Sweet Thing. Nicola Marsh

is when you’re married to a cold, heartless dweeb because it seemed the right thing to do at the time.’

      Even now I could see that day so clearly. The rear garden of my parents’ harbourside mansion converted into a winter wonderland. Massive marquees. White chiffon draping everything. Fairy lights twinkling in the perfectly manicured trees. Five hundred of their closest acquaintances. And Bardley, waiting at the altar, staring at me with avarice, like he’d scored a prized portfolio.

      I should’ve made a run for it then. But I’d been a people-pleaser to the end, and given up my soul in the process.

      Never, ever, again.

      ‘I thought women viewed marriage as hearts and flowers and all that crap, not something to do because it’s right.’ He made cutesy inverted comma signs with his fingers. ‘Want to talk about it?’

      His mouth eased into a sexy smile. ‘Tell Uncle Tanner all your dirty little secrets.’

      If he only knew.

      ‘No dirt and it’s not a secret. Married at twenty-one to a guy I’d virtually grown up with. Family friends. Our folks pushed us together constantly so it seemed like a natural progression to get married.’

      My chest tightened at the memory of what had happened after I’d said ‘I do’. Of how Bardley had morphed into a sadistic, controlling monster. ‘Moved into Vaucluse. Perfect house. Perfect life. Except it wasn’t so perfect...’

      I trailed off, wondering why the hell I was revealing all this to a virtual stranger. Then again, maybe that was the attraction. I didn’t know Tanner and he knew jack about me. Today was a turning point for me. Proof that I’d walked away from my old life. I’d been counting down the days until I was officially divorced and who knew? Maybe once I’d purged all the crap I’d bottled up for so long I might be able to finally accept that the past didn’t control me any more.

      ‘Did the bastard hit you?’ Tanner growled, and I glanced up, surprised to see his hands clenched into fists. ‘I don’t care if you’re divorced. Tell me where to find the prick and I’ll beat him to a pulp.’

      ‘Whoa, he-man.’ I held up my hands. ‘Bardley was emotionally and verbally abusive, but he never laid a finger on me.’

      ‘That other shit’s just as bad,’ he muttered, his hands relaxing a little. ‘What kind of a dickhead name is Bardley, anyway?’

      I smiled, his ferociousness as sexy as the rest of him.

      ‘“That other shit” is why I left him. It got to a point where I couldn’t take it any more...’ I shook my head, remembering the exact moment I’d taken control of my life.

      He’d belittled me in front of his friends, forcing me to try water-skiing when he knew I was petrified of any water above bathtub level. I ended up spraining my wrist after taking a bad tumble the first time I tried to stand on the skis. It had been a suspected fracture. Bardley had mocked me. Been totally indifferent to my pain. Had called me names.

      I’d packed with my one good hand that night and taken a cab to a motel. Spent a good hour emptying my bank accounts and maxing out my credit cards by paying a top lawyer most of his fee in advance.

      I regretted being a fool. Being the kind of woman to put up with that treatment from anyone. Then again, I’d been doing it my entire life, so I guess my idiocy had been ingrained from birth.

      ‘So what’s the plan?’

      ‘Plan?’ I mimicked, coming back to the present, almost surprised to find myself sitting at a harbourside café on a glorious spring day with a seriously hot guy.

      ‘To celebrate your divorce.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You have got something in mind to celebrate, right?’

      ‘I’d envisaged leaving the patisserie early tonight to kick back with a spectacular red wine and Channing Tatum, but it looks like I’ll be stuck working ’til late, taking over Remy’s duties and prepping for tomorrow.’

      He rolled his eyes, his upper lip curled in derision. ‘What is it with women and Channing Tatum?’

      ‘Hot bod. Chiselled jaw. And the guy has the moves. What’s not to like?’

      ‘He’s a fantasy.’ He sniggered, a decidedly wicked sound. ‘Wouldn’t you prefer a real man?’

      I saw the challenge in Tanner’s unwavering stare. Taunting me. Encouraging me to say yes.

      I knew what he was offering.

      A night of debauchery.

      A night to wipe away sour memories of my marriage.

      A night to come alive.

      But I had to work with this guy for the next four weeks. Remy was depending on me, and no way in hell would I screw up his faith in me by screwing his brother.

      ‘I’d prefer if we drank our coffees and got back to the patisserie,’ I said, exhaling in relief when the waitress appeared to place our order on the table.

      ‘Fair enough,’ he said, but he wasn’t done yet. The twinkle in his eyes alerted me to the fact that every second I had to spend with him over the next month would be pure, unadulterated torture. ‘But if you want to ditch the fantasy in favour of the real thing, you know where to find me.’

      He picked up his small coffee cup and raised it in my direction. ‘Here’s to a good working relationship, real-life celebrations and finding the elusive peg leg.’

      I choked on my first sip of latte and he laughed, a low, sexy chuckle that sent a jolt of longing through me.

      Yeah, it was going to be a long four weeks.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      Tanner

      I TOOK ONE step into Le Miel and wished I’d said hell no when Remy asked me to help him out.

      There was a reason I avoided the patisserie. With its polished honey floorboards, sunlight spilling inside and the tempting aromas of warm yeast and sugar heavy in the air, it reminded me of home.

      Of Mum.

      I’d been ten when she died, twenty long years ago. My memories of her might have faded with time but I’d never forget standing next to her in the kitchen while she baked. Passing her cups of flour. Gently handling eggs. Having my own board to roll pastry on. Licking icing from my sticky fingers.

      Our kitchen had been huge, almost industrial-sized. Mum had run a makeshift cupcake business from home but mostly she’d loved to cook. It was her passion, like she’d been my father’s, the Frenchwoman who’d stolen his heart on a gap-year trip to Paris.

      Pity the romance hadn’t lasted.

      From what Remy told me, Dad had taken one look at Claudette Allard and she’d become the number one woman in his life. They’d married in two months, had Remy a year later and I’d arrived five years later. And from what I’d overheard that fateful day Mum had died, everything had turned to shit about then.

      Dad avoided the kitchen and even as a youngster I’d been glad. We were happier when he wasn’t around, me, Mum and Remy.

      I’d loved those days when we’d all be in there together: Mum smacking my hand for sneaking a croissant before it had cooled. Remy helping me with a tricky letter on the icing. Me proudly presenting Mum with her favourite chocolate cupcake that I’d baked from scratch. Just the three of us, laughing and joking around. Happy. Together.

      Until that day I’d heard my parents argue, the kind of argument that had imprinted on my brain no matter how many times, how many drinks and how many women I’d used to dislodge it. The day Mum had been so upset she’d rushed out of the house, got in her car and been killed in a crash, leaving us with Dad.

      And my hell had