The Rebound: A Scorching Hot Romance

By Stefanie London

Good-girl-gone-bad Presley Richardson is running straight from the altar to a sinfully sexy rebound in USA TODAY bestselling author Stefanie London’s third Close Quarters story!

Bolting from the church half-naked was not part of the official wedding program…until I learned my husband-to-be was marrying me only for his father’s approval. How was I to know my incredibly hot getaway driver was the groom’s evil stepbrother? Or that diving into his sleek black Mercedes would be the first step on my journey to the dark side?

Wealthy executive Sebastian Foster is a bad decision waiting to happen—all hard muscles, square jaw and eyes that strip me bare. But I’m done being the good girl, done following the rules. It’s time to give up my perfectly planned life and embrace my inner siren.

Soon Sebastian is my sexy sidekick at Melbourne’s most exclusive nightclubs. Dancing burlesque for him makes us both crave a night of sensual sin. I’m starting to think this forbidden rebound may lead to something much deeper. But when I learn he’s hunting for information about my ex, I can’t help wondering—is he just another ambitious man using me to get ahead?

Take control. Feel the rush. Explore your fantasies—Harlequin Dare publishes sexy romances featuring powerful alpha males and bold, fearless heroines exploring their deepest fantasies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harlequin
• Release date: Sep 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781488062292

Stefanie London

Stefanie London is a USA Today Bestselling author of contemporary romance. Her books have been called "genuinely entertaining and memorable" by Booklist, and her writing praised as "elegant, descriptive and delectable" by RT Magazine. Originally from Australia, she now lives in Toronto with her very own hero and is doing her best to travel the world. She frequently indulges her passions for lipstick, good coffee, books and anything zombie related.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Presley

MY MOTTO HAS always been: Life Is Better with a Mimosa. What’s not to like? It has bubbles, orange juice, a pretty glass. A mild buzz, which is enough to lower my social inhibitions without pushing me into hot-mess territory. It’s like the sweet spot of alcoholic beverages—good for brunch, good for a quiet night in. Good at a family barbeque.

Good anytime except right now.

Don’t vomit. Don’t vomit. Don’t vomit.

Sucking in a breath and willing my stomach to behave, I sag back against the door I’ve just closed behind me. The room is spinning. My lungs feel like they’re about to cave in behind the strength of a boned bodice I’d thought was a good idea because, you know, breathing is optional on your wedding day.

I clamp a hand over my mouth.

I can’t even think the W word anymore without wanting to be sick. Which is a problem. A huge freaking sequin-encrusted problem.

You see, I’m still wearing my wedding dress. And my groom is hanging out two rooms away with his portion of the bridal party. Our family and friends are waiting in the garden outside, dressed to the nines and anticipating the day’s festivities.

My chest heaves with each breath, straining against the dress and undergarments forcing my straight up-and-down figure into Kim K curves. Well, baby Kim K curves... There’s only so much I can do without having a rib removed.

I have to get out of here.

I wring my hands in front of my dress and catch sight of the huge diamond flashing on my left hand. It suddenly feels like a noose. I claw at it, dragging it off my finger and tossing it onto the dressing table next to my beaded clutch and bouquet, which sit picture-perfect where the photographer snapped a close-up of them less than five minutes ago.

I don’t have much time before everyone is back, ready to fluff my train and adjust my veil and walk me out to meet my future husband. Panic is like a fist around my throat. I can’t marry him. Not now.

Not ever.

I jump as footsteps walk past the door. The clack of heels is like a tiny pickax beating against the inside of my skull. My mother, twin sister and the bridesmaids will be back any minute. Without thinking, I reach behind me and feel for the lock, turning it with a soft snick and trapping myself inside. I need a moment to think.

No... What I really need is an escape route.

Here’s what I know. There are only two ways in and out of this old Victorian building—through grand double doors at the front or via a small side door near the kitchen. Neither is a viable option, because the chances of me being seen are near guaranteed. And my outfit isn’t exactly easy to miss.

The sound of birds tittering through an open window snags my attention. Outside the bridal dressing room, greenery stretches out as far as the eye can see—gum trees and other native plants, yellow flowers of some kind. We’re at ground level.

I rush over to the window and peer out. From here, I can see the driveway snaking into the venue, and a few remaining cars slowly trickle in. This could be my way out! But the second anyone sees a woman in a big white dress, it’s game over.

Where will you even go? You’re never going to get out of this mess.

My subconscious mocks me for making this mistake not once...but twice. That’s right. This is not my first time running away from my own wedding. Only last time, I’d had the forethought to realise the man I was about to marry was totally wrong for me before I got to the venue. This time the revelation came a little late. Until ten minutes ago I’d still been ignoring the red flags flapping in my mind, telling myself it was nothing but normal wedding day jitters. That it was nerves about stupid things like tripping on my way down the aisle or stuttering while saying I do.

