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I’d walked her to her door, thanked her for a great night, and gone home.

Alone.

Again.

I hadn’t slept with anyone in almost a year.

A year.

For me, that was practically grounds for a congressional investigation.

The opportunities were there. The interest wasn't. Something had changed, and I couldn't put my finger on it.

Maybe I was growing up.

God forbid.

Or maybe I was finally tired of being the guy everybody wanted at the party, but nobody expected to stick around when the music stopped.

I took a long pull of beer.

If someone asked me, I’d say I wasn’t having a midlife crisis, at least not the kind that required a cherry-red convertible or a hair transplant. I was only thirty, hardly time to panic yet.

But there were days, increasingly frequent, where I’d catch myself staring out at the blue horizon, bottle in hand, and wonder if this was what life was always going to be. The heartbreaker, the party guy, the go-to MC for every wedding, funeral, and block party this side of Tillamook County. Lately, even the punchlines tasted like stale bread. I’d laugh, so would everyone else, but in the quiet after, I’d feel less like a man and more like an echo.

I was mid-existential crisis when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her. The woman who had been haunting me for nearly two years.

Mikayla Parsons walked into the welcome BBQ, and my identity crisis took a backseat to the tidal wave of adrenaline that hit every time I saw her.

Mikayla was the kind of woman you’d use as a stress test for your cardiovascular system. Curves that would make a monk sweat. She was equal parts elegance and sexiness. Intelligence and swag. Humor and heart. The only woman in the past year my head, heart, or hormones had shown any interest in.

Her hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, exposing the elegant line of her neck that dared you to underestimate her. The sun bounced off her golden skin, and when she moved, you could see muscles in her arms that belonged to either a gymnast or a supervillain.

And just like that, every other woman in the world ceased to exist.

There went my blood pressure.

She stepped onto the deck like she owned the ranch, the county, and possibly the state of Oregon.

Which, considering her net worth, wasn't entirely outside the realm of possibility.

She wore a crisp white shirt, and form-fitting black pants that fit so perfectly I considered writing their manufacturer a thank-you note. She was all confidence and control, with a body built for sin and a face that made a man forget his own name.

Big brown Bambi eyes. Long, silky dark brunette hair. Full lips. And dimples so deep you could lose your better judgment in them. They appeared so rarely I considered them an endangered species.

I'd spent two years trying to coax those dimples out of hiding.

With limited success.

Mikayla Parsons was brilliant, beautiful, intimidating as hell, and the only woman I'd ever met who seemed completely immune to my charm.

A tragic flaw in an otherwise perfect woman.

She was also the co-CEO of St. Claire Global, the company my half-brother, Deacon, had inherited after his adoptive parents died.

Deacon was a billionaire in his own right and had about as much interest in running the family corporation as I did in taking up competitive knitting. So, he'd handed the reins to Mikayla, who'd worked her way up through the company and had been his father's right hand for years.

Deacon had only found our family two years ago, after discovering his birth mother—our mom—was alive and well. Mom had given him up for adoption when she was a teenager, and his return had changed all our lives.