About MAKE ME SIN
Chloe Carmichael’s life feels pretty sweet—she’s both maid of honor and florist for her best friend’s A-list wedding, things are getting serious with her boyfriend, and her flower shop is about to get a spread in a national magazine. But it all quickly turns sour whenever the best man, Bad Habit drummer A.J. Edwards, shows his face…his handsome, unforgettable face. A.J. is everything Chloe doesn’t want: tattooed, selfish, and all-around bad news. So why can’t she stop thinking about him? Goody two-shoes Chloe isn’t exactly A.J.’s type, either, but the chemistry between them is undeniable. A.J. will be the first to say he isn’t a saint, but there’s something he’s not saying—something that would devastate Chloe. The only way he can protect her is to push her away, but the drummer finds he needs her now more than ever. When a wedding-day confrontation reveals secrets they’re both hiding, will Chloe and A.J. ever find their rhythm again?
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I find myself wandering restlessly around the apartment in the dark, my thoughts drifting.
Until I stop dead in front of the living room window. My skin prickles.
“This is getting to be a thing,” I murmur in disbelief, staring down at the man pacing back and forth under the streetlight across the street. I always thought having a stalker would be an incredibly creepy experience, but then again, I never thought I’d know exactly who my stalker would be. That shaves an edge off the creep factor, leaving me more fascinated than frightened by this new development in my life.
Even at a distance, A.J.’ s agitation is clear.
He paces in long, even strides. He flexes his hands open, then closes them to fists. It appears that he’s muttering to himself. Every few feet he turns abruptly and goes back in the opposite direction, starting the whole process all over again.
Without thinking about what I’m doing, I turn on the lamp beside the window, flooding the room in light.
A.J. stops pacing. He looks up at my window. I stare down at him, waiting, hands shaking, heart racing, wondering if I’ve just made a terrible mistake, while simultaneously not caring if I have.
After a lifetime of holding my breath, I watch as he slowly steps off the curb and crosses the street.
When he’s out of view around the front corner of my building, I run to the front door. I press my ear against it, straining to hear any sound. The elevator was fixed a few weeks ago, so now I can’t hear steps on the stairs, but I do hear the cheerful ding as the elevator stops on my floor and the doors slide open.
It’s a few excruciating moments before heavy footsteps begin to move toward my door.
They pause just outside. My heart feels like a trampoline with a dozen fat ladies jumping up and down on it. After a moment, A.J. says my name. His voice is barely audible. He knows I’m standing here.
I take a deep breath and open the door.
He dwarfs the doorway. He’s in faded jeans, boots, the signature black hoodie that shadows his face. His hands, trembling, hang at his sides. His eyes burn a hole right through me.
In a gravelly voice, he says, “Tell me to leave. Tell me to go away and shut the door in my face.”
Before I can change my mind, I reach out, grab the front of his sweatshirt and gently pull him into my apartment.
He stares down at me with those burning eyes, his face hard. “One last chance. Tell me to leave.”
“I don’t want you to leave.”
Without looking away from me, he swings the door shut behind him with a flick of his hand. We stand for a moment, tension thick between us, until he says, “Bedroom.”
That single, husky word wreaks havoc throughout my body.
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