Now I know that I should have listened to those warning signs.

I reach behind me, fumbling with shaking hands as I slip each small button painstakingly through its loop. I can’t escape in this dress. It’s too risky. The door rattles behind me, as if someone is trying to push it open. Then there’s knocking.

Pres? It sounds like Sherilee, one of my bridesmaids. Are you in there?

Silence will only make her worry, which will make her fetch someone who has a master key. Shit. I need a few more minutes to get out of this stupid freaking dress.

I, uh... I’m doing a meditation. I shake my head. Will she ever believe that? I need a few minutes to get into a loving headspace so... I can bring good vibes to the ceremony.

Awww. Her sweet croon makes me cringe. That’s so lovely. Okay, I’ll tell the celebrant you need a few more minutes.

My fingers work frantically and I’m almost tearing the buttons open now. Eventually, I get far enough that I can wriggle out of the dress, shoving it over my hips and awkwardly stepping out of the giant pile of fabric. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My face is pale, even enhanced with photo-ready makeup, and my hair is a little askew. Extra strands have escaped the up-do, loosened from my battle with the dress. I’m wearing a mini corset, skimpy baby-blue lace underwear—because of course I needed to do the whole something old, something new thing—and a pair of towering white stiletto sandals with a delicate strand of crystals at my ankle.

My eyes prickle with tears, but I blink them away. Now is not the time to fall in a heap. I can cry my eyes out after I’ve gotten myself out of this mess. I kick my shoes off and scan the room. The only thing I can find to even remotely cover me up is the gauzy chiffon shawl that my mother brought with her. It’s pale blue and very see-through.

Where are you even going to go?

I don’t have any money with me, because who brings cash on their wedding day? I don’t have my keys because we were going straight to a hotel room after the reception tonight, and they didn’t fit in the stupidly tiny clutch I bought to match my dress. In any case, home is the first place people would look for me. And I don’t have my phone—because I didn’t want to be that bride taking selfies on my big day. The only things in my clutch are my lipstick and breath mints.

Super useful, Presley. Well done. You’re ready to give a blow job but not get out of this bloody building.

Think, dammit, I mutter to myself.

My twin sister was right all along. She’d warned me about Mike, sensing his bullshit a mile off while I acted like a happy, naive little lamb trotting all the way to the marital slaughterhouse. All the way to a loveless union and a lifetime of misery.

Drew!

An idea hits me suddenly and I spy my sister’s evening bag sitting on an overstuffed couch, next to the bouquets. I snatch it up and inside is her phone and the keys to the apartment she’s been staying in on her trip home for the wedding.

Twenty-One Love Street. Thanks to the cutesy name, I remember the address. If I can flag someone down and convince them to drive me there, then I can get inside and...

I’ll figure the rest out when I get there. For now, all I know is that I can’t be here. I wrap my mother’s shawl around my lower half, knotting it hastily at one hip like a sarong. It’s still mostly see-through, but it’s the difference between flashing a vague hint of ass and showing the full moon. And a half-naked woman is not in a position to be picky over fashion choices.

Laughter floats into the room from down the hall.

Crap crappity crap. I push the window open as far as it will go and swing a leg over the windowsill. Thank God these old buildings don’t have fly screens.

Pres? Someone’s knocking at the door again. Are you almost done? It’s time. Everyone is waiting.

I swing my other leg over and jump down, wincing as my feet land on something sharp—a stick, most likely. There’s something crawling on my arm and I brush it away, my heart hammering in my chest. My leg throbs. I think I’ve scratched myself, but none of that matters now. How the hell have I ended up in this position again?

I’d overheard my soon-to-be-husband just minutes before we were supposed to walk down the aisle.

We only need to stay married a few years, long enough for Dad to hand the company over to me. After that, I’ll think about whether I want to keep her or not.

Fuck you, Mike. I hope your Dad doesn’t give you a cent.

My stomach knots as if reminding me that the remains of my mimosas aren’t safely digested yet. There’s more knocking inside. I need to get out of here now!

I inch along the side of the building, extracting myself from the buzzing lavender bush and heading slowly toward the car park out front. I peer out around the corner but immediately have to shrink back as I spot one of my colleagues walking up the steps with her husband. That’s the shittiest thing about this situation—given this is my wedding, I know most of the guests. Thankfully, Mike’s invitations were vast and, out of our four-hundred-strong guest list, I haven’t met all of his colleagues and extended family members.

But then it dawns on me.

What if I don’t have to be me right now? One of the best things about growing up as an identical twin was all the mischief Drew and I made by switching places. I’ll pretend to be her.

