Table of Contents
Ear Candy
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Authors
Other books by Andrea Johnston
Other books by M.E. Carter
Ear Candy
Copyright © 2018
By M.E. Carter and Andrea Johnston
Cover design and Formatting by Uplifting Designs
Editing by Karen L. of The Proof Is in the Reading, LLC
Cover Photo by Shutterstock
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. No part of this publication may be stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, people – living or dead – is entirely coincidental.
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Chapter 1
Donna
Garlic
Dried Oregano
Oh . . . baby portobello mushrooms
By the time Rich finishes reciting his résumé, also known as his attempt at first date small talk, I will have officially completed my shopping list. Honestly, if this monologue continues, I may forego my traditional post-first-date cocktail with my best girlfriends for a rendezvous at the grocery store. Visions of a cart with ice cream and Ho-Hos brings an instant smile to my face. Unfortunately, Rich must think the smile is for him and not the box of processed sugar I plan on indulging in later tonight because the Cheshire Cat worthy grin he shoots me is borderline creepy.
Pausing before the wine glass reaches my lips, I inhale and savor hints of citrus that layer in the crisp Sauvignon Blanc. I love a good white wine, and when I realized Rich was a talker, I opted to order the bottle.
“More wine?”
Pulled from my thoughts, I peer over the rim of my glass at a smiling Rich. Handsome and debonair are the words I’d use to describe him in one of my novels. Actually, drop-dead gorgeous alpha male with an above average cock is how I’d really describe him in one of my books. That’s what my audience would expect. Being a bestselling erotica romance author means I don’t have the luxury of describing my leading men as “handsome” or “debonair.” Nope, my audience expects a dirty talking billionaire with a strong sexual appetite and the occasional silk scarf for blindfolding. Add a little taboo—a ménage à trois or some BDSM—and boom: best seller.
Just once, I’d like to write about the sweet hero who only wants to show the woman he loves how special and amazing she is. I want to write the average blue-collar worker who meets the sweet small-town girl and realizes all he’s ever wanted is standing in front of him. My agent calls that career suicide. I call it my life goal.
In response to Rich’s question, I offer him a small smile and extend my glass for him to refill. When he’s returning the bottle to the ice bucket, the server approaches our table to deliver our meals. A delicious Mediterranean chicken with roasted vegetables for me and a dripping blood steak and loaded baked potato for Rich.
As I pick up my fork and knife, I ask, “So, why corporate law?”
“The money, naturally. Growing up, I knew I wanted to be successful and not have to worry about my future so corporate seemed the most logical step.”
And there you have it. He’ll never be one of the sweet-talking men I dream of writing; he’ll only be the billionaire alpha. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. He’s exactly my type on paper. Gorgeous. Rich. Successful. Arrogant. Taking the world by storm and determined to make his mark. The chemistry just isn’t there. Or maybe it’s because his inability to talk about anything other than himself seems to tip the scales to being a little too arrogant. Either way, I’m just not feeling this date, even if I’m not opposed to taking full advantage of the wonderful meal.
Nodding in response, I turn my attention to my chicken as Rich continues on with his reiteration of life as a corporate attorney. Lawyers like him are one of the reasons I left my previous life as an attorney behind. Being accountable to billable hours, demanding clients, and never seeing a sunset as I was chained to my desk was never going to make me happy.
Then, one bad breakup, a bottle of tequila, and a vivid imagination later, I hit publish on my first erotica romance novel. The big “FU” to my bosses and corporate life was using my real name. Donna Moreno isn’t exactly the most creative name so whenever I’m asked if it’s a pen name, I laugh. If I had known my good friend Adeline Snow then, I would have asked her to help me come up with a kick-ass pen name like hers.
As confident as I was when my book first released, when it began gaining buzz and popularity in social media, I started to worry. The fear that my bosses would catch wind of the release and I would suffer the consequences weighed on me like a hundred-pound boulder on my shoulders.
Imagining their bald heads turning various shades of red as they screamed at me, and ultimately fired me, kept me up every night. Then I hit the top one hundred of a major retailer and went to the store, purchased another bottle of tequila, and wrote the sequel. When the second book hit the top one hundred on release day, publishers began sniffing around. I weighed my options, read through their contract offers, and decided to throw caution to the wind. I rendered my resignation a few weeks later and never looked back.
