Who accidentally has a one-night stand with her yoga instructor? Yep. Me. How did I accidentally sleep with someone, right? I know what you’re thinking. Whoops! I slipped and inadvertently inserted Tab A into Slot B. That’s not quite how it went. But my yoga instructor is really, really skilled with Tab A, if you know what I mean. Slot B never had it so good. What am I supposed to do now, as I walk into my yoga class and find the guy I ghosted this morning… there, in front of the class, perfectly aligned and grinning at me like he remembers touching all my chakras. He's perfect. Too perfect. He's so perfect he's ruining my job. I'm an investigative reporter, working on spec for an article for a national magazine, and my job is to find all the ways this yoga chain is corrupt. The only thing criminal here is that I can't have him in Slot B ever again. And I would. I'd turn myself into a paper doll book if that's what it took for more of that action. I want him. He wants me. Nothing I do will make him back off because the chemistry is off the charts. Except for one pesky little thing: We’re at cross-purposes. I need my exposé to get the job of my dreams. He needs to sell his stake in the yoga chain before I expose the corrupt current owner. That makes him my enemy. My nemesis. The guy I have to get around to get ahead. And now we’re supposed to hate each other. But who ever let that get in the way of love?

Who accidentally has a one-night stand with her alumni band director? Yep. Me. I know what you’re thinking. Whoops! I slipped on some valve oil and accidentally landed on his baton during a rousing chorus of Stars and Stripes Forever. That’s not quite how it went. But the alumni band director is really, really skilled with that baton, if you know what I mean. So what am I supposed to do now, as I walk into the morning’s rehearsal—three feet from the podium because of course I play piccolo—and find the guy I ghosted on this morning … right there, smiling at me like he remembers exactly what tempo I prefer? He’s perfect. Too perfect. He's a widowed dad of two adorable little kids that—oh, by the way—he forgot to mention. But I also haven’t mentioned the seventeen-year-old I live with, either. He’s not my boyfriend. I’m his guardian. He’s autistic and non-speaking, and he’s been my whole world since I was nineteen. I want Mr. Band Director. He wants me. Nothing—not the secrecy, not the awkwardness, not the 500 miles between his life and mine—will make this chemistry stop. Except for three pesky little things: the secrets we're hiding from each other. Three very human secrets. I’ve never felt so seen before. He gets me. I get him. But we’re buried in responsibilities and loyalties that get in the way. When I’m with him, I can play. Really play. And not just music. He can't quit his job and move his kids to be close to me. I can't uproot a fragile teen who needs round-the-clock care and is still mourning his parents. The odds are stacked against us. But who ever let that get in the way of love?