Drop the Mitts

He's a bad idea wrapped in a smirk. And I've already made that mistake once.

I came back to Calgary for business, not pleasure. Settling my ex-husband's estate was supposed to be a simple, temporary detour-deal with the mess Troy Bowen left behind, finalize the paperwork, and leave.

Then I met André Leclerc.

Cocky. Infuriating. Too young by at least eight years. He's everything I should avoid with a reckless charm that reminds me too much of my past mistakes. He flirts like it's a game, makes ridiculous promises, and then shows up at my door with tacos like I didn't tell him twice to back the hell off.

Except-not everything about Andre adds up. 

The way he drives a beat-up Chevy but then covers his teammate's fees without a word. The way he shows up when no one else is watching. The way he works a blue-collar job but then understands the ins and outs of real estate as well as I do, even though I've built my career in corporate and property law.

And the way he looks at me-like he's addicted to pantsuits. Like he knows exactly how to get me to let loose . . .

I don't do reckless anymore. I don't do charming. But when we're forced to work on the same charity game together, I can't seem to get him and his damn tacos out of my head.

Six weeks and then I can go back to my quiet, structured life. I can hold my ground until then, can't I?