I’m not too proud to admit that finding Mr. Right involves swiping right. Right? Welcome to dating in avocado toastland.
Here I am, on my first blind date, ever, courtesy of a smartphone app and my two annoying best friends.
So what is Chris “Fletch” Fletcher doing, walking across the room, looking at his phone like he’s pattern matching a picture to find a real person he’s never met before?
Oh.
Oh, no.
The guy I drop-kicked in seventh grade cannot be my blind date. The guy who earned me this infernal nickname.
That’s right.
Feisty.
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More from New York Times bestselling author Julia Kent as Fiona “Feisty” Gaskill gets her chance at love – drop-kick included.
My lungs have decided that the world is too dangerous to make a move, utter a sound, do anything. I'm frozen, the pulse inside me growing stronger as time ticks away. My own shut-down system is the barrier to oxygen. The disconnect between what my body needs and what my tattered psyche can handle is causing my overload to leak out in a really obvious way.
“Fiona?” Josh says, shaking me gently, Michelle looking to him for certainty.
And then suddenly, Josh is out of my sight, replaced by two clear, calm, green eyes, light brown hair, and hands that feel like anchors.
“Feisty? Feis–Fiona?” Fletch corrects. The sudden pivot to using my proper name is jarring, given the fact that every atom in the world is buzzing inside my ears and nothing anyone does will help me to breathe.
I make a strange sound. I know it's strange because his eyebrows turn down in the middle, his facial muscles pushing them low enough to show concern.
Concern for me.
“Breathe,” he says slowly as he puts one hand on my diaphragm, fingers warm and firm.
I make a sound to indicate that I am confused and the speech centers in my brain have shut down. Empathy floods me as I realize this is exactly what my student with severe apraxia, little Myles, must feel like when he loses his words under extreme stress. For years, I've said “use your words” to four-year-olds having anxiety fits.
Never again.
“Breathe, Fiona,” he murmurs, taking a deep breath to demonstrate, his belly expanding in a comical way, though I know his technique is strong. Hypnotic and commanding, his voice and body tell me what to do, guide me back from being lost in the woods to a cleared trail where I can find my footing, take a rest, and possibly feel safe again, knowing I can find my way home.
I inhale, the insides of my nostrils cold, the air hitting my nasal passages a welcome assault, diaphragm spasming and sputtering back to life.
“That's my girl,” he whispers against the curl of my ear, his breath like coffee, his hard forearm muscles all I can see, the ripped cord of his strong lines drawing my gaze. “You just breathe. It's over now. You did it. You saved them. It's okay to breathe.” He inhales, then slowly exhales. “Let's do this together now.”
“Fiona?” Josh says, shaking me gently, Michelle looking to him for certainty.
And then suddenly, Josh is out of my sight, replaced by two clear, calm, green eyes, light brown hair, and hands that feel like anchors.
“Feisty? Feis–Fiona?” Fletch corrects. The sudden pivot to using my proper name is jarring, given the fact that every atom in the world is buzzing inside my ears and nothing anyone does will help me to breathe.
I make a strange sound. I know it's strange because his eyebrows turn down in the middle, his facial muscles pushing them low enough to show concern.
Concern for me.
“Breathe,” he says slowly as he puts one hand on my diaphragm, fingers warm and firm.
I make a sound to indicate that I am confused and the speech centers in my brain have shut down. Empathy floods me as I realize this is exactly what my student with severe apraxia, little Myles, must feel like when he loses his words under extreme stress. For years, I've said “use your words” to four-year-olds having anxiety fits.
Never again.
“Breathe, Fiona,” he murmurs, taking a deep breath to demonstrate, his belly expanding in a comical way, though I know his technique is strong. Hypnotic and commanding, his voice and body tell me what to do, guide me back from being lost in the woods to a cleared trail where I can find my footing, take a rest, and possibly feel safe again, knowing I can find my way home.
I inhale, the insides of my nostrils cold, the air hitting my nasal passages a welcome assault, diaphragm spasming and sputtering back to life.
“That's my girl,” he whispers against the curl of my ear, his breath like coffee, his hard forearm muscles all I can see, the ripped cord of his strong lines drawing my gaze. “You just breathe. It's over now. You did it. You saved them. It's okay to breathe.” He inhales, then slowly exhales. “Let's do this together now.”
