How about a sneak peek of Craving Irish? You know you want to…

Today was not her day. Her week, really. Oh hell, if she was going to be totally honest with herself—her month. As valiantly as she fought to keep her life in order, the universe simply hadn’t wanted to cooperate.

Stubborn judges. Client arrests. Botched paperwork. Burned coffee. Arriving four hours late to drop off updated paperwork Garvey had asked for. Isla shaded her eyes as she stepped from under the awning and into the blistering Hawaii afternoon sunshine. Unseasonably warm December temperatures and flagging trade winds weren’t helping her sour mood. She dug into her bag, cursing when she remembered she’d left her sunglasses on her desk back at the office.

Son of a bitch.

One more check mark on the how-much-can-the-universe-screw-over-Isla list. After dropping her bag to the concrete, she twisted her long fall of blonde hair into a knot at the base of her neck. No tropical breezes today to take the edge off the heat. A frilly, silly concoction filled with more alcohol than mix would be nice right about now. But somehow she doubted a magical, barely dressed, and eager-to-please cabana boy was going to appear with an icy drink in hand.

“Need some help?”

As she shielded her eyes again, she caught sight of the tall man making his way across the Riding Irish clubhouse parking lot. At first she thought it was Kane O’Hanlon, the owner of the property and vice president of the motorcycle club. But the faded jeans and discolored boots were off the mark for him. Not her fantasized cabana boy, but this guy was missing his shirt. That had to be a step in the right direction. When she recognized the attire—or rather, the lack thereof—her heart gave a hard, solid thump. “Hi, Flint.” She swallowed, struggling against the knot in her throat.

She would not get tongue-tied in front of him. She’d managed perfectly clear, coherent conversations with him for months since she’d been brought in to help the club with legal matters. A charming smile and exposed sweaty chest shouldn’t cause her panties to spontaneously combust. Clearly the sunlight glinting off his belt buckle had fried her brain. “Know where the head man is? I was supposed to meet him here for lunch today but I got sidetracked.”

Flint’s smirk widened as he touched the brim of his Stetson. “Guess you don’t know.”

The butterflies taking flight in her stomach scattered as worry somersaulted through her gut. “What’s he done now?” Isla was convinced the president of the club thrived on the mayhem he created. Garvey McShea was the sort of man who would shake your hand and offer a charismatic smile while he was fucking you over. You’d like it so much you’d bend over and beg for more. He was just that good at manipulating his way in and out of a situation.

“Garvey and Arden eloped two days ago.” Maybe too good, because for the first time in her life, Isla was speechless. Flint threw back his head and laughed. “You look like you could use a stiff drink. Good thing I just restocked the bar.” He brushed past her, shaking out a set of keys.

He smelled like man and hard work and walking sex. “No, really. Don’t go to any trouble. I need to get back to my office anyway.”

“You look like you could use a little trouble.”

She’d turned to walk back to her car but stopped. The deep timbre of his voice wound its way through her already heated body, igniting new fires that were going to be tough to bank. She would not engage. She would not. No way no how. Trouble hadn’t found its way to her doorstep in a long, long time. At least her brand of trouble. She had serious doubts Flint Stahl was up for her preferred brand of mischief.

Problem was, her idea of a little fun altered whenever Flint appeared. Nope, not gonna create a little havoc just ’cause I’m bored and frustrated and he makes me want an arrangement I shouldn’t.

“I’m good, thanks.” She spun on her heel, shored up her shoulders, and fast-walked to her car. The sooner she got away from the clubhouse, and the quicker she got out of this heat, the better she would feel.

“Not sure you should go anywhere.”

A thrilling chill shot up her spine at the command lacing through his statement. Damn it, two more seconds and she would have been tucked inside the safety of her car. Two. Freaking. Seconds. She cleared her throat as she glanced over her shoulder. Words died a slow death in her throat as she caught sight of him again.

She usually didn’t go for the tall, broad-shouldered type who looked like he’d just returned from a long day of cattle wrangling. She’d moved far, far away from his type because her teenage years had been filled with his smooth-talking kind. But the combo of those tight jeans, exposed chest, and Stetson pulled low over his eyes added fuel to an already out-of-control firestorm.

“I appreciate your insistence I share a beer with you, Flint, but I did say I was in a rush.” There, a nice, polite brush-off. Easy.

He gestured to the car, that damn charming smile still cemented in place. “Going nowhere fast on a couple of flats, princess.”

A quick glance confirmed his observation. Just when she’d thought nothing else could go wrong. She dug into her bag, cursing the gods for tossing obstacle after obstacle into her path. No one should have to deal with so many setbacks in a single day. She could handle this. A pair of punctured tires were not going to get the best of her. This could be solved as easily as calling for a tow to let the mechanics deal with the tires. Nothing she hadn’t handled before.

Except her phone was nowhere to be found. Probably on her desk next to the damn sunglasses.

“Need some help?” She looked up, expecting to take an offered cell phone. Instead, he had extended his hand. “Promise I won’t bite.”

Problem was, a piece of her wanted him to.