 by Lili Valente.jpg)
Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Those are the last words Matty McGuire says to me before punching a man, tossing me into an SUV, and peeling out of Bad Dog like a bat out of hell.
And I am outraged about it, I tell you!
Outraged...and desperately turned on.
I don't want to lust after this man. He's stubborn, bossy, secretive, and leaving the country in just a few weeks. But he's also my lifelong crush, loyal, heroic, and always there when I need him.
Whether it's defending me from horny squirrels or kissing me until the local Haunted House isn't so scary, Matty does it for me. He always has, ever since we were kids.
But when his secrets turn out to be the kind that could get a girl tossed into the Witness Protection Program, I realize I'm in way over my head.
Can I make love work with a Sexy Jerk who is actually a Sexy Spy ? (And who's leaving the country after his final mission?)
Or will this one, red-hot weekend on the run from the mob be our first...and our last?
Welcome to Bad Dog where the men are incredible, the animals are ridiculous, and the happy ever afters are super emotional and steamy! Kind of a Sexy Jerk is a Standalone Romance with Spice!
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Prologue
The calm before the storm…
All morning and into the early afternoon on Thanksgiving Day, as I prepare an ice-cream feast fit for a queen and her loyal lady in waiting, I remind myself that I don’t do jerks.
They say nice guys always finish last, but not with this girl.
Nora Boudreaux loves a nice guy.
I have, in fact, dated exclusively nice guys, and have never had my heart broken. Not even once. Sure, I’ve been sad when things didn’t work out, but my boyfriends were so kind during the “breaking it off” process that I never lost my faith in love, men, or my eventual happily ever after.
And thanks to Gram, I have a loving home where I can retreat to lick my wounds when looking for Mr. Right starts to feel like too much.
I’m basically the luckiest woman in the world.
So…why do I feel like absolute human garbage?
And why can’t I stop thinking about Matty McGuire, no matter how hard I try?
“Are you going to eat that scoop of passion fruit sorbet?” Gram asks, eying my last egg cup full of ice cream across our fancifully decorated dining room table. I went with a “Feast in a Fairy Forest” theme this year, decorating the chairs with gauzy wings, hanging birds and fairies from the ceiling, and weaving tiny sparkly lights through the flower vases. I’m a fashion designer by trade, but I love spiffing up a space and any excuse for a party. Even a party for just Gram and me.
I sit back in my chair with a huff, laying a hand on my stomach. “No, I’m stuffed. It’s all yours.”
“This is why you’re my favorite granddaughter,” she says, snatching the cup and diving in with one of the little espresso spoons we use for the ice-cream feast to make the feasting last longer.
“I’m your only granddaughter,” I remind her with a smile.
Her blue eyes, nearly the exact color of mine, dance above her spoon. “True. But you’d still be my favorite, even if I had a dozen. Still going on your date with Sam this afternoon? He’s a cute one.”
“Yeah, I am.” I glance at the clock above the doorway leading into the kitchen. “I should probably go change, actually. I don’t want to walk the muddy path around the lake in white jeans.”
“Yes, you should change. For sure,” Gram says, scooping a bite of sorbet between her lips before adding, “and pack an overnight bag while you’re at it.”
I frown. “What? Why?”
“So you can get some, honey,” she says, shocking me to my core.
Gram and I talk about a lot of things, but we never talk about that.
I may be nearly thirty years old, but in her eyes, I’m still that little girl who came to live with her when I was in second grade and so traumatized by life with my flighty mother that I slept on a mountain of emotional support stuffed animals.
“You’re too young and pretty to be on the shelf,” she continues.
“I’m not on the shelf,” I say, indignant. “I go on dates all the time.”
“But you haven’t gotten laid in years.”
My jaw drops far enough for one of the fake birds hanging from the ceiling to fit inside.
Who is this woman and what has she done with my sweet, mannerly little grandmother, the one who wouldn’t say “poop” if she had a mouthful of it?
“I may be old, but I’m not blind,” she says. “Or senile. I know what goes on around this town.” She arches a loaded brow my way. “And what doesn’t. And while I’m all for waiting to settle down until you find the right guy, there’s no sense in torturing yourself, sweetheart. Intimacy is a basic human need. It’s fun and relaxing and good for you.” Her brow furrows with concern. “You do enjoy sex, don’t you? If not, there’s therapy for that. And no shame in asking for help.”
“I…” I trail off. Open my mouth. Close my mouth. Blink and wait to wake up in my bed, mortified that my subconscious served up such an awkward dream.
When that doesn’t happen, I wheeze, “What are you getting at, Gram?”
“I’m trying to figure out if you have some sort of sexual dysfunction or if you’re just a big old chicken.”
My jaw drops again, and Gram reaches over, tapping me beneath the chin.
“Close your mouth, sweetheart,” she says kindly. “Don’t want a fly to get in. I saw one zooming around the kitchen earlier. Don’t know how flies are still pestering us in November, but it’s been a warm winter so far. Supposed to be even warmer tomorrow. You should pack that cute little sweater dress with the pink and blue swirls for your overnight and take your guy to breakfast tomorrow. I can hold down the fort alone for a night.”