The Burn List Read online

  The Burn List

  Jennifer Dawson

  Contents

  Praise for Jennifer Dawson

  The Burn List

  1. Abby

  2. Lukas

  3. Lukas

  4. Lukas

  5. Lukas

  6. Lukas

  7. Abby

  8. Abby

  9. Lukas

  10. Abby

  11. Abby

  Thanks for reading

  Internet Stalking Made Easy

  Also by Jennifer Dawson

  Step into Crave

  Step into Walk of Shame

  About the Author

  COPYRIGHT

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author has asserted their rights under the Copyright Designs and Patent Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book.

  Copyright © 2017 Jennifer Dawson

  Edited by Mary Moran

  Cover Design by Kristin Clifton, Sweet Bird Designs

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Created with Vellum

  To those of you who have been with me since the beginning.

  Because sometimes it’s nice to visit an old favorite.

  Praise for Jennifer Dawson

  USA TODAY calls Crave and Taken a must-read romance

  “Crave gets the balance between lust filled scenes and a meaningful plot just right. Neither takes from the other and together they just add up to a very satisfying and emotional read.” —Between My Lines

  “If you love Foster, Kaye and Dawson’s Something New series you’ll love Crave and the Undone series.” —Caffeinated Book Reviewer.

  “Every character in this book (Sinful) is amazingly written. ” —Bookish Bevil

  “You know why I love this author? She takes something absolutely mundane like a “Best Friend’s Sister” romance and turns it into a masterpiece.” —For the Love of Fictional Worlds

  “Crave by Jennifer Dawson is a darkly erotic and deeply moving romance.”-—Romance Novel News

  “Jennifer Dawson’s Sinful has amazing scenes that get my heart beating and calls for a cold shower, but the love story that is evolving between Leo and Jillian is amazing.”—Courting Fiction

  The Burn List

  After spending my thirtieth birthday with my parents, and drowning my sorrows in a bottle of tequila and splash of margarita mix, I know something has to change. All I want is a little excitement, one chance to go wild before I settle back into my regularly scheduled life. Fueled by liquid courage, I set about giving myself the perfect gift, my bad-boy neighbor, firefighter Lukas Marlow.

  Sure, I like an intoxicated girl looking to turn her fantasies into reality as much as the next man, but this is sweet little Abby Simmons and on the do-not-touch list. Since I’m a nice guy and refuse to take advantage of her, I offer a compromise to her unexpected offer. Sleep it off, and if she hasn’t changed her mind in the light of day, I’ll fulfill all her dirty desires. Seemed reasonable, I mean, she’s such a good girl it’s not like she’ll ever take me on it.

  My plan is perfect... until right about the time she emails me her sexual to-do list.

  **Please note: This book has been previously published under my original pen name, Julia Devlin. It has been edited and updated, but the general story has remained unchanged.**

  1

  Abby

  Today is my thirtieth birthday. It’s seven thirty.

  Guess where I am? Go ahead, guess.

  I’m home. About to get out of my car, walk up my sidewalk, and into my empty, silent house.

  Talk about wild. Am I right?

  To make matters worse, there’s been absolutely nothing special about the day. Nothing to distinguish it from any other boring day of my life. Well, unless I count the piece of double-chocolate fudge cake I’d devoured.

  Normally, I don’t let myself have dessert. But it is my birthday, after all.

  I slam the door to my practical Honda Civic and start the depressing trek to my front door. What’s happened to me? Where is the exciting life I’d dreamed about? Sure, being a foreign war correspondent that travels the globe and has a man in every city might be a little unrealistic, but I haven’t done one exciting thing in my whole miserable life.

  Weary, I sigh, long and deep and mournful. It’s official. I’m throwing myself a nice little pity party and, you know what, I intend to enjoy every minute of it.

  “Hey, Abby.” Lukas Marlow’s head shoots up over the bushes separating our houses.

  I jump, dropping my workbag on the sidewalk at my feet. I screech, “Don’t scare me like that!”

  From behind the shrubs, my neighbor rises like a Greek god to his full six feet four inches.

  Of course he’s shirtless. Of course he’s gorgeous. Why wouldn’t he be?

  The universe is a cruel and twisted place.

  All those toned muscles, honed by hours in the gym to stay in shape for his heroic rescues as a firefighter, gleam in the fading evening sun. Taunting me.

  A deep dimple on his left cheek creases when he smiles. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. How’s the birthday girl?”

  I’m in a foul mood, and all I want is to snarl, but it’s not his fault I had a shitty birthday. Nope, I have no one to blame for that but myself. So like a good, sane neighbor, I bite back my retort, pick up my bag and sling it over my shoulder. “No worries. I’m all good.”

  Why did he have to be so freakin’ good-looking? With his stupid chiseled jaw, full mouth, thick brown hair and hypnotic matching eyes. He’s the poster child for tall, dark and dangerous.

  And he had to go and live next door to me!

  A constant, humiliating reminder that he has no interest in me, while I practically salivate every time I see him, like Pavlov’s dog. It had taken me six months of run-ins before I could talk to him without stammering like an idiot.

