There’s a fine line between genius and insanity and, today, I’m diving so far into the deep-end I’ll probably emerge with a tinfoil hat and a love for pineapples on pizza.

The coming madness isn’t all that’s driving me. It’s the potential for disaster that kicks my heart into overdrive. I don’t want tonight to fail—but it could, and that in-between of risk and recklessness gives me a buzz.

I’m slipping back into the Sunny I was in high school. I’m talking bad decision making, potentially traumatizing, horrible ideas Sunny.

Groundlessly confident. 

Painfully immature. 

Nothing like the Sunny who’s struggling to scale her interior design business, bogged down by picky clients, and smothered by self-doubt at every turn.

Tonight, I’m free. And I’m also dangerously close to having a heart attack, but it’s the best kind of panic. The kind that makes you feel alive. That gets all the way into your fingers and toes. That makes you invincible. 

My eyes track the scantily-clad performers waiting backstage. They’re ready. And Kenya… Kenya’s somewhere in the room, probably regretting having ever met me.

A glance at my watch sends a thrill down my spine. I’m buzzing with anticipation and it’s making me sweat. I use the feather boa to dot at my neck. 

“Make sure the light stays on Kenya at all times,” I tell the technician who can’t seem to locate my eyes. Or maybe he dropped his keys in my sparkly bra. It would explain why he’s looking at my chest as if it’ll unlock a secret cave of treasures. 

I clear my throat pointedly.

His head bounces up. “Got it.”

I give him a little pat on the back for encouragement. “Don’t mess up.”

The smile that stretches over his face is practiced. I can almost feel the sleaze oozing from his skin. “Hey, after… all this, would you like to grab a drink?”

“Let’s see how you do tonight, and then we can talk about it.” I flip my hair, watching as his grin widens. Normally, I wouldn’t encourage him, but I need everything to go perfectly. Kenya’s going to tear my head off if it doesn’t. 

As he hurries to take up his position, my eyes drop to my watch.

Six minutes to go. 

Time to find the star of tonight’s show. 

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” Kenya Jones, my best friend and co-conspirator is currently dry heaving into the human-sized present that she’ll be jumping out of in approximately—I check my watch again, five minutes. 

 I rub my hands against the itchy feather boa. Hot pink. Just like the sexy police uniform baring my midriff and flouncing in a short, flared skirt.

“You’ll do great.” I adjust her headpiece, a giant feathered monstrosity that we’ll have to jam into the box to get it to fit. 

“Why did I say yes to this?” Her mouth opens and closes in a panicked breath. Purple eyeshadow sparkles on her eyelids and brings out the mahogany-toned hues in her dark skin. Her lips are a sultry burgundy that pairs beautifully with the gold and red in her head piece. 

“Because you trust me?”

She snorts.

“Because you love surprises?”

“Not even close.” 

“Because you finally cut off your toxic family and you’re embracing the inner rebel that was suppressed for years?”

Her eyes narrow. “Isn’t it just because I was drunk?”

“You know what they say. A drunk guy… can’t lie.”

“What? Drunks lie all the time!”

I laugh and squeeze her shoulders. My fingers slide against the sparkly pink coat she’s wearing. “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”

“Don’t try that reverse psychology crap on me. You know I love a challenge.”

“I’m not challenging you.” I stare her right in the eyes. She’s my best friend and she can tell when I’m in BS mode. Right now, my sincerity shines through. “If you’re uncomfortable, we can stop here. Planning tonight’s festivities with you was half the fun.” 

Kenya’s feelings matter more than the plan. The fact that she came this far, when she’s such a stickler about rules and social conventions, is a major win. I’d happily trod to a spa, kick off these killer stilletos and get a massage in place of going on stage.

“No.” She shakes her head determinedly. The headpiece dips and dances with the movement. “We came this far. I can’t stop now.”

“You sure?”

She juts her chin down and one of the feathers bows to me. “Where’s my mask?”

“Got it right here.” I push her curls out of her face so I can set the intricately-designed mask over her flared nose. Coily locks tangle in my fingers and refuse to stay put. 

Kenya has a glorious head of natural hair. It’s all frizz and volume, driving me crazy with jealousy. My hair has only one setting—limp. Teasing any sort of style into my locks has always been a struggle. 

“There.” I step back and gesture to her. “You look amazing.”

“I’m wearing a peacock on my head.” 

“And the peacock would be proud he gave his life for you.”

She rolls her eyes. We both know these feathers are fake. No peacocks were harmed in the production of our terrible plan. 

At least she’s smiling now.

And looking a lot less nauseous. 

She blows out a sharp breath. “Let’s do this.” 

 “Have fun.” I give her a quick hug and then tap the gun at my thigh. “On your signal.”

