SEDUCED BY MY EX'S DIVORCE ATTORNEY (Chicago Law #3)

Chapter One I’m going to do my best not to make this sound like I’m in a courtroom giving my final address, but old habits die hard. This is Roarke, BTW. You probably all know me as the silver fox from Manic Monday and Afternoon Delight, but believe me there’s so much more to me than my salt and pepper hair…as you’ll find out soon. Piper and Rayne have asked me to fill you in on a couple of things… 1. This is an UNPROOFED Advance Reader Copy. What does that mean? You may find some spelling and grammar mistakes. Ignore them. You can rest assured that Happy Hour will be as perfect as I am by the time it’s published. ;) 2. They’d love for you to share your excitement over me—I mean mine and Hannah’s story. Share quotes on social media, pics, teasers, whatever you like. Just no spoilers please. There’s so much more to me than you know and we wouldn’t want to ruin anyone else’s enjoyment, right? 3. Both Piper and Rayne realize that sss can be an asshat sometimes. If you have trouble leaving your review, no worries. Please try, but if they shut you down then perhaps you’d be so kind as to leave a review on Goodreads, BookBub, iBooks or any of the other vendors. All reviews help! That’s it for now! Settle in and get ready to see exactly why I call Hannah my little firecracker! Xo, Roarke (And by extension Piper & Rayne) What are the worst four words to hear in the English language besides ‘we need to talk?’ ‘We overbooked. You’re out.’ Especially six weeks before you’re hosting a gala to pop the cork on the new charitable foundation you started. Normally, the buzz of the alcohol would’ve lifted my spirits, or at least let me have an ounce of optimism in this shitty situation. There has to be a venue in one of the largest cities in America that has availability on short notice. Weddings get canceled all the time. Not that I’m wishing a broken heart on anyone so I can steal their venue spot, but if I’m being cynical—and I’m speaking from experience here—it’s a lot better to never say I do, than to say it then have half your worldly possessions stolen from you in divorce court. Let’s all be honest, love fogs up a sane mind more than a bottle of tequila on a Mexican beach. One minute you’re all ‘woohoo,’ licking salt and sucking back limes under a makeshift tiki hut poolside. The next you’re hunched over the trunk of a palm tree with your stomach rejecting the good times you promised. Love’s bred from the same false high. Except the regret doesn’t always come on the same night. Sometimes it creeps up on you like a long night of drinking expensive champagne. You think you’re having a sweet time, drinking conservatively and keeping away from the hard stuff. Then you pass out on the way home to wake up wondering what the hell you did and where is the damn Advil. My experience with marriage was the latter. I’d known Todd my entire life. Grown up with him from our first week at Montessori school together. He chased me around the playground and gave me a locket in the first grade. He asked me to the carnival in third grade. I wouldn’t call what we had kismet. Half the time he annoyed me, but he was kind and considerate. A good guy. Before walking down the aisle, I convinced myself that passion and spontaneity were overrated. The fact that I predicted his proposal down to the month he bent down on one knee in a public setting proved I was constantly one step ahead of him. If it weren’t for his cheating d**k, maybe I would’ve still believed that marriage wasn’t boring and redundant. “Another round ladies.” Lincoln, our usual waiter at the speakeasy I’m a member of, Torrio’s Table, delivers another round of Vespers for my co-workers and me. “I know he’s young but damn.” Chelsea’s gaze follows his ass as he walks away. I admire too, because Lincoln is easy on the eyes. Not even a nun could argue that. “I’m sure Dean would love to hear that.” Chelsea sweetly smiles over at Victoria. “You can act like you’re not looking, mama saint, but you’re not fooling anyone. Not to mention, me looking doesn’t mean he holds a candle to my man.” Both my employees recently found new men in their lives. They’re both willing to give love another try, believing that fate’s GPS somehow steered them wrong the first time with their failed marriages. Well, in Chelsea’s case she just sort of looped back to her ex-husband. Are they happy? Definitely. Will it work out? I don’t know. I hope it does. But I’ve been where they are. s*x until dawn and breakfast in bed. Scary how fast things pivot to m**********n and grabbing a banana while waiting for your Starbucks. I hope they both have happily ever afters, but right now, I need them to get out of lala land and find me a venue. “I have no idea what to do. It’s July. Invitations have been printed which means I have to get them reprinted, but I don’t even have an address. Girls, we