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  Thank you for downloading One in a Million

  Emmy Romano is convinced that love isn’t in the cards for her. That is, until she meets Oliver Lewis, a secret millionaire lawyer two decades her senior who thinks she’s everything he’s been waiting for and didn’t know it. The only question is — will she push him away before he has a chance to show her how good love can be?

  One in a Million is a crazy-hot secret billionaire (well, millionaire, but who’s counting?) romance involving a younger woman and a significantly older man. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and only consensual shenanigans await. This contemporary instalove romance is the fourth installment in the Love at First Sight series. Get ready for a super-steamy happily ever after!

  Happy reading! ;)

  Love, Poppy

  One in a Million

  Love at First Sight: Book Four

  Poppy Parkes

  Copyright © 2020 by Poppy Parkes.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities between elements of this book and real places, people, or things is coincidental.

  This book is intended for adult audiences 18 years and older only. All characters are consenting adults 18 years and older only.

  Contents

  The Oops Club

  Emmy

  Oliver

  Emmy

  Oliver

  Emmy

  Oliver

  Emmy

  Oliver

  Emmy

  Oliver

  Emmy

  Epilogue

  Love at First Sight

  Also by Poppy Parkes

  A Love Note For You

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The Oops Club

  Find a typo or grammar error? Let me reward you for your skills!

  Email a screenshot with the circled or otherwise highlighted error and your mailing address to [email protected]. If you’re the first one to find the error, I’ll send you one of my Kindle books of your choice — for free!

  Thanks so much for supporting indie authors!

  With love and gratitude,

  Poppy

  Emmy

  “How can we make this work?”

  I look at the couple sitting on the couch in my office. I’ve spent the last month listening to their verbal sparring and complaints for an hour a week.

  And now they’re both staring at me like I’m a lucky charm. Rub me enough times, and I’ll fix all their problems. They want me to tell them that their relationship can easily be mended, that years of happiness await them.

  Except I can’t.

  Even though this couple has been coming to me for marital counseling for just four weeks, I’ve heard enough. They don’t want counseling, they don’t want to work on themselves — they want a magic charm.

  And one doesn’t exist.

  But I’m their therapist, so I choose my words carefully. “Well, Brenda, Jim,” I say, glancing at the clock on the wall behind them slowly ticking down the last few minutes our session, “we’ve talked about many ways to work on your relationship. Conversing using ‘I statements,’ finding new ways to compromise, and so forth. Which of the strategies that we’ve discussed would you like to focus on?”

  Brenda sighs, rolling her eyes. I’m not surprised. She’s been coming in here wanting me to fix her husband, but she’s the one demanding a great deal from her partner while refusing to give anything back. She wants him to sweep her off her feet, except she’s snipped at him so much over their five years of marriage that he doesn’t have the courage to try.

  “I’ve been enjoying using the ‘I statements,’” Jim says. He looks at his wife. “We could do that some more.”

  Instead of responding to him, Brenda looks at me. “There’s just nothing to talk about, except for the ways he pisses me off.”

  I resist the urge to bury my face in my hands. “There’s nothing at all you’d like to chat about with your life partner?” I clarify. “Current events, for example, or what you did with your day?”

  She shakes her head. “No. We’ve done that, and it’s boring as hell.”

  I hear the words she does not speak: Jim’s boring, life with him is boring, I want out.

  She wants fireworks, adventure, and hot sex. While I’m not sure that this particular couple ever had that, I don’t doubt that it’s possible for them to experience all of it together — if they both do the hard work of getting real with themselves and each other.

  Which Brenda has no interest in.

  Because of that, this couple is doomed to divorce — hopefully. As painful and challenging as divorce might be, it’d be far worse for them to stay in a marriage filled with resentment and strife.

  The clock’s minute hand slides forward, officially ending our session.

  “We’re out of time for today,” I say, keeping my voice gentle. “Same time next week?”

  Jim opens his mouth, looks at his wife helplessly as she gathers her things, then closes it again. Finally, he says, “Uh, actually, I need to check my work schedule before we book another session.”

  “We’ll get back to you,” Brenda says, avoiding my eyes.

  I bite back a smile. One of the few things I’ve seen these two agree on is not coming back to see me again.