Another nod from Kenya.

It’s go-time. 

I step back and two of Kenya’s old college friends draw near to us. They’re dressed just like me in risqué pink police officer outfits. One of them carries a stepping stool which they place right in front of the box. 

After one last look at me, Kenya climbs the stairs, places her gloved hands on the edge of the box and jumps inside. She lands with a thump.

I rap my knuckles against the box. “They’ll carry you out now.”

“Let’s do this thing!”

I laugh, loving that note of wild excitement in her voice. We might crash and burn, but we’ll go down swinging.

Whirling around, I face the stage and listen to the noise from the bar. They’re playing honky-tonk music. The kind with banjoes and violins and men wailing about the girl who got away. 

A smile slowly creeps over my face when the music cuts and the lights in the bar go dim. I can see it all from the wings.

“Okay, go! Go!” I hiss, gesturing to the mixture of Kenya’s friends, cousins, and professional dancers.

They line up on stage. As the first of the girls appears, a hoot goes up from the men. 

It’s quickly silenced by a low and gruff voice barking, “Who the hell hired strippers?”

I cover my mouth to stifle my laughter. 

The voice—which belongs to none other than Holland Alistair—continues to lecture his bachelor party guests. “Who did it?”

Grumbled responses meet his question. I’m still in the wings, so I can’t see what’s going on in the bar, but I can imagine the thunderous look on Holland Alistair’s face. He’s not ‘the king of contactless real estate’ for his good looks or his way with people. I bet everyone is shaking in their boots right now.

I walk out with the box, dragging it toward center stage via a trolley. My heels click on the wooden floor and I glance over the bar that was reserved for Alistair’s bachelor party. 

There are about fifteen men gathering at the front of the stage. Some are holding pool sticks and others grip their beers tightly. Their faces are upturned and recognizable thanks to their proximity to the spotlight. 

 I look over the gathering crowd.

None of them are Alistair.

That must mean…

I look at the back of the room where two men are standing. It’s hard to see in the darkness, but I can just make out their outlines. One of them has a clearly aggrieved stance, feet spread and arms over his chest. 

That must be Kenya’s fiancé. I’m surprised Alistair’s making such a fuss about our little show—which hasn’t even started yet. I guess I owe Kenya fifty bucks. She was right about Alistair not being interested in seeing anyone but her naked. 

We’re at the middle of the stage now and I drop the handle of the trolley. A low, brassy sound blows through the room. It’s the start of Kenya’s burlesque music. 

A lone spotlight shines directly on top of the giant bow, and a hushed silence falls on the crowd again. The men at the front of the stage creep forward, waiting. 

“Unless it’s Kenya jumping out of that box, I don’t want to see it,” Alistair announces. “So get them off the freaking stage.”

I notice the hulking figure beside Alistair start to move.

My inner alarm bells go off. 

Those giant shoulders look familiar.

I squint through the darkness at the man stalking toward the front of the room.

His steps are rigid.

His back is ramrod straight.

I gasp in recognition. Darrel. I’d know that stride anywhere. Alistair’s gruff bother-in-law moves like he has a standing reservation with a machine gun in a war-torn country. 

Tall and dark-haired with thick muscles, he barely says a word to anyone unless he has to. Not that he has to say anything to be intimidating. His cold stares are enough to send the enemy camp skittering. 

I have no idea why people pay to talk to him about their feelings. I’d be terrified to have a therapist as intense as Darrel. He doesn’t seem like a people person. It’s mind-boggling to me that he’d leaves his throne as the Wall Street king to sit in a room asking people ‘how do you feel about that’ repeatedly. 

The music swells and Kenya bursts out of the box. My focus returns to the performance and I stick my foot forward, matching the position of the other professional dancers. 

Kenya wiggles her arms like a seaweed caught in a rough tide and hoists herself out of the present. The hooting stops. So do the crude whistles. Instead, a shocked stillness falls on the men as my best friend does the most awkward burlesque dance in the history of organized movement. 

Darrel stops in his tracks. He’s close enough to the stage that I can make out a bit of his face. Green eyes silently bore into Kenya. A tick appears in a jawline as chiseled and gorgeous as they come. His thick eyebrows tighten a bit, like he’s trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. 

Kenya kicks her legs out and moves her hips from side to side like she’s desperate to keep a hula hoop from touching the floor. Her lips are trembling and I can tell she’s trying her hardest not to laugh. 

Excitement builds inside me. My best friend is having an absolute blast. Planning this entire performance was definitely worth it. 

The music changes and Kenya starts to unbutton her pink coat. The crowd livens up again, cheering for her and telling her to ‘take it all off’. I guess men can forgive dorky dancing if a woman is flashing enough skin. 

