Swear by Adriana Locke Release

Ellie Pagan has a list of reasons to stay away from Ford

Landry.

It’s a mile long and was so much easier to stick to when he

was a world away. Now that he’s standing in front of her—body hard and chiseled

from a stint in the military, suit cut to perfection, and a smirk she could

never resist—remembering all the reasons why just got a whole lot harder.

Ford gets Ellie isn’t his biggest fan. He just doesn’t care.

Standing in front of him, giving him hell, she’s even

prettier than he remembered. All he can think about is how she felt in his

arms, the taste of her kiss, the sound of her giggle in the middle of the

night. He may not know how to win her back, but he does know this: he may have

let her go once, but that’s one mistake he won’t make again.

It’s impossible

not to smile that he remembered my drink of choice. It’s also hopeless to

pretend that the boyish grin he’s flipping me doesn’t melt away some of the ice

around my heart.

Still, I

don’t want to play nice.

“I already

had coffee today. But thank you,” I say politely.

“No

offense, but you are kind of irritable this morning. Maybe you could use

another shot of caffeine.”

“You think

I’m irritable now? Keep it up.”

“You never

were a morning person,” he laughs. “Some things never change.”

“And some

things do,” I point out, giving him a look. “Seriously, why are you here?”

“I have

business with Violet. Remember?”

“That’s

bullshit anyway, but she’s not here. You’ll have to come back later.”

“Is that an

invitation?” he laughs.

“Did it

sound like one?” My arms cross over my chest and I’m aware it makes my boobs

look bigger. As his eyes drop and catch the top of my cleavage, his gaze burns

a trail on the ascent back up to my eyes.

Satisfaction

paints a smug look on my face and desire burns in the apex of my thighs. As

discreetly as possible, I clench my legs together to quell a bit of the ache

that’s beginning to throb under his observation.

When our

gazes meet, his is crackling. He lifts a single brow. “I damn sure hope that’s

an offer to come. If it’s not, we have a problem on our hands.”

“No, you have a problem on your hands,” I

say, shrugging. “It has nothing to do with me.”

“It could.”