Blame It on the Bachelor Page 0,2

if Jack had cheated on her with a real woman—or even two. Imperfect women with stressful jobs and ungrateful children and PMS.

But she simply couldn’t compete with a constant parade of flawless, airbrushed beauties and their bountiful beaver shots. Jack could pull them up at any time for his viewing pleasure. And he did.

How pathetic he was, sitting in the dark with his porn. So why did she feel like the loser? She was crazy.

Kylie had finally had enough of the repeated talks and the repeated broken promises to stop. She’d dumped his sorry ass.

If only she didn’t remember what Jack was like before he’d discovered OxyContin and internet porn. He’d been handsome and charming, with a bright future in medical equipment sales ahead of him.

He’d been a blue-blazer kind of guy, definitely not the type to show up to a coat-and-tie dinner in, say, black leather pants.

But Jack was now unemployed and boozing it up in T-shirts that said things like I’m with Stupid, and Property of So-and-So’s Athletic Department. He needed a barber badly and a life even more.

And it was time for Kylie to focus on what she herself needed: to wash Jack out of her hair for good.

She needed a distraction.

A male distraction, one with no conscience so she wouldn’t feel at all bad about using him for her own psychological and physical purposes.

Yes, she needed some acrobatic, sweaty, therapeutic sex with a hot stranger. A stranger who wouldn’t want a relationship, since she was done with those for a while. A stranger who was ready to peel off his inappropriate pants within moments of finding out her name.

Devon McKee had honed right in on her. Devon, with his I’m-a-sex-god eyes and his background full of rock ’n’ roll groupies, was just the ticket. Her ticket to ride.

He’d do quite handsomely.

And she was sure he’d do her well.

2

DEVON, AFTER a moment of stunned silence, followed Kylie out of the reception, only to see her disappear behind the door of the ladies’ room.

There was no question that given the opportunity he would do her. But he didn’t like the way she’d neatly plucked the power out of his hands along with the champagne glasses. He felt like a piece of meat.

He had a mental image of Kylie poking and prodding him through plastic wrap as he sat on a foam tray in the cold case of the local supermarket.

Repulsive appeal?

As if he had an area of gristle or a streak of fat running through him, and she wasn’t sure he was worth his per-pound price. As if she’d take him home in a pinch, but was tempted to wait until he oxidized a little and went on sale.

That stuck in his craw.

Devon McKee of Category Five had been Grade A prime beef in his heyday. Hell, he’d had a local artist make a mobile of the lacy thongs that had been tossed at him. He’d had the bad taste to hang it over his pool table in the game room of his rented house.

He wasn’t particularly proud of that now, but then, he wasn’t proud of a lot of things he’d done.

Kylie Kent was right. He was a mess. But he wasn’t used to being summed up so thoroughly and instantaneously by a woman. And he’d already decided to start cleaning himself up. Maybe not today. But soon.

“Dev, what are you doing lurking out here in the hallway?” Adam asked him. Adam Chase, a medical student, was the best man, and he was currently sporting a broken nose. Or close to broken, anyway.

“Nice schnoz. Where’s the stripper you stole from the bachelor party last night? You didn’t bring her as a date?”

Adam glowered at him, and Dev grinned.

The very cute blond stripper had exploded out of her plywood cake only to elbow his friend right in the face, knocking him to the floor.

Adam squinted at the champagne flute Dev held and deliberately changed the subject. “What’s with that? You hate champagne.”

“Yeah, but I’m trying to stay away from the rum.”

“Since when?”

Dev waved a hand at him and ambled into the garden room. He went to the bar and then belatedly brought Aunt Mildred the drink he’d promised her.

She arched a drawn-on eyebrow at him. “Thank you, young man. Did you have to harvest the grapes, first?”

Was every woman here, from five to ninety, going to bust his balls? But his lips twitched. “Yes, ma’am. Apologies.”

She patted his arm. “It’s all right. I saw you almost trip over