Darrel seems to come out of his daze. He barrels toward the stage again. 

This isn’t good. 

Kenya’s enjoying herself. I can’t let Darell stop us before her big finish. 

I break formation and dance to the stairs on the far end of the stage. Wiggling my feather boa so it looks like I’m intentionally interacting with the crowd, I make a beeline for Darrel. 

His foot is already touching the first step leading to the stage when I intercept him. I throw my feather boa around his neck and tug him forcefully back to the main floor. 

He stumbles, not expecting me to accost him with so much strength. I tighten my grip on the boa, digging my fingers into the soft material as I try to herd him away. 

Darrel allows me to drag him for two seconds before he snatches the feather boa right out of my hands. He flings it into the darkness where it wafts sadly to the floor like an oversized snake rejected by its lover.

With a dark scowl, Darrel turns back toward the stage. “You and your friends need to leave. Now.”

I shake my head.

His glare intensifies. “I respect that you need to make a living, but my friend has no interest in this type of entertainment.” 

Annoyance and panic surges inside my chest. Kill joy. Can’t he just let it slide? Does he have a personal grievance against ‘fun’? 

That’s a rhetorical question. I know this guy would rather chew a bag of nails than crack a smile and act like a normal human being capable of feelings like joy and happiness.

He’s even worse than his brother-in-law. Alistair is grouchy and bossy, but at least he knows how to loosen up. Every time I’ve been so unfortunate as to be in Darell’s sexy presence, he’s proven that he has a stick up his butt the size of a full grown mahogany tree.

I glance desperately at the stage where Kenya is now deep into our routine. Her arms are swinging back and forth and she’s killing it. The headpiece is a nice touch, adding a dramatic flair to her intentionally off-beat movements. 

My determined stare swerves to Darrel. This man is not allowed to rain on our parade. Kenya is just starting to take more chances and embrace her wild side. It’s not like she’ll have many opportunities left to do stuff like this. The moment she’s Mrs. Holland Alistair, she won’t be allowed to pop out of gift boxes and dance off-beat to Rhianna in public. At least not without ending up on Page Six.

I scramble in front of Darrel and wiggle my shoulders, trying to keep him distracted. He doesn’t so much as glance at my body as he sidesteps me. I move with him, standing directly in his path. 

Don’t even think about getting on that stage, you cold-blooded behemoth. 

Darrel faces off with me and tries to move in the other direction. I shuffle to the side too, sticking on him like glue. When he stalks the other way, I’m right there like this is some kind of choreographed waltz. 

He makes a sound of annoyance low in his throat and steps away again. Like an idiot, I blindly follow him, not expecting him to fake me and dodge right at the last minute. He narrows his eyes when he gets past me, but I’m not done yet. 

I jump in front of him again, barring his way before he has a chance to climb the stairs. Darrel stops abruptly and gives me a hard look. I hold my ground, but a thread of self-preservation sparks to life inside me. 

Darrel is at least six feet, two inches and over two hundred fifty pounds of studly muscles. He could flick me with his thumb and forefinger and I’d probably go careening into the wall like a cricket on the back of a fly swatter. 

Thankfully, his hands remain at his sides and he continues to stare at me. Slowly, his gaze turns a little more analytical, as if he’s seeing something familiar about me underneath the mask.

I duck my head and keep dancing. If Darrel knew it was me under here, he wouldn’t just throw me into the wall, he’d probably pin me there and throw darts at me. 

I have no idea why, but the man utterly detests me. Every time we meet, he either glares at me or ignores me all together. It’s not like I’m his biggest fan either, especially after how rude he was when we first met. 

Darrel stops trying to mount the stage and steps toward me. “Who hired you guys?”

I clamp my lips together.

The sexy curmudgeon takes another step toward me. I shuffle back and my body bounces against the wall. There’s nowhere for me to run. Not that I’m interested in running.

Apparently, my hormones have decided to high-jack my good sense because a part of me is starting to go warm and liquid from Darrel’s proximity. He smells like soap and freshly turned dirt and something distinctly him. The way his dress shirt stretches over his shoulders and hugs his biceps makes me want to reach out and squeeze whatever part of him I can find.

Please do not fantasize about squeezing anything about this man, Sunny.

Just a few paces behind me, Kenya is wearing a frilly, prison-themed costume and is shaking her hips for her husband-to-be. The music is about to end, and I have no idea if she’s giving the signal because Darrel is blocking my view. 

Darrel hovers over me, not touching my body and yet crowding me in all the right ways. Shadows play over the sharp planes of his face and lips that are thin and firm. I hate him. How can he be so aggravatingly hot?