Now, with twenty-three books under my belt, I live a comfortable life as a full-time author. And full-time single lady. The belief romance authors are having hours and hours of sex every day couldn’t be further from the truth. The reality is, I spend days, okay, weeks, procrastinating. I watch a lot of mindless television, read a book a day, and possibly obsess over silly games on my phone instead of writing. Instead of pacing myself and finishing a project ahead of schedule, I fall down the darkest rabbit hole. Then, in the final weeks before my deadline, I spend my days in flannel pajama pants, forget to wash my hair, and live off a diet revolving around chocolate and potato chips.
By the time I take the last bite of my chicken, Rich has only made it a quarter of the way through his st
eak. I suppose failure to stop talking about one’s self would make eating impossible. Perhaps that’s why he’s so svelte. Now, that’s not a word you hear often. Svelte. Is it even appropriate to use when referring to a man? This is why I have editors, they always fix my faux pas and misuse, or overuse, of words. Except the word “cock.” They encourage me to overuse that one.
“If I may,” the server says as he extends his hand toward my empty plate.
“Yes, please. Thank you.” I smile up at the young man in appreciation as he removes my plate. As he steps away, Rich says, “You can have mine as well.”
“Should he box it up for you?” I ask.
“No thanks. I don’t do leftovers.” He doesn’t “do” leftovers, but he’ll waste food?
“How do you feel about a little dessert?” It’s like the server read my mind.
Looking off into the distance, I spy the dessert cart. I saw the oversized slice of carrot cake when I walked in the restaurant. My mouth watered instantly. Regardless of how much sugary goodness may have welcomed me when I arrived, it isn’t enough for me to endure another thirty minutes of this date. Turning my attention back to Rich, I see the look in his eye and realize he isn’t thinking about the offered pastry or a cappuccino.
“I feel a little headache coming on; I should call it a night.” Lies. I’m catching a ride share and taking my ass to the bar to meet my girlfriends.
“Probably the wine,” he mutters. Rich doesn’t bother to hide his frustration and it may be best for me to leave him to those feelings on his own. Excusing myself to the restroom, I grab my clutch and slip my phone out as I approach the ladies’ room. I quickly open the app to order a ride-share. Nine minutes. Perfect. Next, I shoot a text to my best friend, Clara, giving her my ETA.
Me: Twenty minutes or less.
Clara: I’m conflicted.
Me: Continue . . .
Clara: I mean, yay for girls’ night but I wanted you to find love.
Me: Sorry to disappoint.
Me: WAIT! I did love my chicken.
Clara: You really are living your best life *insert sarcasm font* Give me a five-minute head’s up so I can have the shots ready.
And that is why she’s my best friend. Or enabler.
I quickly handle my business, fluff my hair, and reapply my lipstick before returning to the dining room. As I approach the table, I see someone sitting in my chair. Across from my date.
Eating my carrot cake.
Granted, I never ordered it, but still. What kind of woman poaches another woman’s dessert?
“Can I help you with something?” I ask politely as I approach.
Giving me the once over, the pretty redhead with overly pouty lips probably from too much Botox sneers at me. “We don’t need anything, thank you. Although if you could get the check, that would be great. My husband and I are almost ready to leave.”
“Your hus—” Not bothering to finish my question, I look over at Rich, whose eyes are as wide as saucers. Glaring at him, I don’t mind making him sweat a little as he waits to see if I’ll call him out. Not that I need to. His wife might be made of plastic, but she’s not stupid. If my female instincts are correct, she knows she caught him red-handed, and she’s enjoying making him squirm as much as I am.
Deciding this is one of those moments were women should be sticking together, I turn back to his wife. “Actually, I’m not your waitress, but I’ll make sure to let the staff know you’re ready to leave. The food here is amazing, if you ever dine here again may I suggest the steak. Rare. There’s just something about a piece of meat dripping in its own juices. Plus the knives are really sharp.”
Turning on my heel, I stalk out of the restaurant and to my waiting ride-share.
“Are you sure that was his wife? Maybe she’s some psycho ex,” my best friend says as she slides a shot glass toward me.
“Clara, she called him her husband. If she was an ex, don’t you think he’d correct her? Plus the look on his face was pretty damning. I’m sure he’s still wondering if she’s going to shank him in his sleep tonight. Besides, I’m more pissed she got the dessert I’d been eyeing. I knew I should have ordered it.”
