From New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal bestselling author Rachel Van Dyken.
Reid Emory has never had reason to question his luck with the ladies. As the owner of a lethal set of aqua-blue eyes and a devastating grin, this Hollywood heartthrob always brings his A game…but lately his luck seems to have run out. The actor is in need of some help, and there’s only one person he can trust to take his love life—and his career—to an explosive new level.
Jordan Litwright’s newest client is trying her patience. As a publicist, she’s more than content to stay in the background and let others shine. But when a publicity stunt backfires, she suddenly finds herself thrust into the spotlight—as Reid’s new love interest. And while other men usually overlook her, Reid is focusing in with laserlike intensity. There’s no denying they have serious chemistry.
But once Reid breaks into the big time, can they turn their made-for-the-media romance into a forever love?
I love Rachel, but this is not my favorite series of hers. I love the humor in it, but Max is obnoxious. I get that’s the way he’s supposed to be, but he’s over the top in this book more so than I’ve seen in any of the other books. I really loved Reid in the other books, so I was interested to see how his story went. I absolutely love him and Jordan together. Really would’ve been happy with way less Max though.
Overall, the writing and everything else is spot on, as you can always expect from Rachel.
I wasn’t nervous. Please. The nervous guy was always played by a dude who had no fashion sense, had never kissed a girl, and thought that foreplay was an actual play—in baseball.
I had killer fashion.
Had kissed tons of girls—even secured my first by the age of four from a six-year-old riding the bus to school.
And foreplay was my specialty. I like to think that some men are just gifted in that area—not to boast, but I’m one of them.
Oh, and I was a hell of a baseball player.
So that weird, shaky feeling currently residing in my stomach, slithering its way up my chest? Heartburn.
I popped two Tums.
“Hey, you okay?” Jordan asked. Her big brown eyes were makeup free—making them look even prettier—more natural. She’d given up on her hair so it was wildly cascading in every direction known to mankind, giving her a sex kitten look I wasn’t at all comfortable her sporting outside my apartment.
“Yeah.” I coughed. “Heartburn.”
“Weird. I wonder why you have heartburn after all those shots, five slices of pizza, and three glasses of red wine?”
I grinned. “Beats me.”
She rolled her eyes and grabbed the remote from my hand.
“What are you doing?” I asked calmly, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
“Changing the channel?” she answered without looking at me. “The movie ended an hour ago and you usually go to bed at eleven, so . . .”
“But this is date night.”
“Uh-huh, and now date night is over. I’ll tell you what.” She turned and tucked her legs beneath her. “Since you’re new at this whole dating thing, I’ll give you a free pass and let you in on a little secret.”
“I’m listening.” Okay, so I was trying to listen while my eyes zeroed in on her low-cut blouse and fringes of the black lacy bra that was peeking from beneath. Focus. Focus. Focus. Did she have pizza sauce on her breast?
“When girls come home from a date, they don’t take a hot shower and run their hands all over their body moaning and groaning and replaying every touch, every caress, every kiss.”
Can’t. Look. Away. I leaned forward. Yup, definitely pizza sauce. “Well, that’s disappointing.”
“Usually, they pour themselves a glass of wine, toss off their tall heels, turn on the TV, put on their sweats, and read while New Girl plays in the background.”
How was it possible she wasn’t aware she had food on her chest?
“Reid, are you listening?”
“Of course I am!” I nodded. “Wine, heels, TV, books, New Girl.” I know, neat trick, right? Just pull the details out of what they said and repeat them. Works nine times out of ten. Unless you’re Max. If you’re Max, you usually just get punched, because he tends to brag about the fact he remembered in the first place.
“What?” Jordan looked down. “What are you staring at?”
“Sauce.” I pointed. “Right there.”
Jordan rolled her eyes. “I’m not falling for that trick where you point and I look down and you hit me in the face. How old are you, ten?”
“No, seriously.” I moved forward. “You have pizza sauce right here.” I swiped it with my thumb and then licked it off.
“That should be gross,” she breathed.
“But it was kind of sexy.”
“Stop saying ‘I know.’”
I smirked. “Sorry . . . oh, look, you have something right here too.”
This time she did look down. And my ten-year-old self cheered as I knocked her in the chin and said, “Gotcha.”
Defeated, her shoulders slumped forward. “I deserved that.”
“I couldn’t help myself.” I watched in a hypnotic trance as her tongue sneaked out and teased her lower lip. It was the perfect moment for a kiss, but the line had been . . . skewed. I wasn’t sure if it was okay, in the privacy of my apartment, to actually kiss her. I mean, I’d kissed her, but this felt different, more intimate.
“This is the part”—Jordan leaned forward and gripped my shirt with both hands—“where you either kiss me or cough awkwardly, make an excuse, scratch your balls, and cower back in your bedroom.”
“Wow, so many choices,” I mused, meeting her halfway. “Eenie, meenie, minie—” Our mouths met in a frenzy. She tasted like wine and pizza.
Holy shit, it was hotter than it should have been.
My hands moved to her hips as I tried to pull her onto my lap. But her skirt was too tight.
“Damn it.” I tugged harder and heard a split.
Jordan reared back. “Did you just rip my skirt?”
“No.” I gripped the fabric until it gave with a scratchy tearing sound. “That’s a rip.” With a grin I tossed the discarded remains onto the ground.
Jordan stared at the skirt for a few seconds before wrapping her legs around my torso and fusing her mouth with mine. “You owe me a skirt.”
“Can I rip you out of that one too?”
She laughed against my mouth. I stood, lifting her with me, and walked her backward toward my bedroom.
We looked good. She was half-naked, sexy, I was carrying her around like a badass, and then things went . . . south.
And not a good south.
“Watch out for my shoes—”
I tripped over two spiked heels, sending Jordan flying into the wall. She slid down said wall and landed on the plant—yes, the plant, the one she’d kept alive for all those years.
“My plant!” she yelled. I burst out laughing as remnants of dirt and plant sifted through her hands. “You killed it!”
“Whoa!” I held up my hands and backed up, tripping over the damn shoes again and stumbling to the floor.
I shit you not, Jordan giddyup crawled toward me, faster than lightning, straddled me, and started fighting.
“We’ll get you a new plant!” I yelled as she smacked my chest. I gripped her wrists and flipped her onto her back. “Don’t you think—”
She bucked beneath me.
“—it was probably time to let the plant go? You know, cut the apron strings!”
“It’s not my child!” she wheezed, tuckering herself out.
“Exactly.” I nodded, then released her hand and patted her cheek.
Her eyes went wild.
Rachel Van Dyken is the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling author of regency and contemporary romances. When she’s not writing you can find her drinking coffee at Starbucks and plotting her next book while watching The Bachelor.
She keeps her home in Idaho with her Husband, adorable son, and two snoring boxers! She loves to hear from readers!
Want to be kept up to date on new releases? Text MAFIA to 66866!