Thomas
There have been a handful of times in my life where I was certain I’d completely lost the thread. Like the time I walked into a conversational Russian class instead of French 101. Or when my sister convinced me to take a ballroom dancing class with her, and the first number they taught us was the Macarena, in sign language. I still don’t know what that was about.
There are moments so utterly ridiculous you feel like someone slipped you a mickey and you’re hallucinating. None of those instances are stranger than what is currently happening to me.
“Just take off your shirt and I’ll rub baby oil on you until you’re glistening.” I stare at the photographer tasked with taking my photo for the hospital wall of fame like she’s completely lost her mind. Yes, she’s beautiful. Yes, I’m attracted to her, somewhat against my will. But there is no way I’m going to let her slather me up with oil for a picture that’s supposed to assure people I’m a competent doctor.
“That won’t be necessary,” I tell her all the while trying to keep her from unbuttoning my shirt.
“Thomas,” she says sternly like my sexy anatomy professor from sophomore year of college. “Let me do my job.”
I take a step back while clutching my shirt modestly. “I don’t understand what any of this has to do with why Constance hired you.” I sound borderline scared, but darn it, I’m not comfortable with any of this.
“She has a plan,” the photographer says critically before adding, “A very good plan, if you ask me.”
“What plan?” I demand. To embarrass me in front of the town?
Finley sighs loudly before crossing her arms like she’s losing patience with me. “It’s not my place to tell you.”
“If you don’t tell me,” I respond, “I’m going to leave before you take any pictures of me.” I emphasize my threat by turning to face the exit.
“You can’t leave! I promised Constance two different looks and I’m going to deliver.” The photographer takes a step toward me, and adds, “I just rented out the store next to mine and I need every job I can get right now to pay for it. That means, I need you to do what you’re here to do and I need you to do it well.”
Now I feel bad. I don’t want to stress her out, but at the same time I’m not some boy toy for her to manhandle. Womanhandle. You know what I mean. “What’s Constance’s plan, Finley?”
She looks up at the ceiling and sighs loudly like I’m her errant child pouting because she won’t let me eat a bucket full of candy. “If I fill you in, you absolutely cannot tell Constance I gave you a heads up. She might want it to be a surprise.”
I stare her straight in the eye, but she’s having a hard time holding the contact. Which makes me even more anxious. “I promise I won’t tell her.”
Finley glances at her feet before hesitantly returning her gaze to mine. “Constance is thinking about putting together a calendar. She shrugs her eyebrows up and down suggestively. “Like the firefighters have.”
After releasing the most unmanly gasp on the planet, I manage to demand, “Why?”
“Women love those things,” she assures me. “It’s great fantasy material, don’t you think?”
“Maybe?” The big question here is not the marketability of such an item, but why would my new boss book me to do one without telling me. That’s just wrong. And weird. And not at all something I could have imagined her doing.
“Those fire fighter calendars bring in a lot of money,” Finley tells me. “A lot.”
Is that why Constance is doing it? Is she trying to raise money for the hospital? Even so, she should have informed me and then got my consent first.
Finley interrupts the litany of questions running through my head. “But only if the pictures are good.”
Finally, a lifeline. “Is that what she said? Only if the pictures are good?”
She nods her head, not once, but five times. “That’s what she said.”
A slow smile crosses my mouth.
What happens when a quirkier than normal girl meets a hunky doctor from New York?
It’s not that I have subpar intelligence, or that I’m a total weirdo. In fact, I would consider myself kind, creative, and an all-in-all great catch—if you can get past a few peculiarities.
I love soft things. ALL soft things, and I surround myself with them to help self-sooth my way through the day. I have very particular opinions about sand, aluminum foil, and gum snappers. You wouldn’t believe how many men find this odd. In short, being on the spectrum has not exactly done wonders for my love life.
Enter Dr. Thomas Culpepper. Never in a million years would I have predicted someone like him would move to tiny little Elk Lake, Wisconsin. Then he gets sent to my photography studio to have his picture taken. I misunderstood the assignment, and instead of taking a boring old headshot like the hospital wanted, I forced him to take sexy pirate photos.
As far as meet cutes go, it was awkward. I won’t even mention the baby oil …
Pity Prank is a laugh-out-loud, small town romantic comedy featuring misunderstandings galore, a tiny bit of fake dating, a lot of fuzzy sweaters and socks, and oh, yeah, some sexy pirate photos.
Author bio:
Whitney loves to laugh, play with her kids, bake, and eat french fries -- not always in that order.
Whitney is a multi-award-winning author of romcoms, non-fiction humor, and middle reader fiction. Basically, she writes whatever the voices in her head tell her to.
She lives in the beautiful Pacific Northwest with her husband, Jimmy, where they raise children, chickens, and organic vegetables.
Gold Medal winner at the International Readers' Favorite Awards, 2017.
Silver medal winner at the International Readers' Favorite Awards, 2015, 2016.
Finalist RONE Awards, 2016.
Finalist at the IRFA 2016, 2017.
Finalist at the Book Excellence Awards, 2017
Finalist Top Shelf Indie Book Awards, 2017
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