. Well, that's my intention, anyway . . . , at least not once I've seen photographic evidence. If my smug-faced, lying boyfriend thinks he can gaslight me out of believing that on his phone, he's got a wake-up call coming in hot. I recognize her and the cross-eyed squirrel on her shoulder-which should definitely have left her with more than a few ! But we're at his company picnic, and I am not going to make a spectacle of myself. I'm going to have one more free margarita, and then I'm going to get the hell out of here. This is rock-solid plan . . . until the owner of the company, Hollis Nyx, former NFL player/current (ugh, don't ask, and please do not encourage my use of this nickname - it could only end embarrassingly for me), raises his beer at me and smiles. It would be rude not to say hello and introduce myself. You know how sometimes hello leads to a conversation, which leads to some mild flirtation, which leads to two people in the elevator headed up to the president/CEO's impressive corner office? Yeah, it's like that. Listen, nobody's looking for a happily ever after here. I know exactly what I'm doing with this man. I'm getting even, that's all. This is just one incredibly hot, spite-fueled encounter on his huge leather couch. And up against his tinted (probably) windows. And in his private bathroom. And it only makes sense that a gentleman like Hollis Nyx would buy me dinner afterward. But that's where it ends. This is no fairy tale. No swoon-worthy romance. Nope, never going to happen.