Twisted Hate (Twisted 3)

She wouldn’t. No fucking way.

“I’m sorry for interrupting your happy hour, but I’ll keep this quick.” Jules’s voice rang through the now silent bar, clear and strong but with a touch of vulnerability that had everyone leaning in to hear more.

“Long story short, I just got out of a long, terrible relationship, and my friend”—she gestured toward me, causing dozens of heads to swivel in my direction—“reminded me the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. So I’m looking for a rebound.” The mix of studied hesitation and suggestiveness in her voice was enough to drive any red-blooded male crazy. Goddammit, she was good. “If you’re interested in a no strings attached night or two, give me your number. Thank you.”

Straight to the point, even if the point was a false one. Classic Jules.

The bar reverberated with stunned silence for one, two, three beats before pandemonium broke out. Cheers and applause rang through the space while dozens of men rushed toward her, nearly tripping over themselves in their haste to be her “rebound.”

I shook my head, unable to process what was happening. I felt like I’d just been dropped into the middle of a farfetched movie scene. I wouldn’t have believed it had I not witnessed it with my own eyes.

Of course that was Jules’s plan. She was the only person I knew who could pull off such a move.

She caught my eye over the crowd, her face glowing with triumph. Sucks to lose, she mouthed.

It did. I hated losing. But I couldn’t even be mad because what she just did? Fucking genius.

I rubbed a hand over my mouth, unable to hold back a laugh of grudging admiration.

Jules Ambrose was something else.