Page 1 of Frequency of Attraction

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Stupid PMS.

Not only did Quinn have to cake on makeup to hide the pimples that competed with her overabundant freckles, but she also had to get in her car and drive thirty minutes for the fried pickles her body told her were the only cure for the monthly grumps.

Her destination was The Saloon, a dive bar—the only bar—within driving distance of the remote villa in the Mojave Desert that she shared with her cousin Tate.

Inside, the place smelled like stale beer and bleach. A sizable crowd for a Sunday afternoon filled the wood-and-neon space. Country music blended in with the buzz of conversation and a sharp break from the pool table. Quinn sidled up to the bar, choosing an empty seat away from others. The people in Victory, California, population four thousand, were very fond of small talk. The smaller the town, Quinn surmised, the more the residents talked, both to each other and to the strangers like her who had made a temporary home there.

She caught the eye of the bartender, who gave her a small nod. Cuter than he had any right to be in a town that small, he made his way over unhurriedly before leaning with both hands on the bar across from her. His band T-shirt revealed muscle definition in his chest and thick, veiny forearms. Her eyes lingered on his hands. Large, tan, strong. She should probably add “sticky” to the list. He’d likely been making drinks since the bar had opened that morning.

Not that any of those facts mattered.

“What can I get you?” Bartender Boy had a radio voice for that TV face.

“Fried pickles. The big order.”

His mouth quirked. “That was easy.”

“I’m easy.”

Merde.

He chuckled.

She’d muttered the word out loud, though he probably didn’t know the word for “shit” in French, her native language.

“We’ve got a new lager on tap that would go great with those.”

Quinn shook her head. “I don’t drink. That’s what I meant when I said I was easy. No menu, no drink.”

“I don’t know,” he drawled. His eyes twinkled. Quinn wanted to roll hers in return. She was not in the mood for twinkling eyes and strong man hands that would do her no good no matter how capable they might be. “We haven’t talked condiments yet. You might be one of those women who need six different dipping sauces, or who asks me to make my special avocado ranch.”

Moisture sprang to her mouth. “Well, now I am one of those women. Can you make the ranch spicy?”

He laughed, all dimples and deep sound. “You got it.”

As he left to put in her order of fried shame, she took the opportunity to check her phone. Thankfully, there were no alerts on any of the Geier family members or brands. As head of public relations for the global luxury goods company, her brain was wired to worry. At her doctor’s—and her cousin Tate’s— insistence, she had been trying harder to let bad news filter through her team instead of coming straight to her. Lean on your team, Tate always said. Quinn struggled to lean on anyone or anything but herself.

She did acknowledge that no twenty-six-year-old should be this stressed at work. Though her job wasn’t just work. As a third-generation Geier, her role was a birthright. The Geier Group wasn’t just her company, it was her family. Her legacy. Still, some days she wished for a nine-to-five that had nothing to do with family.

She debated pulling the laptop out of her bag to tweak the press release announcing a new fragrance line with one of Turkish television’s biggest stars. But then Bartender Boy plopped a giant glass of ice water with lemon in front of her. A glance down the bar showed that the few glasses of water present were fruitless. She raised an eyebrow.

He shrugged. “You look like the type. Fancy, maybe even fussy. Accent doesn’t help.”

“Fussy? I just ordered a basket of deep-fried faux vegetables.”

His crooked grin grew as her irritation became apparent. It took Quinn a few seconds of fuming to realize he was teasing. She fought a sigh. Deciphering the behavior of men was not her forte.

“You’re from OrbitAll, right?”

She frowned. “Kind of. How do you know that?”

“I’ve noticed you when you’re in here as a group. The night of the last launch, for example. You were wearing a red dress. You looked phenomenal.”

Quinn’s stomach fluttered. That dress did suit her ample curves particularly well. She should be flattered that he’d noticed and had the guts to comment without sounding sleazy. But she didn’t date, or sleep with strangers. No point. With eight years of sexual activity behind her, she’d had exactly zero orgasms. Now, sex was just one more item on her list of stressors. And the easiest to avoid.

“How are you ‘kind of’ with a company?”

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