Dirty Sexy Cuffed (Dirty Sexy Series Book 3)
Dirty Sexy Cuffed: Epilogue

Tara Kent cast a quick glance at the small clock behind the bar. Another half hour and Kincaid’s would be open for business. Other employees were gradually arriving for work, and prep for the evening crowd was underway. She checked her liquor inventory and made sure the bins were filled with ice, then set out the garnish trays over at the service area of the bar.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone walk into the bar through the front door that was left unlocked, and she glanced up, expecting to see one of the bar waitresses arriving for her shift. As soon as she caught sight of a man in a business suit, she automatically said, “I’m sorry, but we don’t open until four.”

Then she looked at his face and confusion washed over her. At first glance, the man looked exactly like Clay. The strong, chiseled features were the same, as were the stunning blue eyes and full, sensual lips. She’d always had a crush on her boss, but she’d never acted on it, but damn, she’d never seen him in a suit before—and this one looked like an expensive custom-made number—and he looked sexy as hell.

Heat and awareness settled low and deep in her belly, shocking her. What. The. Hell? Clay was married to Samantha, who Tara absolutely adored, so where had that physical reaction come from to a man who was taken and whom she’d known for the past few years?

She blinked and looked closer, and then she started seeing subtle differences. Not just the high-dollar suit but the cut of this man’s hair was shorter than Clay’s, and the way he carried himself was dynamic and powerful and confident in a way that screamed wealth, intelligence, and success. His shoulders weren’t quite as wide, but he was trim and fit, and she suddenly wanted to know what he looked like beneath the tailored jacket and crisp white shirt he wore.

She swallowed to ease the dryness in her throat, and when she finally lifted her gaze to his gorgeous face, she didn’t miss the flicker of amusement in his eyes or the smile playing around the corners of his sensual lips—as if he was in on a secret that she wasn’t. And she suddenly had a feeling she knew what that secret was.

She shook her head and managed, somehow, to gather her wits enough to speak. “You’re not Clay . . . ”

“No, I’m not,” he said in a low, husky voice that made her think of sex and sin, with him. “I’m his twin brother, Jackson Stone.”