Deep Pockets (Book 1 Kings and Rivals) SPECIAL EDITION (PAPERBACK) PRE ORDER SHIPPING IN MARCH

My mother always said, “To catch more flies, you need to use honey and not let your temper get the best of you."
But my mother had never met Lance Lakewood. Literally the most infuriating man on the planet. Not only did he have this square jawed, cheekbones cut to the gods, look to him with dark slightly curling hair that made you want to run your fingers through it, but also these piercing jade green eyes that could look clear to your soul.
And he wielded them like weapons. And that was the problem. Lance Lakewood got to me, and worse, he knew it. Which was all made worse by the fact that he was a complete and total douche waffle.
“Watch your hands, Lakewood.”
His fingers flexed deliberately against my lower back, a subtle reminder of who was leading as he stood in Manhattan's most exclusive dance studio. The space screamed old money, from the original restored herringbone floors to the crystal chandeliers that cast warm light across the private instruction room. Even the ballet barres were custom millwork rather than the standard metal you'd find in regular studios.
Trust Gwen to insist on Dance Haven Studios—the same place where New York's elite had been learning their wedding waltzes for generations—because she’d seen it used in a RomCom movie.
“Easy does it, spit fire. The only reason I'm touching you this much is because of the dance. To do this, we actually have to touch.”
I scowled up at him, but he held my gaze steadily, refusing to let me look away. My Jimmy Choo practice heels clicking against the flooring as I shifted my weight. Every ounce of rage and frustration mingled with just a hint of homicidal thoughts concentrated in that one glare. Had it not been or my sister, given any other choice, I would not have partnered with Lance—not for a dance, not for any reason. 
Liar.
"If your hand slides any closer to my ass, I swear to God I will sever your fingers at the knuckles," I muttered. The late afternoon sun streamed through the arched windows, catching the facets of the chandeliers and throwing rainbow prisms across his annoyingly perfect face.
The corner of his mouth lifted in that infuriating smirk as he pulled me a fraction closer. "Threats, Morgan? And here, I thought we were making progress." His voice dropped lower, meant for my ears alone. "Besides, we both know you're not going anywhere."
Our dance instructor Allison tsked as she came up to us. “The two of you look like you're fighting each other. Jesus, Morgan, your sister Gwen wants this dance to be perfect. Her two favorite people, she said. You don't want to ruin your sister's wedding, do you?”
And there it was, the only reason I forced myself to plaster a smile on my face: My sister. She was marrying the love of her life in just a little over a month, which meant Lance and I had a little over a month to figure out: A) who was going to fucking lead; B) whether any rhythm could be found in his body at all; and C) if I could really keep from killing him. 
Lance, of course, was charming as ever as he turned his attention to Allison. “We hear you. Morgan's just getting used to the idea that I'm the one who's meant to lead.”
“Bullshit,” I retorted. “If you can prove to me that you can clap on the two and the four and not the one and the three, I'll let you lead.”
He chuckled. “If you weren't fighting me every second and trying to lead me, you'd notice that I'm right on beat.”
Allison intervened again and tapped me on the shoulder. “Morgan, come on. Let me show you.”
The two of them whirled past me, and I had to work hard not to crack my molars in the back of my jaw. But Allison was right. This was Gwen's wedding. Okay, fine, it was her second wedding to Atticus, but the first one was under duress. She and tech mogul Atticus Price had fallen in love under some complicated circumstances, so they were having a second wedding, one that was genuinely about their love.
For her, I could do this.
Sure you can.
Allison signaled for a break, and the music cut off. Lance released her easily, and I tried to snuff out the flare of jealousy as they still stood closely, talking to each other.
My phone rang, and I stepped out into the hall to take it. “Hello?”
“Morgan, hi, it's Miriam.” 
Miriam DeGlass was my academic advisor at school. I’d accelerated my classwork and finished a year early. The plan had been to go straight to grad school, but first I wanted to get the bones of my fashion design business laid out. In a few years, my aim was to be a household name in sustainable fashion, and I was naming the line after my mother, Saskia. 
Miriam ran an artist co-op in the West Village that I rented space at, with some other designers and artists that had studied with her. “Hey Miriam, how's it going?” 
“Good. I'm just letting you know—I hate to break this to you, but prices at the co-op are going up. I wish I didn't have to do that to you, but I'm going to have to start charging more. I can send you the details by email, but I know things are complicated at home for you.” 
Complicated was an understatement. I hadn't come into my trust fund yet, which meant I still relied on my father. He didn't exactly think fashion was a worthwhile enterprise. He said if I wasn't going to grad school right away, then I needed to come and work for him at Bex Technologies, which was a soul-killer. And he knew what I wanted to do, knew my goals, knew my dreams. He just didn't care. He'd been paying for my co-op up until now.
When I was in school, he paid because, well, it was part of my degree, and he said if I studied fashion design, I’d have to get a "real" degree afterward. Which I agreed to. I wanted my MBA; I wanted to understand how business worked so that I'd never, ever have to count on him or anyone else for funding. I'd seen from my sister how depending on Dad to come through on his promises was a disaster waiting to happen. 
“I understand, Miriam. I'll figure it out,” I reassured her. 
“Great, thanks for being so understanding.”
“No problem.” I hung up with her, chewing my lip, trying to figure out just how I was going to break the news that I had.
“I know that look." 
My gaze snapped up to find Gwen coming toward me. “Hey. What are you doing here?” 
“I came to see how you and Lance were getting along.”
“We’re great,” I lied.
She indicated the phone. “What was that about?”
“Just Miriam. She's increasing co-op prices, so I gotta figure out how to tell Dad.” 