  And believe me, he does not suffer the same affliction. Nope. Not even a little bit. I can’t decide if he treats me more like an elderly neighbor or a little sister. It’s a toss up. But with every respectful word he utters I want to punch him.

  That dimple still on full display, he winks. “How was dinner with your parents?”

  I wrinkle my nose. What was there to say about dinner? Other than singing “Happy Birthday” they’d spent the rest of the time dealing with my big sister’s latest drama.

  Eden always steals the show.

  And like the good, dutiful daughter I am, I sat quietly, nursing one glass of wine and thinking I’d rather be curled up on my couch watching TV. Not that I’m about to make that pathetic confession. I shrug. “No big deal.”

  Those dark brown eyes sparkle with friendliness. “So, the big three-o… You stopping home before heading out on the town for a wild night?”

  Ha! My wild nights consisted of watching The Late Show with Stephan Colbert followed by reading in bed before drifting off to sleep. “Nope, I have to work tomorrow.”

  A grin Lukas probably reserves for returning lost kittens to their elderly owners flashes across his stupidly gorgeous face. “Saving your celebrating for the weekend, huh?”

  Oh yeah. Totally wild and crazy. My current weekend plans include going to a movie with my best friend Janet.

  Oh my god, I need a new life.

  Not that I’d ever confess how truly boring I am with a man whose weekends probably consist of nonstop sex romps and a couple of orgies thrown in for goo
d measure. The last thing I need is his pity on Sunday when I catch him pushing his latest glamour girl out the door.

  With considerable sarcasm, I say, “You know me, one party after another.”

  He runs a hand over his washboard stomach, wiping away the dirt that clings to his perfect body.

  Hell, if I got to touch that, I’d cling too.

  “Good for you, but remember what I told you,” he says, completely missing my scorn.

  Ah yes, the icing on the cake. The continued proof he barely sees me as a woman. This is our little game, and even though it annoys me, I parrot back his favorite line. “Yeah, yeah… Stay away from guys like you.”

  “Good girl.” Lukas is a whole three years older than me, and therefore has taken it upon himself to act like my much older, much wiser brother.

  It makes me want to jab him with a sharp object.

  Boy, thirty is making me unreasonable.

  “Sure,” I say, wanting to get away from this miserable conversation. I turn, starting back up my front walk.

  “Happy birthday, Abby,” he calls.

  I wave over my shoulder, wishing I could flip him off without looking like a lunatic. Instead I’ll settle for a fast getaway. In ballet flats that look fashionable on other women but sensible on me, I bound up the stairs two at a time, desperate for the comfort of my house. Moments later, I shut out the outside world and slump against my door.

  This sucks.

  At fifteen, I’d lie on my bed and dream of the day I’d be free. I’d travel to exotic lands, go to fantastic parties where some mysterious, powerful man would sweep me away. Obviously I’d spent too much time sneaking my mother’s Harlequins, but at least I’d had dreams.

  Now, fifteen years later, I’m a bored, dissatisfied thirty-year-old accountant who’s never really done anything remotely interesting. What happened to that girl who’d craved adventure? I throw my purse on the foyer table, kick off my shoes and pad into the living room.

  Unable to help myself, I walk to the big picture window, watching as Lukas attacks his bushes with a hedger. Those heavily muscled biceps bunch under the exertion, gleaming with sweat. The scene has all the makings of good porn, but I can’t enjoy it.

  God, I hate him.

  Sick of my own pathetic thoughts, I turn away from the window and stomp into the kitchen, yanking open the refrigerator. I reach for some water only to freeze when a bottle of readymade margarita mix I’d forgotten catches my eye.

  I stare at it. A good stiff drink, that’s what I need. I nibble on my bottom lip. Do I really want to be one of those people who drink alone? That’s drifting dangerously into Eden territory, a fate I avoid at all costs.

  Ah, what the hell. One time won’t hurt. I’m tired of feeling sorry for myself. Alcohol is bound to help.

  I pull out the bottle; grab the tequila hidden in my top cabinet and a glass with ice. I fill the tumbler half full of alcohol and splash in some of the margarita mix to take out the bite.

  I’m going to have my own party.

  Happy birthday, indeed.

  Thank you, Jose Cuervo.

  One hour later, tequila has done wonders for my mental perspective.

  So I’m thirty and destined for a life on the straight and narrow. Who cares?

  There are worse lots in life. Acceptance is the key. So what if I’d never travel to exotic lands or be whisked away by a handsome stranger? Big deal. I’m almost forty percent sure excitement is overrated.

  Safe and narrow is great. Exactly where I need to be. According to the actuarial tables, I’ll live a long life, so it’s important to accept my nature.

  But…

  Would it be so bad to have a little wild? Just once? Is it too much to ask to have one teeny, tiny adventure? Don’t I deserve fun and exciting one time? Since I’ll be living so long, I need some memories for my old age.

  Lukas Marlow would be fun. The idea prickles in the back of my mind. I sit up straight, my heart pounding as a plan begins to formulate.

  No. I can’t.

  As if he’d even consider it.

  But…what if?

