Revenge is a dish best served cold. Which is a real problem when the attraction runs red-hot.

Best Served Cold, an all-new standalone romantic comedy from New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Emma Hart is available now!

“And there goes my water.” Rae got up and dumped the contents of her glass into the sink. “Thanks for that.” I shrugged. “Can’t drill without dust, babe.” “Can’t drill without dust, babe,” she parroted in a high-pitched voice. “Whatever. You can drill without contaminating my water.” “Remember who’s doing who a favor here.” She cocked one hip and put her hand on it. “The only reason you’re still here is because I bent over an hour ago and you saw my underwear.” I couldn’t help the twitch of my lips. “That may be a contributing factor.” “Oh, please. You keep staring at me just in case I flash you again.” “Actually, I’m staring at you because you look hot as fuck in that dress.” I paused. “But I won’t deny that you flashing me would be a bonus.” Rae rolled her eyes. “I don’t even know what to say to you. You’re ridiculous.” “Ridiculously charming.” “Ridiculously frustrating.” “Charmingly frustrating.” “You—” She stopped and pointed at me. “You are. You are. You!” she growled and stomped into the kitchen. I choked back a laugh. “I am delightful, handsome, and phenomenal in bed!” She came back within seconds. “If you’re trying to make me fall in love with you again, you’re failing dismally.” “Technically, I’m not trying. I’m such a delight you’ll fall back in love with me anyway.” “You’re a raging egomaniac.” “And you are a beautiful ray of happiness.” “And you—wait, what?” She frowned. “When did this get turned around on me? Stop complimenting me. You don’t compliment me when I insult you.” I leaned against the wall, still holding onto the drill. “All right, you’re a miserable little shit. Is that better?” Her lips twitched as she tried not to laugh. “No. You’re supposed to compliment me even when I tell you not to.” “I’m not falling for your female psychobabble.” I pushed off the wall and looked for the next ‘x.’ “Compliment yourself. I have no problem doing it.” “I compliment myself all the time. Have you seen my boobs?” I shot her a side-eye. “Yes. I’m also fond of those.” Rae folded her arms across her chest. It did nothing to further her cause of pretending to be annoyed. All it did was push her tits up. “If you’re trying to make me stop looking at your tits, you’re doing a bad job.” She looked down and immediately dropped her arms. “Yeah, well, shut up.” She sniffed. “How many holes are left?” I scanned the wall. “Three. You should try one. It won’t kill you.” She shifted. “No offense, but I don’t know if I trust you around me with tools.” “I wasn’t even near you when you dropped the scraper on your foot. I won’t drop the drill. I promise.” I paused. “If anything, I’m the one who should be worried given that you’ve already dropped the drill once.” “That was an accident.” “Exactly.” I pushed off the wall. “Come on. You might learn something.” “I doubt it,” she mumbled, wiping her hands off on her dress and coming to stand at my side. “Okay, let’s humiliate me.” I laughed and drew her into my body. She nestled against me as if she were made for me. Her ass curved perfectly into my hips, and the gentle sweep of her back flattened against my stomach and chest like a missing puzzle piece. “Wrap your hand around the handle,” I said, raising her hand to it. “And hold onto it. Tight.” “I think I can figure that out.” “Remember who dropped the drill.” She sniffed. “I didn’t expect the wall to be so hard.” “Rae, it’s fucking brick. Not marshmallow. What the hell did you expect?”
Emma Hart is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over thirty novels and has been translated into several different languages. ​ She is a mother, wife, lover of wine, Pink Goddess, and valiant rescuer of wild baby hedgehogs. ​ Emma prides herself on her realistic, snarky smut, with comebacks that would make a PMS-ing teenage girl proud. ​ Yes, really. She's that sarcastic.