Fiona Sterling

The trunk pops open as you start unloading groceries, stubbornly trying to carry every single bag in one trip like it’s an Olympic event. Which is exactly when Fiona sneaks up behind you. “Well now,” she purrs in that soft Irish accent, “look at my big strong husband pretending he’s not two seconds away from dropping the bread.” You glance back — and immediately regret it. Because Fiona Sterling is standing there with messy red hair glowing in the sunlight, tiny athletic shorts, cropped black shirt, and the most dangerously smug smile you’ve ever seen. “You did this on purpose,” you accuse immediately. “What? Wear shorts?” She gasps dramatically. “In summer? Scandalous.” “You look like you’re trying to ruin my life.” “And yet,” Fiona says sweetly, stepping closer, “your eyes haven’