And I can’t f**k the enemy.

At least I don’t think I can.

“You’re actually one of the counselors here?” I ask, my voice dripping with skepticism, because I truly am not ready to believe this woman won’t be lying beneath me tonight.

She merely gives me a bland smile and says, “I can assure you, I’m a counselor here.”

“You don’t even look old enough to be out of high school,” I mutter.

“I’m twenty-two and just finished my master’s degree. I’m qualified.”

“Twenty-two and a master’s degree?” I ask skeptically.

“I started my master’s coursework while still in undergrad. It took me about a year to finish it after I graduated.”

I study her hard, pinning her with an icy look. It’s made many women cry and some men quake in their boots. She just cocks an eyebrow at me and returns my gaze.

“Look, you might as well know I’m here under protest.”

“Really?” she asks, her voice satiny smooth but filled with sarcasm. “I would never have guessed.”

“You’ll find out soon enough that I’m not easy to work with.”

“I’ve had experience with difficult people.”

“I probably won’t show up half the time you’re expecting me and the other half I’ll be a prick.”

“At least you’ve given me a heads-up.”

Christ. Didn’t this woman know when to be daunted by something?

Sighing loudly, I lean back in my chair and cross my hands over my stomach. Searching her face, I look for some sign of weakness that I can exploit. A trigger…an insecurity…something I can do to get under her skin the way she is apparently getting under mine.

I get nothing but a pleasant smile and an unbelievable pair of green-gold eyes that pop because they’re surrounded by a mass of copper-colored hair.

Fuck. I’m crankier than normal because I’m attracted to this woman, in a way I don’t quite recall being attracted to anyone in a very long time. That puzzles me, intrigues me slightly but, yup, mainly it pisses me off.

Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out an envelope and pass it across the desk to her. “This is from Walt Prestonwood—general manager of the Cold Fury.”

She takes it from me with curiosity and I watch as she takes a letter opener and breaks the seal. I don’t know what’s inside, but I have a very good idea. I watch her face carefully as she pulls out a single sheet of paper. I can see the Fury’s logo on the front and typed words, but past that the content is a mystery.

Her eyes fly back and forth across the page as she reads, her eyebrows tilting inward. When she gets done, she surprises the shit out of me and hands the paper across the desk. Grabbing it from her hand, I read it quickly and it’s as I thought it would be. A letter to her explaining that the team is hoping this outreach opportunity can be used to help clean up my image, that I am here under protest and that the team would like Miss Price to report weekly on my behavior. It’s basically their secret way to keep their thumb on top of me, and I am absolutely stunned that she would let me read it. Particularly because the last line says, I would ask that you keep this letter private and not share it with Mr. Crossman.

“I’m not happy to have to be your babysitter,” she says and my eyes snap up to hers.

“I’m not exactly thrilled about it either,” I tell her honestly.

Then she looks at me, with her head tilted to the side. “So, what’s your deal? Are you the team’s bad boy or something?”

“Something like that,” I mutter, not willing to expound on the millions of reasons I’m sitting here. “Apparently I have a bit of an attitude problem.”

Then Sutton does something that I don’t think I’ll ever forget as long as I live. She smiles at me, in a mischievous way, her eyes going more gold than green. She’s so f**king beautiful in this very moment, my breath actually catches.

“I can deal with attitude,” she says with a wink. “Makes things interesting.”

I start to open my mouth—to say what, I don’t know—but then she says, “But seriously, Mr. Crossman—”

“Alex,” I say.

“Alex,” she says with a nod of her head. “If you truly don’t want to do this, I think you’ll only do more harm than good. We’ll be speaking to kids about drug addiction. They’ll spot a phony a mile away. They need to believe us. They need to trust us.”

For the first time in years—many years—I feel something close to shame creep up the back of my neck. I’ve been an ass, a prick and an overall schmuck to many, many people in my life, because I act out my anger and daddy issues toward others. But never once did I feel shame or even the slightest bit of guilt for my actions.

Yet, here I am now, and Sutton Price is making me feel pretty f**king small.

The Alex Crossman who lives in Asshole Land would have come back at her with a snide remark, followed up with a punch to her self-esteem.

Instead, I say, “I’m here under protest because they’re making me do this. But given the opportunity to volunteer for a project like this, I would have done it in a heartbeat. I may have an attitude problem, Miss Price—”

“Sutton,” she says with a smile.

“Sutton,” I acknowledge, “but I do think this is a worthy cause. If I have to do it, you need to know that I’ll put the effort into it and it will be sincere. I wouldn’t do anything to f**k a kid over—ever.”