The first time I met her, she was running away from her own wedding.

The second time I met her, she tried to get me fired from my job.

The third time? I had to haul her drunk self off the bar before she completed her amateur—and hot as hell—striptease.

She's messy, chaos in human form, and not at all who she claims to be. Everything I've worked so hard for depends on her not screwing things up for me. I should run, not walk, away from her, but all I want to do is strip her layers until I get to the . . . heart—yeah, that's what I was going to say—of who she really is.

I may be smart, but love might be the most clever of us all.