Love is a Battlefield: Games of Love, Book 1 by Tamara Morgan

eyes. There was a time, in his teens, when standing before this cool, efficient woman had been the height of fantasy. She’d known it, of course. There were certain things a boy could never quite hide from the woman who measured his inseam.
    “All muscle, I think. But you need to relax or the measurements will be off.” She nodded again, this time toward his jeans. He pulled them off.
    “Sorry, Irina. I’m a little wound up.” He tossed the pants to her, and the perfectionist in her promptly began folding them. As she did, a crumpled piece of paper floated to the ground.
    Kate’s invitation. He forgot he’d pulled the same pair of pants on that morning, too tired from a night spent mostly staring at the ceiling to care much about his attire.
    “Is this important?” Irina asked, picking it up and pointing it at the trash can.
    Julian furrowed his brow. “It might be.” He took it from her, flattening it out and scanning the contents. It was simple, a beige rectangle with fancy lettering, swirly lines everywhere and the silhouette of a couple dancing across the upper right hand corner. It was pretty basic—one of those things women liked to have for weddings and tea parties.
    As if a tea party was the slightest bit more important than the Scottish Highland Games.
    He’d been prepared to admit his wrongdoing. It went against every one of his grains to talk to a woman the way he’d talked to Kate at the bar the other night, but he’d let his anger and yes, he was willing to admit, a little machismo, get in the way of his better judgment. So when he went to her house, he’d had a peace offering in hand—an apology prepared and ready to go. She didn’t know him very well yet, but he rarely said or did things he didn’t stand behind one-hundred percent. So apologizing wasn’t something he made a regular habit of.
    But then she’d shown up at the door to her house wearing the flimsiest dress he’d ever seen, all soft white waves and ruffles. He’d thought it was part of her charm, the way she exuded easy femininity, the way the bare strip of her thigh flashed only when she wasn’t aware of her own majestic movements.
    Now he knew better. She’d been playing a game. Playing him. He had few requirements for his relationships with women, but among them honesty and sincerity were at the front of the line. A lithe body draped in an ultra-feminine dress and floating with the light scent of cherry blossoms was not. He didn’t care how hard his body protested.
    And it protested. Hard.
    He turned the invitation over.
    “You should go, caro ,” Irina said with a smile. She wrapped the plaid around his waist and began sticking pins along the hem. At his inquiring look, she added, nodding at his hand, “To that party.”
    “I wasn’t invited,” he muttered. The back of the invitation had a few words scrawled along the bottom. Flora Folio. It was probably the name of the printer—Kate must have been getting ready to print and send her invitations. And Cornwall Park’s address was right there, looking him in the face. She was that sure of herself.
    Irina tsked and whisked the kilt away from his legs. “No? Pity. Maybe it would help you relax. You’re wound tighter than a virgin’s backside.”
    Julian choked as he pulled his clothes back on. “What did you say?”
    She ignored him, clicking back into businesslike efficiency. “Your kilt will be ready for the final fitting in two weeks. You’ll be a masterpiece—no one makes my work look as good as you.” She pulled back the curtain and started chatting amiably with his mother, looking back only briefly to offer him a wink.
    He didn’t move, his mind working fast. A virgin’s backside. There was potential there—quite a bit of potential, actually.
    He shoved the invitation back in his pocket and joined his mother and Irina, waiting politely for them to finish talking before heading out the door.
    The warrior inside him itched for a fight—not the fierce