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?