Junk Mail

It all started with a sexy selfie.

Texted to the wrong number.

Oops.

Not my finest moment—but I have nothing to be ashamed of.

She thought I was no better, and I quote, than the knuckle-dragging douche-bags she was never dating again.

It was a stupid dare from a girl I’d met online, but since she’d given me a fake number, I didn’t feel bad that my interests were suddenly focused elsewhere—on the fiery and sharp-tongued, Peyton that I found myself sparring with over text for the rest of the evening.

The following day, my case of mistaken identity came back to bite me in the banana.

When I strolled into the office, I was introduced to Peyton as the new client I needed to win over. The Peyton , in case you’re not tracking.

And let’s just say she had my full attention.

Brains? Check.

Beauty? Oh yeah.

And the best part? She hated me on sight.

Dear God, do I love a challenge.

Let the games begin.