My Guilty Pleasure
"Hey there, babe. You come here often?"
By the sheer grace of what remaining patience she had left after a particularly rotten day, Joey Winfield resisted the urge to flip the bird at the scruffy biker with the tired old pickup line. She was in no mood for flirtations, harmless or otherwise. She'd come to Rosalie's, a roadhouse located on the outskirts of Boston, for one reason—to blow off some steam. She'd wanted a place where no one knew where she came from, that she was one of "the" Boston Winfields. A place where the whiskey wasn't watered down and where she could get rowdy if she wanted to or just sit quietly and contemplate the bottom of several empty glasses of bourbon. At Rosalie's, no one would judge her every move.
Maybe she'd even kick a little ass at the pool tables tonight. She was in that kind of mood.
She manufactured a saccharine sweet smile for the bik ... read full excerpt from My Guilty Pleasure ebook
