Beached with the Bad Boy (Bad Boys on Holiday #3) Read Online Free PDF

forget.
    Because unlike most of your conquests, she doesn’t want you, dickhole.
    Yeah, that much was obvious. And probably for the best.
    Trick wiped his brow with the bottom of his shirt, pushing himself to run faster. He needed to stay focused, eye on the prize. Anything less was putting his whole career at risk, and no woman was worth that.
    He’d enjoyed getting a rise out of her this morning, but he certainly couldn’t keep that up all week. He had serious work to do, and no way could he get anything done with her around. She wouldn’t budge. He knew the type: uptight as hell, total control freak. She’d either drive him crazy or set him on fire in his sleep.
    Or get you so worked up you can’t sleep.
    That too, he thought.
    Well, none of that shit sounded promising—not if he wanted to get his song written. If he didn’t finish this album, then all of it was for nothing. The voice lessons that left him raw and sore for days. The grueling all-night practices. Gabe, ordering him around like a drill sergeant, one chord progression after another. All the chances he took, the risks, just hoping for the big payoff. The golden ticket.
    When he got his first deal, it had felt like winning the lottery. And though Gabe had been working just as hard—harder, even—he’d never hit that jackpot for himself. When it came to technique, Gabe was eons beyond Trick—the man worked the strings so fast, his fingers were no more than a blur—but he always said he didn’t have the soul that Trick had. The raw stuff. The part that made people ache inside when they heard Trick play.
    Trick didn’t know about all that, but Gabe was so certain. And the man didn’t have a jealous bone in his body—he’d always said that as long as one of them made it, it’d be like both of them had, and Trick had believed him.
    He still believed him.
    On the day Trick left California for New York, Gabe made him promise that he’d never look back.
    Now, he just didn’t want to let him down.
    Trick cocked his head, ear toward the sky, wondering if Gabe had any more thoughts.
    Give her the cottage.
    The voice in his head always cut to the damn chase. Right on schedule, prick.
    Trick sighed. Yeah, giving up the cottage was probably the right call, much as he hated to admit defeat. There was just no point fighting this battle—he had his own demons to worry about. Fuck it. He loved the beach, the ocean view, but a hotel would probably be more conducive to productivity anyway.
    By the time he finished his six miles, Trick had decided he’d be a gentleman about it and let the woman have her way. But the moment he got back and saw what she’d done to the place, the gentleman thing blew the fuck out to sea.
    She was on her hands and knees in the living room, brandishing a tape gun like a weapon, her hair fuzzy and wild, eyes sparking like a crazed warrior queen.
    Pointing the tape gun at his chest, she said, “Don’t you dare take another step forward. Not until you’ve agreed to the terms and conditions. Signature required, Boy Band.”
    Trick pinched the bridge of his nose, grumbling into his hand. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

Chapter Seven
    “ D oes this look like a joke to you, Trick Harper?”
    Layla tore off the last piece of blue masking tape and pressed it firmly to the floor in the living room, setting the boundaries. She’d done the dining room and patio as well, and made a sign-up sheet for kitchen and bathroom times to ensure they didn’t cross paths any more than absolutely necessary. Obviously, she’d be staying in the bedroom—a place he wasn’t allowed to set foot in, tape or no tape—and half of the living room was his.
    It was, admittedly, a bit over the top. Honestly, she was just hoping it was enough to scare him off for good. They’d gotten off on the wrong foot before—her cowering in the bedroom last night, then practically coming undone in the kitchen anytime he got close. She was just unnerved.