Accidental Attachment Read Online Max Monroe

Categories Genre: Contemporary, Funny Tags Authors: Max Monroe Advertisement1

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Don’t stand too close to this flesh balloon, folks—she’s about to pop.

Benji cranes his head at me and groans, flopping his body down onto the floor and looking up at me with judgy eyes. I scoff. Nobody likes a smartass dog—even in a Thor costume.

“No, actually, I don’t think I’m making a bigger deal of this than it is. He has the book, Benj. You know…the one where I wrote an entire scene dedicated to the way I imagine he would eat me out?” I huff three sharp breaths in an attempt to keep myself from hyperventilating and reach a shaking hand out to pour more wine into my glass, ripping off the blood pressure cuff before it can finish. “I’d have to stage a terrorist attack to be blowing this out of proportion, and believe you me, I’ve considered that a whole three times in order to come to the conclusion that blowing up the city I love and a bunch of innocent people is over the top.”

Benji cocks his head to the side, and he paws me on the shin in sympathy. There, there, you crazy woman. There, there.

I chug a thick swig of Cabernet and bow my head with a lingering sigh afterward. Only I would get myself into this kind of situation. What kind of professional keeps their manuscript for the thing they hope never sees the light of day right next to the one that’s supposed to, for Pete’s sake?

Probably the same kind who allows themselves to fall into an obsessive infatuation with their editor and turns it into a book, that’s who.

I know it’s crazy, I know, lusting after him, but I don’t even completely know how it happened other than to say…the day I met Chase Dawson was the day the earth stood still.

There were bright lights and powerful auras, and I’m pretty sure the whole “circle around the sun” thing paused for ten to fifteen solid seconds.

He was something out of a fantasy I’d never dared to dream. Dark hair, strong cheekbones, and the friendliest smile. I swear you could melt a Catholic toward the devil if Chase just introduced the two.

He had a perfect touch of a Southern accent—not thick, just…there—and the things he said to me with ease will forever live in the very core of my memory.

“I knew meeting you would be one of the highlights of my career, Brooke, but I didn’t know your banter would be the highlight of my day. If I could carry you home with me, I doubt I’d need any other entertainment at all.”

Ha-ha-ha. Complimenting my work and my humor and managing somehow not to sound like it was scripted? I was sold. Down the river, swallowed up, fully on my way into a crush tailspin.

Obviously—obviously—my mind took liberties in its imaginings of Chase Dawson from the start. Realistically, he’s no more than a handsome human man with good people skills and charisma. Somewhere deep down, I knew that.

But then there were funny, but still professional, text messages checking in on the status of Garden of Forever, and phone calls where I had to hear his sexy voice and laugh. The calls were brief, but they sure as shit didn’t help dissipate my crush.

And the next two times I saw him at Longstrand, you could have knocked me over with a feather’s memory at the sight of his muscled shoulders and sent me straight to detention for the things my mind started to imagine.

From there, every sexual impulse inside me ran wild.

I barely know him—don’t even know his favorite color—but as far as my imagination is concerned, he’s the man the universe created just for me.

And in this reimagining of the astral plane I’ve created in my manuscript of Accidental Attachment, Clive Watts—aka Chase Dawson reincarnated as a dreamy TV producer—feels the exact same way about River Rollins—aka fictional news anchor me.

Burning, obsessive passion. Smooth, effortless banter. Hot, dirty-as-fuck sex. All produced from the little visualizations in my head.

And now…everyone is going to read it.

Oh God. I’m going to vomit—big, ugly chunks too, not the delicate warning that stays in your throat.

I take off at a run for the bathroom and slide into the toilet like a baller stealing a base. I hit my knee so hard the porcelain rings like a bell, and a groan involuntarily jumps from my lips.

“Jiminy Cricket!” I yell, the nausea still swelling up the walls of my throat. Battered kneecap forgotten, I heave myself up into a squat and tuck my head into the lip of the toilet bowl just nanoseconds before I spew red wine all over the white walls.

It’s disgusting to say the least, and beyond that, very, very telling.

I’m not just upset about having my innermost thoughts exposed—I’m sick over it. And it’s not even a full reality yet. If by some twisted fate, the publisher agrees to switch my contract, this thing is going to be pushed and shoved and publicized into almost every corner of the planet.


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