If you enjoyed Dating Games, check out WRITING MR. RIGHT, another fun, sexy poignant tale about a romance author who doesn't believe real love is real life. Keep reading for an excerpt!
She's a romance author who's always resisted serious relationships... But she can't resist him.
If you’re looking for something a little more gritty, check out INFERNO. NOW FREE! Keep reading for a peek at the start to this incredible saga.
A runaway bride who escapes to Rome. A handsome, mysterious Italian man. A proposition for one night of passion. Will one night be enough? Find out today!
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Playlist
Memories Are Made of This - Dean Martin Live Learn - The California Honeydrops Little Black Dress - Sara Bareilles S.O.B. - Nathaniel Rateliff & The Night Sweats Showboat - Josh Ritter
Anybody Else - Jon McLaughlin A Little Fire - Parker Millsap Falling Slowly - Glen Hansard Classic - MKTO
Fool In the Rain - Led Zeppelin Fight Song - Rachel Platten Run - Matt Nathanson
Reaching - Jason Reeves
Moon River - Henry Mancini Summer is Over - Jon McLaughlin Always Midnight - Pat Monahan Put Me Back Together - Grace Grundy What About Us - P!nk
3 Hours - Canyon City
Scarecrow - Alex & Sierra The Shape of Us - Ian Britt This Will Be Our Home - John Lucas Never Got Away - Colbie Caillat Capital Letters - Halloran & Kate Dammit - Jana Kramer
Dear John - Julian Sheer
Extraordinary Magic - Ben Rector Guiding Light - Mumford & Sons I Hear a Symphony - Cody Fry Have It All - Jason Mraz
First Try - Johnnyswim
Say You Do - Graham Colton You - A Great Big World
Writing Mr. Right Excerpt
Grab your copy here!
Chapter One
Seducing My Boss
“Hurry up. Hurry up. Hurry up.” I rocked on my heels in the packed elevator as I watched the numbers ascend at a languid pace. Carefully balancing two coffees, one on top of the other, I checked the time on my cell phone. 9:02 Monday morning. I would love to have a job where it wasn’t a big deal if I ran a few minutes behind, particularly on a Monday.
Particularly after having to stop at Starbucks every day to get my boss his expected triple venti soy no foam latte, the lamest drink known to man.
Particularly after having to leave my apartment an hour earlier than normal, without pay, to stand in line at the Starbucks closest to the literary agency in Rockefeller Center where I worked to get said lame excuse for a coffee.
Particularly because I had to start ordering the same coffee for myself in case I dropped it, as happened one time. The fallout was something I’d like to avoid in the future.
I preferred a basic Americano with milk from an actual cow, not this fake bullshit. I knew all about my boss’ allergies. He didn’t have any sort of intolerance to dairy. He was just an asshole, and his choice in drink proved it.
Finally, the ding of the elevator snapped me out of my vengeful thoughts and I barreled through the doors into a large, modern reception area.
“9:03,” the receptionist sang after me, her voice almost smug.
“I know. I know.” I dashed past the desk with Bartlett, Derringer, and Price in big bold letters on the wall behind it, not letting anyone who exited that elevator forget where they were. I wondered if the partners were trying to overcompensate for something.
“And he’s in a mood,” she added in warning.
“And that’s different how?” I mumbled, my voice almost inaudible.
Running past cubicle after cubicle, I prayed today wouldn’t be the day I slipped on the slick marble tile and fell ass over tea kettle. Since I’d started here more than six months ago, I had that vision in my head daily.
When my desk came into view, I breathed a sigh of relief. My gaze shot past it to the floor-to-ceiling glass windows separating the big bad wolf from the rest of us sheep. I observed him on the phone, pacing his office, a fierce expression on his face. At least he was preoccupied. Perhaps he wouldn’t even notice I was four minutes late.
As I set my heavy messenger bag on the ground with a thump, my shoulder screaming with reprieve from the welcome lack of weight, I realized my wish wouldn’t come true.
“Avery!” his powerful voice bellowed. “Get in here!”
“Shit.” Subtly rolling my eyes, I opened my desk drawer to retrieve a small notepad, shoving it into the pocket of my suit jacket. Running my hands over my cream-colored sheath top and gray pencil skirt to straighten the lines, I grabbed his sorry excuse for a morning beverage. I paused just outside his office door, took a deep breath, then entered the devil’s lair.
“You’re late,” he barked at me the instant my foot crossed the threshold.
“I apologize, Mr. Price.” I met his hardened gaze. All my other friends could saunter into work five, ten, maybe even twenty minutes late. When they did arrive, it wasn’t expected they get straight to work. They were able to ease into the day, talk about their weekends, which bars they went to, what movies they saw. But not me.
I’d considered quitting at least once a week, but reminded myself that I had a rare opportunity to get my foot in the door of an industry that typically shut people out. This was my chance to have a say in who could be the next Stephen King, Nora Roberts, or J.K. Rowling. I just needed to put in my time and learn the industry. Then I could start my own firm and, hopefully, family.
“What’s the excuse this time, Miss Rollins?” He ripped the coffee out of my hand.
“No excuse, sir. I should have planned better and left my apartment earlier,” I responded, all too familiar with what he liked to hear. It would have been useless to tell him the real reason — that the barista at Starbucks messed up my order twice. He would simply say I should have prepared for that to happen.
“And where is it you live exactly?” He came around from behind his desk and sat on the corner, his expression and voice softening. I glanced behind me, wondering if we weren’t alone.
With his booming voice, broad shoulders, tall height, and impeccable good looks, Mr. Jackson Price had a commanding and intimidating presence. In the half-year since I began working as his assistant, a position that had been like a revolving door before I came around, he’d never exhibited anything but his egomaniacal side. Not only did he get off on being in charge, I had a sneaking suspicion he took pleasure in everyone else knowing that fact, as well.
“Miss Rollins?” He raised his eyebrows at me when I didn’t immediately answer, caught slightly off guard by his change in demeanor.
“Umm… Queens, sir.”
“Do you have a roommate?” He sauntered away from his desk, roaming his office. He shut the door, closing the blinds. I remained firmly planted in place, his interest in me unsettling, to say the least.
“I wouldn’t be able to afford an apartment in Queens on this salary without one,” I quipped, then cringed, bracing for his response. Despite months of practice, I still had trouble controlling my innate sarcastic nature around him at times.