Chandler: A Standalone Contemporary Romance (21 page)
Read Chandler: A Standalone Contemporary Romance Online
Authors: Laurelin Paige
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Read an excerpt of Screwmates at the back of this book.
I knew from the first time I saw Marc Kirby that I was screwed.
Big eyes, scruffy face, brown curls – yes, yes, and yes. The man is wicked hot.
He’s also my roommate, and since I work nights and he’s at class all day – it’s like living alone at half the rent.
Then an unexpected night off turns into an unexpected morning in Marc’s bed and an even more unexpected realization that both of us are terrible in the sack.
This is not great news for Marc who’s going on a “bangcation” at the end of the summer – a whole month in France that he’s planned to spend getting busy with the women of Paris.
It’s also not great news for me for obvious reasons.
With both of us needing work on our skills, there’s only one logical solution to our predicament.
Told you I was screwed.
V
isit my website
at
www.laurelinpaige.com
and sign up for my newsletter to be sure you’re notified when Screwmates is available.
O
ne unexpected and
wild weekend with Weston King, and I’m a new woman. He, on the other hand, is the same rich, notorious playboy he’s always been. In other words, not the commitment type.
So even though we had fun those two days and nights, I moved on quickly from our horizontal time together.
Or I thought I did until he offered me a job a month later at his firm in NYC.
Can you blame a girl for thinking we might have a chance together?
What I didn’t anticipate was Donovan Kincaid, Weston's best friend and business partner. He’s dangerous and dominant and gets under my skin in ways that no other man has.
The worst part? I like it.
F
rom NYT Bestselling author Laurelin Paige
, discover a whole new world filled with sex, love, power, romance and dirty, filthy rich men.
D
irty Filthy Rich
Men (Coming Early 2017!)
F
irst and Last
L
ights
, Camera…
W
ritten
with Kayti McGee under the name Laurelin McGee
Screwmates
(Coming Soon!)
W
ritten
with Sierra Simone
Hot Cop (Coming Soon!)
T
o my husband and daughters
—you brighten my life. You’re the Chandler to my Hudson, and I’m so grateful for you. Love is love is love is love is love is love is love.
To my team Rebecca Friedman, Kimberly Brower, Flavia Viotti, Meire Dias, Mary Cummings and the staff at Diversion, Jenn Watson and the gals at Social Butterfly PR, Ashley Lindemann, Sheri Gustafson, and Melissa Gaston—you make me look cooler than I am. It’s quite a task, I know. Also to the ladies who run The Sky Launch, Stephanie Raylyn, Annette Popa, Serena McDonald, and Lauren Luman—thank you for all you do and just for being who you are. Love you all.
To my squad, Sierra Simone (aka, #1 editor), Kayti McGee, and Melanie Harlow—you’re the best snakes—er, I mean snatches around (yeah, I went there).
To the ladies who keep me in the know, Christine Reiss, Lauren Blakely, and Kristy Bromberg—I’m lost without you! There aren’t words for how much I appreciate you. #FabFourForever
To my earliest readers Roxie Madar, Liz Berry, Serena McDonald, Stephanie Raylyn, Annette Popa, Holly Baker, Laura Foster Franks, and Ang Oh—your feedback helped shape this book. I’m so humbled by the time and friendship you give me.
To the bloggers and readers—I’m in awe everyday of your support and enthusiasm. To steal Chandler’s words: Best. Job. Ever.
To my God—thank you for all the gifts you’ve given but especially for your patience.
I
knew
from the first time I saw him that I was screwed.
He couldn’t be as hot as I thought he was, that wasn’t possible. I’m a visual artist. And that
had
to be an illusion. No way those brown curls and scruffy face were real. Twenty-five year-old Colin Firth didn’t live in Kansas City. Someone would have mentioned it. Also, time travel.
I had just taken off my glasses to clean them. Fatal mistake. I was still blinking in the doorway and trying to maneuver the hem of my plaid button-down to rub on the lenses when Ava, mistaking me for nervous, put the flat of her hand on the small of my back and shoved.
So my first
real
impression of Marc Kirby came as I tripped and fell to my knees. My chin, slightly pointed (Mom’s side, thanks for nothing) led as it usually does. Point first, I slammed headlong and hard into his dick. And man… it was a big dick.
Best first impression ever.
Typical Ava, cracking up, surveyed the scene (both of us on the floor: him in pain, me in humiliation).
“Madison’s chin, my cousin Marc’s crotch,” she choked out between howls of laughter. “Meet your new roommate, both of you. I’ll leave you to it!” The door slammed behind her.
So. Completely. Screwed.
