When He-Who-Has-Never-Been-Named knocked me up and ceremoniously knocked me down with the revelation, “I’m actually married,” I fled back to Dublin. There, I dusted off my big girl (maternity) pants and launched my blog, chronicling my life as “Single Sav.”Fast forward six years, and I’ve built a lucrative empire on that premise, which is precisely why I haven’t so much as looked at the opposite sex for over half a decade.Well, apart from slyly perving on my twin daughters’ swimming coach, Ronan Rivers, a former Olympic gold medalist.
The man is ridiculously easy on the eyes. He’s also a complete manwh*re who lives to torment me with his filthy mouth and decadent innuendos.
But when Ireland’s hottest new swimwear brand offers me a million euros to represent their new swimwear range, it’s him I turn to to help me–the photo shoot is in the water, and I can’t swim.
Ronan agrees to give me a crash course in the deep end, but the only thing I’m drowning in is his mesmerizing baby blues.
I’ve built my entire brand on being single.
The one man who can save me is also the same man who can sink me…
Ronan:
I’ve been obsessed with Savannah Kingsley since she crashed into my Aston Martin two years ago, but Single Sav is the one woman I can never have.
Which is precisely why I spend Saturday mornings tormenting her with my tongue, and Saturday nights wishing I could tease her with it, instead of embarking on yet another meaningless, lackluster liaison.
When fate forces us together in the form of one-to-one swimming lessons, her skimpy yellow bikini betrays the extent of her body’s baser needs and no amount of water can dampen the sizzling attraction between us.
She’s floundering in the shallows, but I’m already in deep.
Can I turn the tide and persuade her to shed her single status?
