I hate Simon Banks. I also hate tequila. The first makes my blood boil with his devilish smirk and giant . . . ego. The second makes me do questionable things. Specifically, with Simon. Fine. Whatever. It’s a blip on my radar. Even though I can’t stop thinking about memories of our night . . . or his hands . . . and that mouth. But I have more important things to do–like finally opening my dream restaurant in the small town of Rolling Hills. There’s just one problem–he lives here. I’m bound and determined to not let that stop me. He’s bound and committed to get under my skin. And here’s another thing I hate–it’s working. His smug smile. His clever jokes. The way my body heats when he’s around. Our looks of longing and the sizzling tension between us. Not to mention his bare, chiseled chest running past my restaurant every day. He’s becoming too hard to resist. I’m starting to realize there’s a thin line between love and hate. Ours just happens to be two pink ones . . . Contains mature themes.