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?
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Check out Rachel Van Dyken's other hilariously sexy novels in her Consequences trio.
EXCERPT 1
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.”
“Huh?”
“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.
“I
know.”
“But
it was kind of sexy.”
“I
know.”
“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?”
“Small
tear.”
“Rip.”
“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.
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ABOUT RACHEL
VAN DYKEN:
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!
You can connect with her on Facebook www.facebook.com/rachelvandyken or join her fan group Rachel's New Rockin Readers. Her website is www.rachelvandykenauthor.com .
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