  It happens all the time with clients like these. The work they need to do for our sessions to be fruitful feels too scary or difficult, so they avoid it. As a result, our sessions are lackluster and ineffective. Unsurprisingly, these kinds of clients don’t keep a standing appointment with me for long.

  “Sounds great,” I say smoothly. “Just let me know what you need.”

  They rustle out the door, and I close and lock it behind them. Settling back into my plush rocker, I let my eyelids slide shut, enjoying the quietness of the old building closing up for the evening.

  I used to work in a psychiatric hospital, serving patients with the most severe mental health needs. And while it was rewarding, I couldn’t hold up to the stress of it for more than a year or so.

  Now I rent a one-ro
om office in a seventy-year-old building full of other one-room offices and offer counseling sessions out of it. Many of the building’s renters provide counseling like myself, although there are also a few realtors and massage therapists in the mix. It’s a wonderful professional community to serve in, especially as someone who is self-employed.

  Lately, though, the work has started to drag at me. Normally I’m able to shake off stubborn clients like Brenda and Jim. I know that I’m not responsible for forcing clients to make the necessary changes that will heal and enrich their lives. And the clients that do want to do the work? It makes my heart sing to work with them.

  But these days, it seems like I’m seeing so many estranged couples who come in here seeking a quick fix to make them happy, unwilling to recognize that successful relationships take dedicated, long-term effort.

  Or maybe it’s just that these clients are getting to me more.

  I know it’s not fair, but I blame my friends.

  Rubbing my temples, I open my eyes back up, looking at the clock. Kickboxing class starts soon. I have just enough time to get to the gym and change for the class that keeps me sane.

  Jumping to my feet, fingers tingling at the prospect of imminent bag punches, I reach for the gym duffel I keep stashed in the small closet behind my chair and head out.

  Oliver

  I get to kickboxing class early so I prep the gear I know I’ll need. I drag one of the free-standing punching bags over, then wind the wrap the gym provides around my hands.

  As the other participants slowly filter into the group fitness studio, I stretch — not because I actually feel like I need to, but because I don’t know what else to do and I feel like a dumbass just standing there twiddling my thumbs.

  I keep my eyes on the reflection of the door in the mirror. There’s this girl who comes to every evening kickboxing class the gym offers, and I know it’s creepy as fuck, but I’ve kind of got a thing for her.

  Even though I’m a forty-seven-year-old tech millionaire who has no business being attracted to a young thing like this woman.

  She’s the reason I started coming to kickboxing in the first place. A few months back, I’d been shooting the shit with the guy manning the front desk of Shotgun City Fitness when she floated by. It was her scent that got me first — spice and vanilla and something vaguely floral. I’d inhaled her aroma and without thinking had turned my head to follow it with my nose.

  Which led me to the sight of thick dark curls cascading down a curvaceous torso and brushing the top of a pert ass.

  “You here for kickboxing?” the front desk clerk had said to her knowingly.

  She’d smiled back and nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  Ever since, I haven’t missed a class either.

  I know how this all sounds. Hell, I make myself cringe. Silver fox stalks dewy twenty-something? I’m well aware that it’s not a great look for me.

  But in my defense, I’ve kept my distance. Like, a lot of it. The woman’s here to work out, and the last thing I want to do is make her uncomfortable in a place where she should feel secure and safe as she tends to her body.

  Have I mentioned that it’s a body to make gods weep and men crawl and women sigh with envy? All curves and smooth skin begging to be kissed. By me.

  In my dreams, at least.

  Because I’m not the kind of guy who pushes or gropes or, hell, even flirts. I have too much respect for women, and I loathe the guys who pride themselves on pushing every boundary they can find.

  So I just watch.

  Like a creepy fuck.

  With a heart of gold?

  Well, with a heart of minding my own damn business, at least.

  The back of my neck prickles. I look up to see her walk into the group fitness studio, dark hair coiled on top of her head like a goddess. My heart pumps faster.

  I’ve got it bad. I wonder if today will be the day I introduce myself and finally learn her name. It wouldn’t be completely unheard of — lots of the class regulars know each other. And I’ve definitely become a regular.

  That’s part of the reason that I’ve been reluctant to meet this woman. I’ve come to enjoy the classes. And although they totally kicked my forty-something ass at first, I’ve seen big improvements in my strength and stamina. It’s been hard for me to find a workout that leaves me dripping sweat, heart racing, while going easy on my old man knees. Kickboxing is the perfect match for me.

