It Only Takes One
Hot Rock Star To Ruin Your Life…
LEATHER PANTS
Happy Pants #2
Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
Releasing March 3rd, 2017
From
New York Times Bestseller, Mimi Jean Pamfiloff, Comes Book #2 of The Happy
Pants Cafe Series...
It Only Takes One
Hot Rock Star To Ruin Your Life…
The youngest woman to ever sit on the bench, the
Honorable Sarah Rae Alma has busted her butt to get where she is. No fun. No
distractions. And definitely no bad boys. In fact, she takes a certain pleasure
in crushing their souls—yes, she has her reasons.
So when rock-n-roll’s most famous bad boy, the
legendary Colton Young, enters her court, looking hotter than sin and smugger
than hell, she’s just itching to serve a little justice.
But Sarah’s about to make the biggest mistake of
her life. And her fate will land squarely in the hands of the world’s most
notorious rock star rebel.
Will he crush her? Or will he tempt her to take a
walk on the wild side?
EXCERPT
No. Fuck no. Not this guy again. The
Honorable Sarah Rae Alma of San Francisco County Superior Court blinked at her
trial schedule, hoping and praying with every fiber of her being that her
overworked eyes were playing tricks.
With hesitation, she glanced at her
paperwork again.
Dammit! Someone must’ve switched her
schedule at the last minute. She quickly went into panic mode, resisting the
urge to pinch her cheeks or reach into her robe for a boob-perk, all to feel
marginally hotter—the best a woman could hope for when wearing a black
muumuu—for the man, the god, the legend about to enter her courtroom.
At least I’m appropriately dressed for
my own personal nightmare, she thought, vowing not to think about what happened
last time.
Career-cluster to the F-th degree.
Sarah straightened the pale-blue scarf
around her neck and smoothed back the loose strands of her frizzy ponytail,
preparing for his entrance. An entrance that melted panties, made women ovulate
in triplicate, and sent any alpha males in the vicinity scurrying for the
closest rock.
Why didn’t I put on makeup? Or touch
up my roots? She was naturally a brunette, but had decided on a whim last month
to go redder, hoping it might bring out her blue eyes and amp up her sex
appeal.
Useless.
Men still treated her like a bucket of
crusty scabs. All because she had the power to put them in jail for life.
Losers. Like she’d ever do that unless they showed up in her court, guilty of
felony charges. But something about dating a woman with that kind of power
freaked men the hell out.
Speaking of freaking out, why didn’t I
shave this morning? She could never be at her maximum confidence with hairy
legs.
All right, Sarah, enough. You don’t
really care about looking hot. You can’t stand bad boys. You crush them into
tiny pieces and feed them to the legal system. You make them cry for their
mothe—
“Your Honor?” snapped Maria Gomez, the
bailiff, who was a five-foot-five, middle-aged mother of two and one tough nut.
Nobody messed with Maria. The beige uniform made her look especially
intimidating.
Sarah whipped her head up to find the
entire courtroom staring, including the jury, while the closed-circuit camera
rolled in the back.
With her long black sleeve, Sarah
mopped the sweat from her brow and then inched her index finger at Maria.
“Me?” Maria glanced side to side and
pointed to herself.
“Yes, you,” Sarah whispered.
Maria hitched up her heavy belt that
included mace and a revolver and approached the bench.
“Why the hell wasn’t I told that he’d
be coming to my court again?” Sarah grinned through clenched teeth.
Maria shrugged. “I don’t know, Your
Honor.”
“Don’t you ‘Your Honor’ me,” she
hissed. “We had mojitos last night. And an entire jarra.” Maria held the unique
honor of being one of Sarah’s closest friends and her landlord. About a year
ago, Sarah had moved into the three-story Victorian, renting the one-bedroom
apartment on the top floor. It was a steal of a price, close to the cable car
line, and had a gorgeous view of the Marina District. Don’t forget the
home-cooked meals. Another plus. Just last night, Maria and her hubby, Franco,
had made Sarah an early b-day dinner because they couldn’t find a sitter for
tonight’s official birthday outing. “We all know you’ll only stay out for forty
minutes, anyway,” Maria had said last night, poking fun at Sarah’s
stick-in-the-mudness. Sarah preferred the word responsible or focused. And
staying out all night drinking to celebrate one more year on the planet? Waste
of time. She had work to do, cases to review, bad guys to sentence.
Maria leaned into the bench a little
closer toward Sarah. “I heard that he pulled some strings to get you.”
“Me?” Sarah whispered. “I don’t
believe that.” Defendants didn’t get to pick and choose their judges. In any
case, having him in her court again spelled danger for her career. The last
time he had been here for auto theft—where a hundred-thousand-dollar Mercedes
took a swim in a lake—resulted in three weeks of tabloid torture. “Judge
Alma-drool.” “Judge All-buttered-up.” “Judge All-but-spread-her-legs.” The
rag-mags had taken their teeth to her and masticated hard.
Hold it together, girl. You went to
Harvard. You’re a judge. You. Are. Unshakable.
“I don’t know why he’d push for you,”
Maria replied. “Maybe he thinks you’re hot. But Judge Wright will make sure
you’re suspended if you lose it again, so stay calm.”
“I did not lose it!” she whispered.
“The last time he was here I…” Sarah’s words faded as the doors to the back of
her courtroom flew open and everyone fell into a deathlike hush.
“Wow,” Maria gasped.
Forget “wow.” Can I get a holy fuck?
Colton Young’s epic man-bod stood
smack in the center of the doorway, his long waves of chestnut hair falling to
his broad shoulders, his black leather pants slung low around his hips, and his
espresso-colored T-shirt just tight enough to show off the lean hard body
underneath. Colton’s arms didn’t have the requisite shoulder-to-wrist musician
tattoos, but the man had muscle. Lots and lots of lean, hard muscle.
“He looks like a god,” Sarah muttered
under her breath, unable to contain the pinball action in her stomach—pings and
pops, little rubber flippers going crazy, and a steel ball ricocheting all
over.
Colton whipped off his mirrored
sunglasses, and his intense hazel eyes shot straight to Sarah’s face like a
wolf homing in on an object it had yet to decide what to do with. Kill. Fuck.
Ignore. Piss on.
Mimi Jean
Pamfiloff is
a USA Today and New York Times bestselling
romance author. Although she obtained her MBA and worked for more than fifteen
years in the corporate world, she believes that it’s never too late to come out
of the romance closet and follow your dream. Mimi lives with her Latin Lover
hubby, two pirates-in-training (their boys), and the rat terrier duo, Snowflake
and Mini Me, in Arizona. She hopes to make you laugh when you need it most and
continues to pray daily that leather pants will make a big comeback for men.
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