were at least a lot nicer. These people seem like they wouldn’t so much as stop and glance at me if I were on fire.
Pulling my blonde hair up into a messy bun, I finally go for my cell. But who can I call? Not Brandon. He would tell me to get my naïve butt back to Ohio, stat. Not my parents. As proud as they are that I’m the first Shaw to go to college, they didn’t understand why their precious daughter had to go to a big, bad city to do it. Plus, they’re all eight-hundred miles away. Who else? The only person I know in this city is Professor Morgan, and what would I say? Hi, it’s your new research assistant, Savannah Shaw. The one whose resume wowed you with how organized and responsible she was? Well, I’ve already screwed up and surely there will be many more mistakes forthcoming . . .
I shove the phone back in my pocket and stare forlornly at the heap of brand-new luggage (my parents’ present to me) on the dirty sidewalk. The steaming August day is dwindling into a humid night, the sun starting to slip behind the brownstones across the street. I need to get myself to bed so I can be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for my first day at work tomorrow.
I am not going to sleep out here. Mom would blow a gasket.
I kick the door so hard with my flip-flopped foot that I probably fracture my big toe. Pain screams up my leg, but the door doesn’t even respond. So I start pummel it, with all my might, with both fists. “Darn you, door! Just open!”
Nope, nothing. Exasperated, I give it one last shove, then start to slump against it when a voice from on the sidewalk says, “Surprised that didn’t work for you.”
I raise my eyes to a man and my heart clenches in my chest. I’m sure I’ve never seen anyone quite like him back in Ohio, because I’d remember. Brilliant, crystal-blue eyes stare back at me, half-shielded from the dying light of the sun by a low Sox cap, screwed down tight over his forehead. He’s wearing dark jeans and a long-sleeved Bobcats t-shirt despite the heat, but it doesn’t matter because everything is stretched so tight over his muscles that you can’t help but picture what’s underneath.
My heart skitters in my chest. It’s just a quick jolt of nerves . . . no. Not nerves.
Where did that come from? How can I want a man I’ve just met? I wonder if I’m blushing. Of course, I’m blushing. When do I not blush? Brandon always says I’m a horrible bluffer because I wear my every feeling right on my ghostly pale, translucent skin. Right now, my cheeks feel as hot as an iron poker in a fire and are undoubtedly as red as one.