  The man looks as though he knows his way around a woman’s body. From experience, the men I attract tend to be duds in bed, and Lukas would be a nice change of pace. Don’t I deserve one wild fling with a man who knows what he’s doing? Maybe he’d give me one of those mythical orgasms I’ve heard rumors about. At bare minimum it would give me fantasy material for when I settle into life with a guy who keeps his socks on during sex. A flutter of excitement, mixed with hope, licks in my belly.

  Wait. What am I thinking? It’s impossible. Lukas will never go for it.

  Besides, I have no seduction skills. And even if I did, they wouldn’t work on him in a million years.

  I settle back on the couch and take an unladylike slug of margarita.

  But…what if? The thought persists, despite my arguments.

  It’s time to face facts. No Prince Charming is coming to rescue me. If I want wild, I’m going to have to take care of it myself. It’s all about personal responsibility.

  And why not me? I’m a modern woman. I can just take control.

  Sure, my experience is limited, and I don’t have any real seduction skills, but a simple proposition might work. I’ll appeal to him as one friend helping out another.

  Like asking him for a neighborly cup of sugar…but with orgasms.

  He likes sex. He’s had enough of it. And, most important, he’s a guy. Guys don’t turn down free sex. Do they?

  Besides, I’m tired of sitting back and letting life pass me by. I turned thirty today. The time has come to get what I want. And what I want is a wild, no-strings-attached fling with Lukas Marlow. What’s the worst thing that could happen? He’ll say no and I’d never be able to face him again. Big deal. I only live next door.

  The liquid courage races through my blood, spurring me into action. Before I can change my mind, I hop off the couch, ready to head to his house, only to glance in the mirror.

  I frown at my reflection. I can’t go there like this. My brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail; I’m wearing no makeup and dowdy work clothes. I look more like a candidate for Librarian of the Year, instead of a sex kitten.

  Frantically, I think through the contents in my meager closet. Very limited choices, but I’ll have to make do. There’s no time to waste.

  I consider my attributes. I have decent cleavage.

  Oh! I can put on a tank top—without a shirt over it!

  Yes, that might work.

  It’s a start. My nerve and buzz won’t last all night, so it’s time to get a move on. I’m a woman on a mission, determined to take control of my own fate. I’m making my own excitement. Consequences be damned!

  Downing the rest of my drink, I slam the empty glass on the coffee table.

  I’m going to proposition Lukas Marlow for sex.

  And I’m not taking no for an answer.

  2

  Lukas

  Buzz, buzz, buzz.

  Beer in hand, I’m stretched out on my couch watching ESPN, when the insistent racket starts. I shoot a glare at the door. Who the hell is ringing my bell at nine o’clock? Anyone I know would call first. That leaves a solicitor, politicians or religious fanatics. After a twenty-four-hour shift and the war I’d waged on the weeds, I have no patience for any of them. Intent on ignoring the intruder, I throw the remote on the coffee table and down a third of my beer in one long swallow.

  The doorbell rings again.

  Persistent sons of bitches. Well, they’ll get bored soon enough and move on to the next house.

  Buzz, buzz, buzz.

  Goddamn it. I let out a growl. If they won’t go away, I’ll make them wish they had. I put down the beer and spring off the couch, stalking to the door. I fling it open mid-yell. “What the fu—”

  The expletive dies on my lips.

  Abby Simmons stands before me, a bottle of margarita mix in one hand, Jose Cuervo in the other.

/>   Ah hell. I can’t yell at sweet little Abby. I’ll scare the poor girl to death.

  I can’t imagine what she’s doing here. In the year I’ve lived next door she’s never once stopped by. It’s one of the things I like best about her, so I can’t be aggravated by her impromptu visit. With a friendly smile, I say, “Hey, Abby, what’s up?”

  “Hi, can I come in?” Her tone is bright and cheerful.

  I frown, studying her. Head tilted to the side, the color high on her cheekbones, her glassy brown eyes blink at me. Normally she wears her dark hair in a ponytail, but this evening it tumbles around her shoulders in a mass of thick waves. She looks…sweet, pretty even and, if I ventured a guess, drunk.

  I have a sudden desire to force her back to her house. Drunk girls on their birthdays are a recipe for disaster. But I can’t turn her away. Even after a long shift, I don’t have the heart to say no to her. She’s too nice and my mom always taught me to be a gentleman to nice girls.

  Besides, she probably just needs something. Salt perhaps?

  “Sure, come on in.” I step aside, gesturing her in with a wave. She sways as though she wears four-inch heels. For the first time since she showed up, I glance down. My attention snags on her breasts, and I freeze.

  Smooth, creamy skin contrasts with the black spaghetti-strap tank top she’s wearing, revealing a set of full breasts so perfect they make my mouth suddenly water. Ripe, plump flesh spills from her tiny top and hard nipples poke under the fabric. My throat goes dry. She’s not wearing a bra. Under normal circumstances this wouldn’t throw me, but this is Abby.

  I realize I’m just standing here, dumbstruck and staring.

  I rip my gaze away from those breasts only to stall on a killer set of legs showcased to perfection in skintight jeans. Jesus. I break into a sweat. Why is she hiding that body under all those baggy, ill-fitting clothes she wears?