A car with a loud, rumbling engine pulls into the long, winding driveway. I squint. It’s a lone guy, and he looks to be early thirties. Could be one of Mike’s friends from overseas. I glance around the corner again. Most people appear to be inside already—the wedding should have been starting by now. I squeeze my eyes shut and dig deep to find some bravery. If I don’t go now, this could be it. Then I’ll have to face Mike and his parents and my mother and...everyone.

"Don’t think about what could go wrong, think about what could go right," I say to myself.

Sucking in a breath, I leave the safety of the bushes and sprint across the carpark, the shawl fluttering against my hip. If anyone comes outside they’ll get a good look at my practically bare backside. But I can’t care about that. I won’t care about that.

The only thing that matters is getting behind a locked door as quickly as possible.

I practically skid to a stop beside the sleek black Mercedes that’s pulled into an empty parking spot, and I yank the passenger-side door open before the guy has a chance to do anything about it. I slide into the seat, my heart pounding from the adrenaline.

Please, I say, my voice shaking as I gulp in a breath. You have to help me.

CHAPTER TWO

Sebastian

FOR A MOMENT, I wonder if the bartender at the pub slipped something extra into my whisky. But then I remember I barely touched the damn thing, too consumed with my thoughts to actually bring the glass to my lips. Therefore, I must be hallucinating.

There’s a half-naked woman in the front seat of my car—white-blond hair in wild disarray, eyes almost as colourless as glass—pleading with me. Her hand grips my arm, nails biting into the expensive wool of the suit I paid an arm and a leg for just to show my stepbrother up.

Her skin is porcelain pale and she’s wearing a lacy white bra-type thing that pushes her breasts up in a way that’s so enticing it’s like a magnet drawing my eyes. Not to mention that she’s got endless legs and this glimmering pink stuff covering her lips. I clear my throat and look away, immediately chastising myself for being that guy.

Who are you? For a moment, I have a strange flash of intuition that this woman is my stepbrother’s wife-to-be—but I’ve only ever seen her in pictures, so I can’t be totally sure.

I’m... Drew. It’s my sister’s wedding.

Ah, identical twin. I remember my father telling me that. "And why are you naked?"

I left my bridesmaid dress at home. It’s sitting on my bed and... Dammit. I can’t believe I forgot it.

Presumably you wore something here this morning.

She lets out a frustrated exhale as though my questions are a waste of her time. There was an...incident. With a curling wand. I caught on fire.

I’m sure it’s one of those female things that would make no sense to me even if she did explain it. I have no idea what a curling wand is or why it might burst into flames. She also doesn’t look burned, so I am thoroughly confused.

Please drive, she pleads. "I have to go back to my place and get the dress or my sister will kill me."

I can totally imagine my stepbrother marrying a bridezilla. That would suit him to a tee. But this is not my fucking problem. I didn’t even want to come to this godforsaken wedding, and the only reason I’m here is because my dad told me he’d never speak to me again if I didn’t show.

Which means if there’s drama with the wedding party and he finds out I didn’t help...

You seriously caught on fire? I ask.

Just a little bit of fire. She bites down on her lip. Is a little bit of fire even a thing? Do you think I’d be running out in the open with my lady bits on display if it wasn’t totally necessary?

Hmm. Good point.

Her eyes dart toward the front of the building. Geez, her sister must be a real nightmare if she looks that terrified at being caught.

Where’s your place? I say with a heavy sigh. I already regret coming—I do not need more drama in my life, that’s for damn sure. But wherever my stepbrother is, stupid shit follows. Like he’s the Pied Piper of stupid shit. I should have known something wild would happen.

South Melbourne, she says, sagging back against the seat. Thank you. You’re a life-saver.

It’s not too far from here—fifteen minutes tops. Shaking my head, I back my car out of the spot I’d just pulled into and peel out of the venue. Given I was running late—procrastinating and trying to find an excuse to bail without burning my relationship with my father to the ground—nobody is coming in the other direction. Everyone else will have arrived by now.

We zip along the small, winding road that leads through the parkland and out onto a main road in record time.

The second we’ve cleared the trees, a green-and-white sign tells us South Melbourne is less than five kilometres away. I catch the half-naked woman relaxing somewhat.

So, it’s Drew, is it? I ask.

She looks at me with wary eyes. Yeah.

I don’t know anything about my stepbrother’s fiancée or her family—other than from the cheesy wedding announcement I read online. How Mike had found anyone to marry him was a mystery, let alone someone as smokin’ as Presley Richardson. And it turns out that genetic lotteries do exist, because there are two of them.

"You jumped into my car, I point out. I’m allowed to ask a few questions."

You asked a few questions before we left the parking lot. She purses her lips. And shouldn’t you be concentrating on the road?

For someone who was begging a stranger to help her not five minutes ago, she sure is bossy.

She lets out a breath and holds up one hand—her other still crossing her chest. "Sorry. I don’t mean to be a bitch, but