FLIRTING WITH 40

“K. Bromberg always delivers intelligently written, emotionally intense, sensual romance . . .”
—USA Today
“K. Bromberg makes you believe in the power of true love.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Audrey Carlan
“A poignant and hauntingly beautiful story of survival, second chances, and the healing power of love. An absolute must-read.”
—New York Times bestselling author Helena Hunting
“A home run! The Player is riveting, sexy, and pulsing with energy. And I can’t wait for The Catch!”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Lauren Blakely
“An irresistibly hot romance that stays with you long after you finish the book.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Jennifer L. Armentrout
“Bromberg is a master at turning up the heat!”
—New York Times bestselling author Katy Evans
“Supercharged heat and full of heart. Bromberg aces it from the first page to the last.”
—New York Times bestselling author Kylie Scott
“Captivating, emotional, and sizzling hot!”
—New York Times bestselling author S. C. Stephens


Driven
Fueled
Crashed
Raced
Aced
Slow Burn
Sweet Ache
Hard Beat
Down Shift
UnRaveled
Sweet Cheeks
Sweet Rivalry
The Player
The Catch
Cuffed
Combust
Cockpit
Control
Faking It
Resist
Reveal
Then You Happened
Hard to Handle


This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2020 by K. Bromberg
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by JKB Publishing, LLC
ISBN: 978-1-942832-26-3
Cover design by Helen Williams
Cover Image by Wong Sim
Cover Model: Amadeo Leandro
Editing by AW Editing
Formatting by Champagne Book Design


TITLE PAGE
PRAISE FOR K. BROMBERG
ALSO WRITTEN BY K. BROMBERG
COPYRIGHT
EPIGRAPH
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
EPILOGUE 2
COMING SOON
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Everything begins and ends with the heart . . .


Blakely
I don’t get what the big deal is.
Glancing around the trendy bar, which was dubbed the go-to place by all of my co-workers, I simply don’t get it.
The atmosphere is nice if you’re into rose gold and mirrors everywhere so you can see yourself in every reflection possible, save for the bottles of alcohol lining the walls in front of me. And those bottles? The bartenders use them to pour designer cocktails for customers who view the drinks as badges of maturity. EDM music is piped softly through the speakers much like jazz in an elevator, playing background to the chatter of the mostly twenty-something crowd. They flit from table to table with loud screeches when they find their next best friend for the night. Cell phone cameras flash just as frequently as the screeches.
You’re stepping outside your comfort zone, Blakely. Isn’t that what this is? Seeing how the other side lives so you can relate better?
Isn’t that what Heather said? If I want to relate to my demographic, I need to understand them. Go out, visit the spaces they frequent, and become familiar with what they see as cool. She said that my ideas on this campaign felt old. Stale. As if I still thought wearing nylons was still all the rage or something.
The bartender sets my drink on the marble bar top in front of me just as my left shoulder is bumped from someone sliding onto the stool beside me.
“Excuse me. I’m sorry,” a deep tenor apologizes, but my irritation at having to come here is already through the roof, so I just nod without glancing his way.
What a fucking day.
That’s all I focus on as I lift the glass of amber liquid to my lips. I hum and welcome the burn as it slides down my throat in a useless attempt to wash away the shitty afternoon I’ve had.
“Now that’s a drink,” the man says. “I would have pegged you for a red wine type of girl.”
Not used to random men approaching me in bars, I open my eyes and keep them focused on where my hands are wrapped around my glass.
There’s no way he’s talking to me.
There just isn’t.
“What is that? Whiskey?”
Now I know he’s definitely talking to me. Can’t a girl sit in a bar in peace and enjoy a drink before heading home to her quiet house and empty bed?
“Brandy then?” He keeps at it.
Doesn’t he get the hint that I’m not interested?
Doesn’t he get the vibe that I’m in a crappy mood, and no, I won’t go home and have a drunken one-night stand with him? No, I’m not going to stroke his ego and giggle like an airhead while flipping my hair either. I’ve been there, done that, and frankly, got screwed in the process.
And, no, not the good kind of screwed either.
“Rough day, then?” he continues.
He has no idea. First it was my boss, Heather, and the digs she took at me throughout our creative brainstorming meeting earlier. Then it was the text from my ex, letting me know he’d gotten the promotion I’d spent years helping him maneuver into, and oh, she said yes. As if I wanted to know just how quickly he replaced me and threw away the seventeen years we had been married.
Seven months to be exact.
I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t. But it was still a blow.
“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad,” he says as if I’m actually listening. “Nothing’s ever as bad as it seems. So tell me, what it is you’re trying to drink away with a stiff one?”
A stiff one? Jesus. Does he really get women with lines like that?
“Sometimes it’s good to talk about it.”
He wants to know?
I’ll let him know.
“And sometimes it is as bad as it seems,” I say, eyes still fixed on the drink in front of me. “I have a brand-new boss, who doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing. And it’s not just an I-need-a-few-weeks-to-remember-the-details