💕 Listen to this AudioBook for free! Click here to learn more 💕
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An all-new STANDALONE from New York Times bestselling author Julia Kent
It all started with the wrong Help Wanted ad. Of course it did. I’m a professional fluffer. It’s NOT what you think. I stage homes for a living. Real estate agents love me, and my work stands on its own merits. Sigh. Get your mind out of the gutter. Go ahead. Laugh. I’ll wait. See? That’s the problem. My career has used the term “fluffer” for decades. I didn’t even know there was a more… lascivious definition of the term. Until it was too late. The ad for a “professional fluffer” on Craigslist seemed like divine intervention. My last unemployment check was in the bank. I was desperate. Rent was due. The ad said cash paid at the end of the day. The perfect job! Staging homes means showing your best angle. The same principle applies in making a certain kind of movie. Turns out a “fluffer” doesn’t arrange decorative pillows on a couch. They arrange other soft, round-ish objects. The job isn’t hard. Er, I mean, it is — it’s about being hard. Or, well… helping other people to be hard. Oh, man… And that’s the other problem. A man. No, not one of the stars on the movie set. Will Lotham – my high school crush. The owner of the house where we’re filming. Illegally. In a vacation rental. By the time the cops show up, what I thought was just a great house staging gig turned into a nightmare involving pictures of me with an undressed star, Will rescuing me from an arrest, and a humiliating lesson in my own naivete. My job turned out to be so much harder than I expected. But you know what’s easier than I ever imagined? Having all my dreams come true. |
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AN ALL-NEW STANDALONE FROM NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR JULIA KENT
One hundred years ago when I was young and impulsive (okay, it was five, alright? Five years ago…) I let my boyfriend take, let's just say...compromising pictures of me. (Shut up. It made sense at the time). Surprise! The sleazy back-stabbing jerk posted them on a website and, well, you can guess what happened. That’s right. I’m a meme. A really gross one. You're seen the pictures. And if you haven't – don’t ask. And don't look! As face recognition software online improves, I get tagged on social media whenever anyone shares my pictures. You try getting a thousand notifications a day, all of them pictures of your tatas. So. I’m done. It’s time for revenge. Let him see how it feels! But how do you get embarrassingly intimate pictures of your jerkface ex who double-crossed you five years ago? Especially when he’s a member of the U.S.House of Representatives now? Getting sweet between the sheets with a congressman is pretty much every political roadie’s dream, right? I’m one in a crowd. Except to this day, he swears he didn’t do it. Pursued me for months after I dumped him five years ago. Begged me to take him back. And I almost did it. Almost. I was weak and stupid and in love a hundred years ago. Okay. Fine. Five. But I still have the upper hand. Second chance romance has all the emotional feels, doesn’t it? I can’t wait to punch him in the feels. All I need to do is sleep with him once, take some hot-and-sweaty pics of him in... delicate positions, and bring him down. That’s it. Nothing more. Pictures first. Revenge after. And then I win. At least, that’s how it was supposed to happen. But then I did something worse than sexting. I fell in love with him. Again. |
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I never thought my perp walk would lead to true love.
Then again, I never thought I’d be arrested on RICO charges and hauled away in zip ties on camera for the world to see, minutes after closing the most amazing deal of my career. And all of it in front of my biggest viral, billionaire wunderkind Ian McRory. I am broke. I am disgraced. I am alone. I am a sucker. But the worst part? I have to go back to my hometown and live in my bedroom filled with relics from my childhood. Lisa Frank never made me so mad before. Just when I needed a rescue, I got one — in the form of help from my biggest rival. He can’t bring back my money. He certainly can’t bring back my reputation or my pride. But there’s one thing he can bring back to me. A sense of hope. Maybe even love. Ian sees something in me no one else does, and he’s relentless about making me see it, too. As we grow closer, I’m starting to see that while my entire life used to be a lie, the truth is staring me in the present — and it’s a truth I like very, very much, hot eyes and gorgeous smile and all. But I have to be careful. I can’t be too — That’s right. Hasty. The final book in the USA Today bestselling Do-Over Series (Fluffy, Perky, Feisty), as Mallory's sister, Hastings "Hasty" Monahan gets her turn at a happily ever after that starts off with an arrest. Hers. And ends with a surprisingly cheesy happily ever after.
💕To be released July 28, 2020 💕
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From billionaires to BBWs to new adult rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every contemporary romance she writes. Unlike Shannon from Shopping for a Billionaire, she did not meet her husband after dropping her phone in a men's room toilet (and he isn't a billionaire she met in a romantic comedy).
She lives in New England with her husband and three children where she is the only person in the household with the gene required to change empty toilet paper rolls.
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