need to brainstorm.” I twirl the glass by the stem between my finger and thumb. “We’ll figure something out.” Victoria’s sweet gaze lands on me. The door opens into the secluded venue and my worst nightmare saunters in with that cocky ass grin on his face. “As if I need anything else bad tonight.” Chelsea spots the guy she thinks has been soaking my panties for the last few months, turning back my way, smirking. “Ignore him.” Victoria squeezes my forearm. She’s the sane one out of the two of them. Roarke Baldwin swaggers across the room and nods and waves to some other patrons like he’s running for f*****g Congress. I’m still waiting for an answer from management on how he got his membership to Torrio’s. Before my divorce, he was never here. His gaze remains on me the entire time he passes our table. I let a breath leave my lungs once he clears my vision without stopping. Until I feel movement in the booth behind me across my back, alerting me that he can hear our conversation. Chelsea’s eyes stay on the back of his head, confirming my thoughts. “I’m sure we’ll figure something out.” I fluff off the topic of the venue because I don’t want the man behind me knowing I’m at a disadvantage. “We’ll find a venue. Don’t worry,” Chelsea blurts out and I’m really hoping it’s the hormones in her body that are making her ignore the fact that I tried to squash this topic. “What kind of a place double books and doesn’t know it until six weeks out?” I drag my finger across my throat. “I agree, I felt like cutting their throats when they called. I’m happy you feel the same way because I thought it was my pregnancy hormones kicking in. The other night, I got so mad at Dean because he didn’t wipe off Grover’s paws from outside,” Chelsea continues rambling. “Chels.” Victoria widens her eyes and bops her head in the direction behind me. “Oh,” she mouths and slinks back into her booth. “Sorry,” she mouths again, biting her lip. My eyes close and the booth behind me shifts. Please be getting a drink. Lincoln’s swamped and he’s on the opposite side of the room, so it makes total sense if Roarke was headed to the bar. Chelsea’s gaze follows him and I don’t need a tracker on the man to know where he’s at, watching Chelsea does just fine. Even Victoria’s watching him. I can tell he’s at the bar. Thank God. A few seconds later their eyes widen and their faces lose color. Their unspoken reaction makes my internal radar blip and bleep, signaling that he’s drawing closer. The scent of his musky cologne wraps around our booth as tightly as the viper he’s proven to be. Once we’re in his clutches, he eyes the empty spot next to Chelsea. For reasons unknown to me, she slides over closer to Victoria. He folds himself into the booth, glass clasped in his hand, his gaze focused solely on me. “Ms. Crowley, I couldn’t help but overhear you’re in need of a venue?” His perfectly styled salt and pepper hair is the first sign that he’s dangerous. It suggests he’s older and more experienced than I am. He’s had years at the practice of f*****g with people’s lives—both professionally and personally I’d bet. Lord knows his profession relies on his ability to twist words and plant seeds of doubt. A solid piece of ice clanks against his glass, splashing the dark amber liquid inside when he sets it down on the table. “I’m not interested.” I sip my drink, purposely pressing my lips around the edge of the glass hoping to drive him as batshit crazy as he drives me. “What if I can get you a venue?” His arrogance never ceases to amaze me. Like I’m some damsel in distress and he’s going to gallop into my town on his white horse to save the day. No thanks. The girls’ gazes dart over to me like they’re watching the latest drama and someone just announced a surprise pregnancy. Maybe they’d like some popcorn to keep their jaws from hanging. “I’m sure your price is more than we can afford.” I tamper down my emotional side—the irrational one that demands I reach across the table and wrap my hand around his throat until his face turns red. “Oh, Ms. Crowley, you have it all wrong. You know as well as I do the art of negotiation is simple. I give you something you want and you give me something I want.” I twirl my glass on the table, the liquid splashing from side to side. Don’t ask. Throw your drink in his face. Unfortunately, I’ve been trained to not show anyone they’re getting a rise out of me. ‘Calm your temper,’ my dad’s voice rings out in my head. ‘Do not show them what you’re feeling. Under any circumstances.’ I plaster a half-c****d smile on my face. “And what is it you want Mr. Baldwin?” I lock eyes with him, and maybe my father trained him, too, because there’s not one flicker of doubt to be found. “You.” My stomach stirs with a million butterflies. Some die and fall to the pits of my belly while others soar with the thought of him telling me exactly how and where he wants me.