Excerpt!
“Are you asking me out on a date, Creampuff?” It’s triggering—the emphasis on you, the raised eyebrow.
It’s going to be that thing I obsessively ruminate over at two a.m. twenty years from now.
Are you asking me out on a date? Like a girl who looks like me shouldn’t even have the audacity to ask a man like him out. He deserves to be saddled with my useless sister.
I come in hot. “I’d never date you. You’re useless and arrogant, self-absorbed, shallow—”
“So you really just like me for my body. That’s okay, Creampuff. I don’t mind being objectified.”
“Stop calling me Creampuff. It’s insulting.”
“What? I love all that strawberry-flavored cream all over my face, coating my tongue—”
I want to slap him, but that would make a scene, and I don’t need to be the crazy lady slapping the shit out of some poor, helpless, handsome guy—even if he deserves it.
He winks at me. “But point taken. I’ll change up the nickname. What was the Christian name of that witch in ‘Hansel and Gretel’ who baked children into pies?”
“Out.”
“What?”
“You’re banned. Get out of my café.”
“Ooh, but you like me, remember?”
My body reacts like I’ve been shocked when he closes the distance between us. I can feel the heat from his body, smell that scent of leather mixed with the paper and ink of the bookstore. He’s so close to me, his nose is practically touching my forehead.
“You do like me. In fact, I think you want me.”
“Yeah…” I say breathily. “I want you to sign me to a five-year lease with a fixed four-point-two-five percent APR, zero prepayment penalty, and an escalation clause tied to annual CPI adjustments. Throw in an early-termination fee and a mutual renewal option because I’m cute.”
That makes him step back and look at me with intrigue. “Someone wants to be a real estate influencer.”
“No, I just want a lease with good terms—fixed rate, minimal escalation, tenant improvement allowance, fair-market renewal options, and a clean early-termination clause. Nothing fancy.”
“Huh.” He rubs his jaw. “Come be my personal chef, and I’ll do it.”
“What? I’m not working for you. Screw you.”
“Why not?” He shrugs a shoulder. “Especially since you won’t date me. Can’t imagine why. Could it be…” He’s back in my personal space. “That you’re in love with someone else? Perhaps someone unattainable, whom you long for while lying in bed, like Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights. An apparition to quench your unspeakable lust.”
“Congrats.” I slow clap. “You cheated off the smart girl in high school.”
“Do I sense lingering resentment? The girl who sacrificed her social life for grades? Don’t worry. You did mildly well for yourself. Bet your mom still wishes you’d given her grandkids and a big fancy wedding she could brag about.”
Asshole.
“Now, come hand-feed me homemade pasta in my multimillion-dollar penthouse.” He claps his hands in my face. “Fulfill your destiny.”
“Out. Or I’m calling the police. You can explain to your shareholders why you have a restraining order.”
“Joke’s on you, pastry witch. All my companies are privately held.” He swipes an order from the counter, blows a kiss to a giggling Olive—who is moving so… damn… slowly—and tosses a hundred-dollar bill at the guy whose order he just swiped.
Someone is breaking into my house… and cleaning my kitchen.
At first, I think I’ve lost my mind. Then I decide it’s kinda nice—until the death threats start.
But worrying about stalkers is for people with disposable time.
Which I do not have, thanks to my entire family showing up unannounced to move in with me.
Yay! Surprise houseguests!
As a mature adult woman in her thirties, my stalker is the closest thing to a relationship I’ve had in years. No one’s lining up for a curvy woman with a bad attitude, bras with holes in them, and zero tolerance for man-children.
And no, Mom, I don’t need you giving my number to every creepy guy you meet at the grocery store.
I’m perfectly happy being single. I have my café, my neurotic overweight border collie, and the shadowy figure peering into my window. I don’t need a man.
Except… I do need to find my newly single little sister a boyfriend-slash-meal-ticket so she (and the rest of my houseguests) will move out.
I’d toss her to my mystery stalker, but he did my laundry, and I’m not ready to give up on those perks yet. Besides, I’ve already got the perfect man for her: billionaire, hot, and way out of my league.
Better yet, I no longer have a crush on him, at least not since Fitzgerald Svensson served me eviction papers with a side of insults disguised as flirting.
Now he keeps showing up at my sister’s dates.
Yes, it’s a group activity. We’re recreating our toxic childhood dynamics here, m’kay?
Which means he must be interested… right?
Only problem—he’s hanging around me instead of her.
But it’s an even bigger problem when I wake up one night pinned by a six-foot-five male with his hand over my mouth, his knee spreading my legs, whispering in my ear, “Surprise, Creampuff.”
Author bio:
I write the kind of books I love—romantic comedies featuring snarly guys with hearts of gold,kick-ass heroines, and a swoon-worthy happily ever after! Also wine. And cupcakes.
When I’m not writing I can be found drinking tea, surrounded by my massive to-be-read pile!So many books...
You can connect with me on social media or find information on my books at mywebsite.
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