  I eye the brunette that makes my mouth water as she works through a few light stretches and wonder if we’d make the perfect match. More unlikely things have happened.

  Like me not only coming to this class, but looking forward to it for reasons that go beyond the eye candy that always stands in the front right corner of the room.

  I sweat it out in the back, enjoy the view, and silently curse myself for not taking the risk to say hello.

  The instructor, Wendy, steps to the front of the class, adjusting her headset. “Welcome to class,” she says into the mic, smile warm and voice bright.

  Wendy is another reason I appreciate this class — it’s not often I see people over the age of fifty teaching fitness, and it’s refreshing. Her close-cropped curls are wholly silver and she’s got wrinkles that run deep, but she’s also a badass who delivers a killer workout backed up by decades of experience. The muscles that flex beneath her age-marked skin inspire me every class.

  She does her usual intro for the newbies, then gets us warmed up. Soon we’re punching and kicking our bags and I’m sweating so damn much it’s dripping in my eyes. Wiping it away, I grin and keep hitting my bag with hooks, jabs, roundhouses, sidekicks, and more.

  Then, when I think I can’t get my leg up for another push kick, Wendy tells us to get on the floor for abs. It’s both relief and agony and I only get through it through the heavy use of expletives.

  We end class with a much-needed stretch, and when it’s over I’m a sodden, limp noodle.

  Just the way I like to feel at the end of a workout.

  I’m moving through a series of extra hamstring stretches — my tightest part except for the stick that gets stuck up my detail-obsessed ass when I’m in full-on lawyer mode for work — when I hear one of my neighbors start chatting with a fellow participant.

  “That was a crazy hard workout,” he says, shaking his head.

  “Yeah, Wendy really likes to crack the whip. First time?”

  My head snaps up. Because this cocky young guy? He’s talking to my girl.

  Yes, the one that I’ve never uttered a syllable to. It doesn’t make any sense because I have zero claim on this woman, but jealousy sears hot and angry through my core at the sight of this fucker talking to her.

  His voice becomes oily and the sound of it makes my stomach turn. “You like that, baby? Somebody cracking a whip on you?”

  “I’m not your baby,” she says, carefully enunciating each word. She turns away, shaking her head like his words don’t get to her. But I don’t miss how her sweaty face pales and her hands tremble as she cleans up her equipment.

  The guy doesn’t take the not-so-subtle hint. He steps closer, practically pressing his pelvis to her ass as she bends over to pick up her discarded hand wraps. “I’ve never done it before, but wouldn’t say no to the chance to try out a few whip moves with you.”

  I’m between the two of them before my brain registers that I’ve moved.

  “What the hell, man?” the younger guy squeals when I push him away. I sense her turn behind me, and my skin heats with the feeling of her eyes on me.

  But I keep my gaze on this douchebag. I make my voice low but let my words vibrate with warning. “You know exactly what the hell. Back off.”

  “Or what?” he sneers.

  I step closer. “Or I’ll haul your ass to the front desk and keep you there while I have management watch the security cameras’ footage of your sexual assault of this woman.” I just my chin over my shoulder. I can feel her hovering there, and while I hate that this
asshole had to ruin the night for her, I’m glad I get to be her protector. “And then once they call the cops, I will personally see to it that you’re tried and found guilty of your crime.”

  Now he’s the one whose skin grows pallid under the flush of his recently completed workout. But he still has the balls to try to backtalk, even though his voice now shakes. Not much, but I’m used to working with people who are trying to bullshit me, and I can hear the tremor. “What, are you a lawyer or something?”

  “I am,” I hiss. “A criminal justice prosecutor, and a damned good one. So you better get your ass out of here before I tell this woman exactly why it’s a good idea to press charges.”

  The guy’s face falls at the words press charges and he begins backing away, hands up in surrender. “Geez, okay. Sorry, man.”

  “She’s the one who needs your apology, not me.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. Glancing at the woman I’m defending, my chest floods with warmth when I realize that she’s looking on with grim satisfaction, lips set in a thin line but her eyes alight.

  She approves.

  My stomach flips and I have to work to stay focused on the jackass in front of me.

  His eyes slide from me to her, and he mumbles something under his breath before moving to turn away.

  “Hang on.” He flinches and freezes at my words. “I don’t think she heard you. I sure as hell couldn’t.”