“I’ll find my own room,” I said, before he had a chance to recover. “Sorry about—your boy parts.” My finest moment, obviously.
Swear to Stan Lee, I’ve never moved that fast in my life. Turning one knob, then another in rapid sequence: his room, closet, bathroom, finally (blessedly), my new room.
For the hundredth time, or at least the hundredth time that day, I cursed my former roomies for changing their minds the day we were supposed to turn in our lease renewal and leaving me in the lurch. You could argue that an unplanned pregnancy on Lizzie’s part and a nervous breakdown on Scarlet’s were unexpected, but I was in no mood to be charitable.
Because here I was now––a new room, a fresh start. A big dick.
I didn’t mean to, but the door slammed behind me about as loudly as it had behind Ava. But whereas hers was punctuation, mine was just—I don’t know, carelessness and humiliation combined, I guess.
Could he really have been as hot as I thought he was?
And could I really have just chinned him in the junk? And then I fled? And slammed the door?
And could chinned really be a verb?
Dying, seriously.
I flopped back on the bed. Thank Odin this place came furnished. I could not even handle going back out there right now to start hauling furniture around. Now was a time for cowering and trying to pretend that didn’t happen, even as I could smell the boy-scents of the apartment and hear him still letting out the occasional groan.
Okay. No prob. I could handle this.
The plan was to just hang out quietly for a while, let him… recover. Then I’d head on out casually like no big deal, and apologize when neither of us were embarrassed anymore. Easy peasy, we’d maybe order a pizza or something, hang out. Start fresh. Flirt a little. Just me and the hot curly faux-British guy. Hot Marc. Eating hot pizza. Being roomies. As you do. Just doing the thing.
I woke up approximately five hours later, to full darkness and a pillow covered in drool. No pizza. No hot roomie.
And a whole lot more humiliation.
Because now Marc probably thought I was scared to face him. I wasn’t, not at all. Super brave, that was me. But you can’t
say
that to someone, so you have to just swagger around and hope they gather the general idea.
Which was what I was all ready to do the next day, only he evidently was at school the whole time I was at home drawing and awaiting him.
Not drawing
him
, per se. If you happen to put a familiar face on a body with a cape that’s just artistic license.
Grabbing my new key from the counter, I finally headed off to work for my night shift at the print shop around five. I got home, wound down, went to bed while he was sleeping, and woke when he was gone again.
Well, there was still the weekend when school and work were both not in session. Weird waiting so long, but I wouldn’t act like it, I’d be like, “Oh, hey, never see you, how’s it going?” Super casually.
And he’d be all, “Man, our schedules are crazy, right? Bourbon?”
“Bourbon,” I’d reply. And then we’d get to know each other.
Except I never saw him Saturday. Or Sunday.
I texted Ava, nonchalant, like.
Your cousin is an invisible roommate haha
.
She wrote back almost immediately that he went home to take care of his mom on weekends.
Well, well. Hot
and
filial. Cool. I could work with that. And really, I don’t even like bourbon, so.
But right then, I had to actually
work
work, because ComicCon was coming up and a minor comic artist like myself hustles like a motherfucker at those things. So one week blended into two pretty easily, between my day (night?) job and my art. Then one month became two and then a lot more and it honestly shocked me when one day I saw a stack of graduation invitations sitting on the kitchen table.
Ten months had somehow meandered by in a parade of frames and frames (bad screen-printing/artist joke, sorry) without ever getting the chance to get to hang with Marc. Don’t get me wrong––I saw him all the time in passing. We just never once fulfilled my pizza night fantasy.
Fantasy? No, that made it sound tawdry. My expectation, that was better. Because who lived with someone for nearly a year and never Netflix-ed and chilled?
Wait.
I meant
actually
watched Netflix while chilling. I did. I swear. Because, literally, who lives with someone for nearly a year and never has a boring couch night?
So it was weird, maybe, but it was what we did and it was no big deal and actually I hadn’t even thought about our embarrassing first encounter in months. Really.
Except maybe occasionally when I had a vibrator night.
But it wasn’t like
he
ever knew that’s what I thought about.
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www.laurelinpaige.com
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L
aurelin Paige is
the
NY Times, Wall Street Journal
, and
USA Today
Bestselling Author of the Fixed Trilogy. She's a sucker for a good romance and gets giddy any time there's kissing, much to the embarrassment of her three daughters. Her husband doesn't seem to complain, however. When she isn't reading or writing sexy stories, she's probably singing, watching
Game of Thrones
and
The Walking Dead
, or dreaming of Michael Fassbender. She’s also a proud member of Mensa International, though she doesn’t do anything with the organization except use it as material for her bio.
