The Darkest Flower (Allison Barton, #1)

by Kristin Wright

Now came the hard part. I’d have to play a decent game of tennis in the heat of August knowing my ass had an audience, while remaining wholesomely attractive and not sweating too much. The waterproof makeup I’d bought yesterday better work. Nicole wasn’t a pushover, despite her pencil shape. Forty minutes later, I’d kept the judge’s eyes on me by “missing” Nicole’s shots toward the men’s side of the court. I scurried over at least three times and let him get a good look at my toned backside as I bent to retrieve the balls from the ground. Through it all, I succeeded in remaining fuckable through judicious use of a face towel that reassured me my makeup wasn’t running down my face. Time for the exit: tennis tended to sour once women passed the point of cute dresses and moved on to red faces and sweaty hair clinging to the neck. We gathered our things. The men paused in their much more athletic game to say goodbye.

He’d look for me. He would remember me. I’d practically sprayed hungry-cougar pheromones directly down the front of his shorts, then yanked away his lollipop right when his mouth started watering. More importantly, I’d succeeded in making sure his first impression of me was not in a courtroom at the defense table wearing a dowdy suit. In the locker room, I admired my glistening cleavage once again. Take that, Laura Leigh. And take that, little Allison, tiresome rule follower. Some rules are older than the legal system, and I knew all those rules like the back of my still-unfreckled hand. Men had run the world for centuries, but their sexual desires would forever be their Achilles’ heel. A clever woman didn’t even need to gratify them—all you had to do was hand them just a little hope and you could walk away with your only slightly sweaty tits still covered and everything you came for in the palm of your hand.