How Not To Mess With A Millionaire by Regina Kyle 💕 Book Blitz, Freebie Offer & Gift Card Giveaway 💕 (Romantic Comedy)

This blog post contains affiliate links. Click Here for details.

Interior decorator Zoe Ryan’s life resembles a bad country song. Her boyfriend dumped her, her car died, and she was recently handed a pink slip. What’s a girl to do? Leave everything behind for a bit....in Positano, Italy. And when she gets there, she finds a surprising extra—millionaire restaurateur Dante Sabbatini in the kitchen. In his underwear. Making coffee. It’s suddenly not only hot outside, but exactly what is he doing inside, in her temporary kitchen?

Dante’s plan was to escape to his family’s beach house for some quiet and privacy. What he didn’t know was that his meddling, matchmaking nonna rented the entire house to a sexy stranger at the exact same time as his stay. It took him months to clear his schedule—there’s no way he’s leaving now.

With both refusing to leave, Zoe and Dante agree to be temporary roomies, but secretly aim to try to drive the other out. He plays his music as loud as he wants and will wear as little clothing as possible, and she’ll just go ahead and adopt that pig she fell in love with in town. But suddenly their game of one-upmanship takes a very sexy detour, and they can’t believe what happens next.

Zoe yawned and rubbed her jet-lagged eyes as she shuffled into the kitchen, trying to focus on the scene unfolding in front of her and almost immediately regretting it when she did.

Did the man own any clothes?

Okay, yesterday he’d worn those damn linen pants. Eventually. Not that they’d concealed much. They were so paper thin she could practically see the outline of his monster cock. And they’d done nothing to hide the perfect curve of his bubble butt. Then there was his muscled, lightly furred chest, which he hadn’t bothered to cover up. Maybe he was low on shirts.

But this morning he’d gone even more minimalist, stirring something on the stove in nothing but a form-fitting pair of boxer briefs.

That had to be dangerous, right? You never saw Gordon Ramsey cooking in his unmentionables.

Zoe pulled out a stool at the eat-in counter and sat, determined not to be intimidated. For the next month, this kitchen was as much hers as his. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“What does it look like?” Dante shot back without turning around, his attention still on whatever was starting to steam in the pot in front of him. “Making breakfast.”

“I can see that, Captain Obvious.” She rested her elbows on the granite countertop. “I meant where are your clothes?”

He half-heartedly lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “I’m wearing clothes.”

“Underwear doesn’t count.”

He lowered the burner and turned to face her, hitching his thumbs under his waistband. “I can take them off, if you prefer.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of adding a layer, not subtracting one.”

“What about you?” His eyes raked her up and down, lingering a little too long on her chest and sending traitorous prickles of heat through her body. “You’re not wearing much more than I am. If I have to add a layer, then so do you.”

She crossed her legs, bare below the hem of her sleep shorts, and tugged on the bottom of her matching Fries Before Guys tank top, pulling it tighter across her breasts and accentuating her already pebbled nipples. Two could play this game. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not the one parading around in my Jockeys. These are pajamas. I got them in the loungewear section at Macy’s.”

An impulse buy after her breakup with Brad. But she stood by the slogan on her shirt. In the space of seven short days, she’d been burned twice by the male of the species, at work and in love. Given the choice, she’d definitely go with the fries.

Dante shrugged again as if to say, “Have it your way,” and went back to his breakfast, pouring the steaming milk into a waiting mug until it foamed. When he was done, he rested his barely covered behind against the counter and took a long, leisurely sip of what she assumed was a cappuccino.

“Delicious,” he declared, licking a spot of foam from his full, firm, way-too-kissable upper lip.

Regina Kyle knew she was destined to be an author when she won a writing contest at age ten with a touching tale about a squirrel and a nut pie. By day, she writes dry legal briefs, representing the state in criminal appeals. At night, she writes steamy romance with heart and humor.