She frowned. “Morgan, you know that Atticus and I—” 
“No,” I snapped. Shit, that’s not how I wanted that to come out. I tried again, “While I appreciate you and Atticus being willing to support me, I don't need you taking care of me forever. You're not my mom; you're my sister. And right now, it’s about me doing something for you. Besides, you can't rescue me forever. I can handle the big girl convos. I can figure it out with Miriam and Dad. You have to let me.”
She pursed her lips. “Morgan, this isn't—I’m not trying to be Mom.”
“No, I know. It's just... for the first time ever, you're letting yourself be taken care of. And it's nice. The last year and a half or so, it’s like I have my sister back. Less parent, more sister. You know? I don't want go back to that dynamic where you're always looking out for me and you're the adult. I’m an adult now too. At least I have to pretend to be. You have to let me.”
She put her hands up. “Okay, I hear you. As your sister. If you need a shoulder to cry on or some advice, I can offer that.”
“Thank you. But that's just the back door. I'm a big girl. Go ahead, I got this.”
“Okay, fine. So you and Lance have the dance all figured out?”
“About that… okay…” 
She rolled her eyes. “Oh my God, you two! Something has got to give. I cannot have you two at each other's throats for this wedding.”
“We won't be,” I promised. I needed to make it true. She was so stressed out, and that wasn’t good for her. 
“How are you feeling?” I asked. 
“I mean, other than nauseous, exhausted, and then ravenous all at once—fine.”
“Well, can you please go find somewhere to sit so my little niece or jellybean nephew can chill the fuck out?”
“Not even the size of a jellybean yet. More of a blueberry.” 
“Same size,” I mumbled.
She rolled her eyes again. “Come on. Let's go see this dance.” 
When we stepped in, Lance immediately stopped talking to Allison, his Patek Philippe catching the studio lights as he gestured a greeting. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him, I could see his matte gunmetal Aston Martin, parked in the shade. He loved that car.
He gave Gwen a wide grin and a tight squeeze. “You're glowing, Gwen."
“Bullshit,” My sister said laughing. “I look tired. My eye bags have eye bags. But I am really happy. Now don't distract me with compliments. Let’s see this dance.”
His gaze shifted to me, a slight furrow appearing between his brows. "Everything okay with that call?"
“Just peachy," I said, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice. "Just need to go kiss Daddy Warbuck's ring later."
I watched his jaw tighten, that muscle working beneath his perfectly chiseled cheekbone. For a split second, something that looked suspiciously like concern flashed in those jade green eyes before he masked it.
Silently, he reached a hand out to me. “You ready?”
“Of course, Lance,” I said sweetly. I could do this. I wasn’t going to let her down. And if not letting my sister down meant being up close and personal with Lance, then by all means. 
Allison stepped back and went to her computer to turn the music back on. I stepped into his arms, took one glance at Gwen, fixed my posture, and smiled up at him. 
He hesitated for a moment, his gaze searching mine, and suddenly, that tension that always pulled and tugged between us felt like it dissipated. The sounds of Lauryn Hill singing "The Sweetest Thing" began, and Lance took a step, and this time, I didn't fight him. I just went with the flow. For Gwen, I could do that. 
"Oh, so you decided to let me lead?" His thumb traced a small circle at the base of my spine, a gesture that felt more possessive than reassuring.
“Oh, so you decided to find the rhythm,” I said sweetly through clenched teeth. 
“Morgan, you know I do know how to dance.” He guided me through a turn with practiced ease, his grip tightening just enough to show he wouldn't let me fall. “Or don't you remember?”
I shook my head. “Nope. Don’t remember at all.”
I did remember. My prom date had been wasted, and it turned out he had only paid for the limo to go to the event and show up in style. When I'd called Gwen for a ride home, she'd turned up with Lance, and he'd found out I hadn't even had a chance to dance at my own prom. He’d insisted on taking me for one twirl around the dance floor. It was a sweet gesture, and it was a memory—no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't forget. 
“You’re giving me a weird look, Morgan.”
“You're the one staring at me, Lakewood.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were starting to have a good time.”
“You don’t know better.”
“If you say so.”
His hand slid lower down my back as he pulled me even closer to him. Holy hell. 
His leg slid easily between mine as he braced me against him for a twirl around. The dance had a little bit of rumba in it, and despite all my jabs at Lance, the man could fucking dance, and something pulsed low in my belly as my clit throbbed. 
I started to stiffen, and he leaned in close, his breath warm against my ear as he whispered, "No, Morgan. Relax." His hand spread wider across my back, anchoring me to him. "You're safe here. Focus on the dance." The words were gentle but left no room for argument.
When I relaxed into his hold, he leaned forward and whispered, "Good girl. Now, was that so hard?" The praise sent an unwanted shiver down my spine.
“You’re a pompous ass.”
"I've been told. Mostly by you." His thumb traced another deliberate circle against my spine. "And you're the only one who seems to think so. You ever gonna tell me why you don't like me, Morgan?"
“Are you ever going to tell me why you annoy me, Lance?”
“Oh, well, that's simple. It's easy, and it's fun. You get this little gleam in your eye where you look like you might actually try to murder me. It's like I can see the real you. I like that you.”
“The one who's trying to murder you? You have problems.”
“Never said I didn't.”
“And what about you, Lakewood? Is there a real you under there? Best friend, big brother, but you never seem to show me the real you.”
“That's because, Morgan, what you see is what you get. And somehow, you've never believed that.”
The music stopped then, and he held onto me for several seconds longer than necessary. I stared at him. He stared at me. I stared back at him.
“You want to let me go now?”
“Whenever you say, spit fire.”
And then he released me, his handprint leaving behind a heat signature I was sure I’d feel for hours.