Junk Mail

It all started with a sexy selfie.
Texted to the wrong number. 
Oops. 
Not my finest moment—but I have nothing to be ashamed of.
She thought I was no better, and I quote, than the knuckle-dragging douche-bags she was never dating again.
It was a stupid dare from a girl I'd met online, but since she'd given me a fake number, I didn't feel bad that my interests were suddenly focused elsewhere—on the fiery and sharp-tongued, Peyton that I found myself sparring with over text for the rest of the evening.
The following day, my case of mistaken identity came back to bite me in the banana.
When I strolled into the office, I was introduced to Peyton as the new client I needed to win over. The Peyton , in case you're not tracking.
And let's just say she had my full attention.
Brains? Check. 
Beauty? Oh yeah. 
And the best part? She hated me on sight. 
Dear God, do I love a challenge. 
Let the games begin.