His hand comes up to touch my cheek. It’s a whisper-soft caress that sends a quiver through my belly. 

And also, possibly lower than that.

Okay, fine. I’m definitely feeling hot and bothered right now.

It’s frustrating. I’m one hundred percent annoyed by Darrel’s unjustifiable dislike for me and I’m determined to treat him just as coldly as he treats me, but I am not immune this level of up-close growly perfection. Despite the number of times he’s ignored me or grunted out a one-word response when he’s forced to communicate, I’ve got eyes.

And he’s got them too. The purest emerald eyes I’ve ever seen in my life. Greener than the rich landscape surrounding the Mayan temples mom used to take me to when we lived in Belize. It’s dark in the bar but, when the sun glimmers directly on Darrel’s eyes, golden flecks come out and start swimming around like stars falling into a turquoise Caribbean Sea.

His intoxicating gaze fixes on me. 

Then it falls.

Right down to my lips. 

I suck in a deep breath as he eases his faces close to mine. My fingers land on his chest to push him away but, instead, I find myself digging my fingers into his shirt and pulling him closer.

My heartbeat picks up speed until it threatens to drown out the loud music. I lick my lips, waiting for something I definitely shouldn’t want.

Darrel bypasses my mouth entirely and stops with his lips close to my ear. In a deep, scratchy voice, the hellion growls, “Put some clothes on, Sunny.” 

The ‘you look ridiculous’ isn’t spoken, but it’s implied. 

My eyes collide with his and I see the disdain rising in them. I shove him. Hard. And he doesn’t budge because he is a two-ton rock with devastating green eyes and a resentment for me that can fill a paint vat. 

“How did you know it was me?” I hiss. The music is reaching a crescendo. It shouldn’t be possible for him to hear me except he’s still pinning me to the wall with his hard stare. We’re nose to nose now, glaring at each other. And instead of tingly feelings down south, all I have is a burning desire to punch him in that chiseled face. 

Darrel doesn’t say a word.

Typical for him. 

The music gets faster and faster. From the corner of my eyes, I notice the other ladies gearing up for the big finish. 

I take a stock of my options. At this point, I’m nowhere close to being able to run back on stage so I can join the rest of the bachelorette party. The most I can do is complete my part of the routine from here. 

Reaching down, I unstrap the gun that was pinned to my thigh by a holster. Ducking away from Darrel, I lift the gun and point it at him.

“What are you doing?” Darrel grunts.

From the corner of my eye, I see the swirling activity on stage. The dancers pick Kenya up and hoist her on their shoulders, turning her in a circle as she lifts her hands to the sky. 

Now!

“I suggest you close your eyes, big guy.”

His eyebrow pops up. 

I whirl around and aim the gun at Kenya. 

My fingers coil over the trigger. 

What happens next is something I can’t explain. One second, I’m on my feet and taking aim at my best friend, the next I’m being tackled to the ground. 

I hit the floor. Hard. All of Darrel lands on top of me. The gun gets jostled from my hand, but it still goes off. Confetti explodes in Darrel’s face. The blast sets off the hidden canons that had been planted throughout the room. Streams of colorful paper explode in the air, blending into the chaos of applause and the last, fading notes of the music. 

Kenya’s happy laughter bounces off the walls and I wish I could join in her celebration. Instead, I have to face the glowering man who’s eyeballing me like he wishes I were the one exploding into a thousand tiny bits. 

“What the hell was that?” I demand. 

Darrel ignores me. He moves his arm a little and I realize that he’d settled his hand under my head so I didn’t rattle my skull when he threw me to the ground. It’s kind of sweet and I almost say so. Until he yanks his palm away and my head bops against cement. 

I push myself to a sitting position, glaring at Darrel as he brushes confetti off his shirt. He lowers his head and shakes his hair, making bright pieces of paper rain down to the floor. His hands are shaking slightly. How did he take me down so fast? I thought he said he was never in the military?

The frustration drains from me, replaced with a frightening emotion I’ve been trying to fight since we met. Curiosity. It would be great if my body would work with me and not find this gorgeous grump so intriguing. And it would be even better if he wasn’t a part of Kenya’s new family, forcing me to be around him and constantly battling my innate attraction. 

“Sorry,” Darrel spurs gruffly.

My jaw drops and I watch as he carefully avoids my eyes. Why does it feel like he scraped that apology out of the dregs of his heart?

I don’t get it. He’s not a curmudgeon with everyone. I’ve seen him play with Belle, joke around with Alistair and even smile at Kenya. It’s just that he turns into a allergic-to-fun monster when I walk in the room.

His personality stinks, Sunny. Who cares if he’s a big bag of mysteries? Stop acting like he’s even worth your time.