Page 1 of Sin Bin

ChapterOne

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

Iamthe Queen of BadDecisions.

Now, before you start thinking that I’m overly dramatic, let it be known that, boy, do I wish that was the case. But no—I have a problem that’s otherwise known as “no self-control.” See thefollowing:

My freshmen year at the University of Michigan, when I drunkenly professed my love for my English teacher via email. The recipient of that email? My professor. Naturally. The next day, I found myself on a transfer list to anotherclass.

My ex-boyfriend, Mark, who apparently had a bad habit of humping his next door neighbor whenever I worked overtime. Discovering them together on our anniversary was just the cliché icing on the cake, and so was the way I stealthily slashed his tires the following evening, à la CarrieUnderwood.

Andre Beaumont. Sorry, but we’re not even getting into this one. I’ll only mention that because of my . . . indiscretion—big muscles and silky smiles that hint at bed sheets and panty-dropping sex are always my downfall—my life has been one downward spiral for the last three-hundred and forty-twodays.

But all that changes today. Here.Rightnow.

I flash a bright smile at the CEO of Golden Lights Media. Golden Lights is Boston’s premiere entertainment marketing empire, and hopefully my next place of work.Believe it and you will achieve it.That might as well be my tagline.“I can’t say thank you enough for asking me in for a second interview, Mr.Collins.”

“Zoe.” Mr. Collins utters my name the way some might say “Satan,” like he’s worried he might catch my plague just by sittingoppositeme.

My smile slips, just a little.Think of the job, Zoe. Think. Of. The. Job.“Yes, Mr.Collins?”

Heaving a big sigh, Walter Collins drops back in his seat to study me with stoic brown eyes. “Zoe. MissMackenzie.”

This cannotbegood.

I gird myself for the worst, flipping my folder up against my chest like a body shield. It’s packed with my résumé, cover letter, and three letters of reference. It’s also packed with my hopes, which are seconds away from shattering, if the CEO’s expression is anything togoby.

“Listen, Miss Mackenzie,” he says again, scrubbing a hand over his bearded jawline. “You’ve got the right qualifications for theposition. . .”

I know what’s coming. The urge to scream is overwhelming. I bite down on my lower lip and count to ten.One . . . two . . .three. . .

“But while I’dloveto welcome you onto our public relations team, I’ve done a little research since our preliminary interview, and what I’ve found . . . . Well, I can’t say that I’m all too impressed with your professionalconduct.”

I’m sure he’s putting that mildly, just as I’m sure he practiced that exact line in the mirror this morning. His words have a pre-orchestrated feel to them, and he delivers them somberly, in the same tone that my former employer oh-so-graciously gave me the news that I was fired. You’d think someone had died the way that he’d—oh, wait, that was mycareer.

Slowly I meet Mr. Collins’s gaze, and I make the decision that I have nothing to lose. Not my pride or my dignity, nor am I harboring any longstanding too-high expectations. I know what the score is, and I’m willing to play to this CEO’s fiddle, as long as I come out with a job on theotherside.

“Mr. Collins,” I say carefully, “I understand your reservations. But I can promise you that what occurred a year ago won’t be repeated.” Nervously I tap my fingers against the folder, internally debating how to approach the situation. I straighten my shoulders. “After my . . . transgression last year, I’ve had quite a while to think over my faultydecisions.”

Mr. Collins does not lookimpressed.

Panic enters my body. After almost a year of applying to jobs in my field, Golden Lights Media is my last hope. My last hurrah. I’m twenty-seven years old and living with my dad and step-mom. If my dad has it his way, I’ll be working at his restaurant full-time like a good daughter, while also babysitting my half-sister on myoff-days.

I love Tia, but even my love for my twelve-year-old half-sister can’t make up for losing out on my dream—permanently.

Mr. Collins doesn’t know it yet, but he’s about to offer me this gig as the new Public Relations Coordinator forhisfirm.

I plant the folder down on the desk with the flat of my palm. “Let’s do atrialrun.”

“Begpardon?”

Bam. Stifling the abrupt pleasure of throwing the CEO off his game, I say, “A trial run. You want to hire me, but you’re not sure if it’s a good idea. I’m convinced that you won’t regret it. As you told me in our first meeting, Mr. Collins, my résumé intrigues you. I’ve worked for all sorts of mainstream celebrities, including some of Detroit’s biggest sportsstars.”

Brown eyes narrow on my face. “Including AndreBeaumont.”

My knee-jerk reaction to hearing that name is to throw something. Maybe pound back a bottle of Jose Cuervo, because there isnothingI would like more than to forget the feeling of Beaumont between my legs, as he proves once and for all that multiple orgasms are athing.

Or, rather, a thing that can happenwithmen.

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