Patrick: That hair. That fucking hair. It was everywhere, always, and I wanted to tangle my fingers in those dark curls and pull—and that would be fine if she wasn't my apprentice. Andy Asani was nothing like I expected. She was exotic and scary-brilliant, and the slightest murmur from those lips sent hot, hungry lust swirling through my veins.
Andy: My wants were few—good eats, tall boots, sweaty yoga, interesting work. One incredibly hot architect with the most expressive hazel eyes I ever encountered and entirely too much talent in and out of the bedroom wasn't part of the original plan. Wine was my rabbi and vodka was my therapist, and I would need plenty of both to survive my apprenticeship. Especially with Patrick Walsh leaving love notes in the form of bite marks all over my body.
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