ROMeANTICALLY CHALLENGED. Marina Adair

she’d been sporting a minute ago, but he liked Hot Nurse Annie almost as much as Stripper Annie.

      Almost.

      “But just the message from Sweet P will do for now.” He shoved the remaining sticky notes into her hands. When she didn’t move to take them, he sighed. “Seriously, you’ve been squatting in my place for what?” He looked around at the cozy little nest she’d made for herself. “Six months?”

      “Six weeks.”

      “You did all this in six weeks?”

      His normally sparse cabin was decorated with minimal furniture, minimal fuss, and minimal effort. All he wanted was a quiet street with unobstructed views of nature. It was the one place on the planet he could decompress, find a sense of balance and peace.

      There wasn’t a shred of peace left. Every surface held a picture frame or stack of old books. His beer stein collection was hidden behind sparkly wine flutes. And the usual scent of cedar was now masked by some kind of flowery candle. Probably the light purple ones burning on his mantle beneath his stuffed moose head.

      He blinked—twice. “When did I get a mantle?”

      She shrugged.

      Then there was his couch. His very manly leather, made for watching hockey and Bear Grylls couch was barely visible beneath 137 throw pillows and a matching blue blanket.

      And not a masculine dark blue either. Not even superhero blue. Nope, the big fuzzy atrocity was the same light blue as those jewelry boxes women go bonkers for. And don’t even get him started on the twinkle lights dangling from Bull’s antlers.

      Emmitt had barely been upright when he’d arrived from the airport, so he hadn’t noticed the changes. But now they intruded so violently, it was triggering a migraine.

      “It’s not permanent, so when I go, it goes.”

      At least she was honest about her crimes. Other people, he’d witnessed firsthand over the years, would go to great lengths to hide them.

      “Then reading me one message is the least you can do for emasculating Bull”—he pointed to the moose—“and violating the privacy of my messages.”

      “Your voice mail is apparently full, so they started calling here. All hours of the night, ringing and ringing, so I began jotting down messages. And you emasculated him when you stuck his head on your wall as a trophy.” She took the stack and flipped through it, huffing the entire time. Then handed a sticky note to him. “Here it is. Sweet P.”

      “Bull isn’t real, and he was a gift. Now, could you read it aloud to me?” There went the stubborn set of her chin again. “I don’t have my contacts in and I don’t know where my glasses are,” he lied.

      With an exasperated sigh, Annie took the note.

      “She’s called a million times—her words, not mine—about this dress she’s just got to have, again her words, not mine.” To his relief, she didn’t do some kind of sex operator impersonation. “She’s saving you the first dance. How sweet.” She looked up. “Although, I bet Tiffani will have a problem coming in second.”

      Shit. He’d been looking forward to this dance for a long time, and he would be pissed if he missed it. “Did she say when the dance was?”

      “No. Now, is that all, or do you want me to recite her number too?”

      “I know it.”

      She considered that. “Do you know all of their numbers?”

      “Nope.” He smiled. “Just Sweet P’s.”

      Paisley’s was the only one that mattered.

      “You might want to tell the others so they stop calling. It only leads to misunderstandings,” she said, all kind of hoity-toity in her tone.

      “So does pigeonholing,” he said without further explanation, impressed by the way she managed to look both accusatory and apologetic.

      It wasn’t his fault Annie had jumped to conclusions. Emmitt worked hard to ensure that when it came to the most important person in his world there were zero misunderstandings—Paisley Rhodes-Bradley was his everything. His beautiful surprise of a daughter who owned his heart.

      “Is the woman who’s holding a bridal dress hostage judging me?”

      “It’s. My. Dress!” She stuck the message to his chest.

      “So you said earlier. I don’t think Clark got the memo.” He pulled off a blank note and stuck it to her collarbone. “Maybe you should write it down for him.”

      She looked at the sticky note, then up at him through her raised brows. Neither gave an inch until the tension between them became murderous. Then she smiled, a bite-me smile that was surprisingly a turn-on.

      “That’s great advice, Emmitt.” She grabbed a pen, scribbled something, then held it up.

      “Fuck off?” He read with a chuckle. “Simple, straightforward, and leaves zero room for misinterpretation. I approve. Do you need an envelope and stamp?”

      “It was meant for you.” She tried to stick it to his forehead but she was too short, so she settled on his chin. His five o’clock shadow was too much for the glue, and they both watched it flutter to the floor. “I would never say that to a friend.”

      “Maybe you should try. Because from where I’m standing, he isn’t a very good friend.”

      “Just because it turned out he’s not my guy doesn’t make him a bad guy,” she said, trying to defend something that, in Emmitt’s opinion, was not defendable. But he’d learned from experience, and she was going to have to come to that conclusion on her own.

      “All I’m saying is, exes can’t be friends.”

      “How about all of those.” She pointed to the stack of sticky notes. “They seemed ready to get friendly.”

      “Those aren’t exes. They’re friends.” He wiggled a brow and she smacked his hand, sending to the floor the notes he was holding.

      “Then why don’t you give one of them a call, see if they want to share a bed with you? Because I don’t, and yours came as part of the rental agreement.”

      Emmitt choked on the residual bubbles stuck in his throat. “What?”

      “Oh yeah,” she purred. “If you want, I can write down the day my lease is up. That way you’ll know how many friends you need to have lined up. I’ll even read it to you.”

      Emmitt rarely spent more than a few weeks in Rome at any one time. In fact, since he’d purchased the house a decade ago, he’d spent more time overseas on assignment than in his cabin. So he’d sometimes rent it out as a rustic Airbnb, splitting the profits with his buddy Levi, who managed things while he was gone.

      “How much time left on your vacation? Morning snuggles for a few days won’t be so bad. I’ll even let you be the big spoon.”

      She moved until she was practically shrink-wrapped to his body. “I’m sure Tiffany wouldn’t mind spooning. But be careful. She might turn into one of those Crazy Cuties.”

      “I’m leaving in a few weeks.” As soon as he got a doctor to sign off so he could go back to work. His editor was intentionally following every rule to the letter. No doctor’s clearance, no more assignments for her news desk. Including the one he’d been injured researching.

      Carmen was a perfect example of why exes should never remain friends. Three years later, she was still holding his nuts to the fire because he’d moved on more quickly than the Girlfriend’s Guide to Breakups thought respectful.

      “Have a nice stay in Rome.” Annie gently took the beer bottle from his fingers. “My lease lasts for another four months and I’m not leaving.”

      With that she swished her ass all