Tossing back the shot of tequila and slipping the lime between my teeth, I roll my eyes at Clara. She thinks it’s so simple. Pull up an app, swipe left—or is it right? Maybe that’s my problem. I must be swiping the wrong direction and keep ending up with the losers. Or assholes.
“Donna, you need to broaden your horizons. Give up on the suits and just date regular guys.”
I scoff, feeling like a broken record. “I have a type. Tall, dark, handsome, successful. Why is that such a bad thing?”
For the last year I’ve been going on date after date thanks to an exclusive dating app for business professionals. The membership fee alone weeds out anyone whose income is less than mid to high six figures. My attraction to men in tailored suits who are driven by success has never wavered. I’m career driven, and while I want to meet a kind man with a good heart, I don’t need the white picket fence and two point five kids.
“It’s not a bad thing to have a type. Except your type also seems to be assholes and not good guys.” Girlfriend has a point.
“Yeah well, I write assholes for a living. I guess I’m just living my best life. Or at least one my heroines would live.”
“Maybe that’s your problem,” she suggests. “Maybe you need to write a different kind of guy. Throw it out into the universe and see if it comes back to you.”
I look at her like she’s lost her mind. “You think the reason my dating life isn’t going well is because I’m not putting the right kind of man into the universe? Have you been watching the Psychic Network again?”
Now it’s her turn to scoff. “No.” She looks down. “Maybe.” I laugh as she continues. “That’s not what this is about. I just think maybe you spend so much time focusing on a certain kind of man in your brain that it bleeds over into other areas of your life. Maybe if you shift your focus you’ll see things a little differently. Men, in particular.”
“Maybe,” I say with a shrug. “At least I can try it. But if it works, my next book is going to be about an author who suddenly becomes independently wealthy and never has to work again.”
“Oooh.” Clara’s eyes brighten. “Make sure you write in her beautiful best friend who finds the man of her dreams too, okay?”
“Done.”
Clinking shot glasses with my friend, I lift it in front of me and toss it back. Clara is going to be sorely disappointed. If I’ve learned anything in the last year, it’s that fiction does not meet reality.
Chapter 2
Todd
“I run my hands down her beautiful curves, tasting her as I move slowly down her body. She’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen, and finally, after all these months, she’s mine.
“Her breath hitches as my tongue slides across her hip. My brain is singularly focused, wanting nothing more than to settle between her legs so I can taste her tight, wet …”
FLUSH!
Slamming my fist on the desk in frustration, I let out a shrill whistle before yelling, “Dammit Bill! We’ve talked about this! Flush on your own time! I have a book to narrate!”
He responds with an apologetic whistle of his own.
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble, trying to find a good starting point on my script now that I’ve lost my place. “You said that last time.”
Making a mental note to add soundproofing insulation to the ceiling of my closet, also known as “The Room Where the Magic Happens—Wink,” I backtrack to the last paragraph and prepare to begin again.
Clearing my throat, I bring my lips to the microphone, and dropping my voice an octave to add maximum sexiness for this particular character, I speak.
“Her breath hitches as my tongue slides across her hip. My brain is singularly focused, wanting nothing more than to settle between her legs so I can taste her tight, wet …”
“Uh, To
dd. I love you, marry me?” “Nope, sorry. Marrying Marge.”
“Dammit. I was just getting to the good part,” I growl, stopping the recording and picking up my phone now that it’s alerted me of a call, via my favorite line from the ’80s movie classic, Mom and Dad Save the World. My best friend, Aggi, hates that whole movie, which is why it’s the perfect ringtone for her.
It also gives me a chance to plan how I want to answer when she calls. It’s different every time. Deciding on the perfect accent, I press to connect. “If you want your book voiced soon, ya gonna need to stop intahrupting me.”
“Not one of my characters has a Boston accent, Todd.” I know she’s rolling her eyes at me. I can hear it through the phone. “The only accent you should be using is a touch of Canadian.”
“You have no imagination,” I grumble, making a note on my script where I need to pick it up again.
“I have all the imagination,” she retorts. “You’re trying to bring my vision to life, remember?”
“It’s called artist’s interpretation.”
“Please interpret less and narrate more.”
“I’d love to, but I keep getting interrupted.”
At this exact moment, Bill drops something on the floor above me. He’s got nine hundred square feet up there. Why does he keep standing right above my closet?
Whistling again, I yell, “I’m working down here!”
“Good lord, Todd, was that necessary? I just went deaf from that whistle.”
“Sorry.” I’m not really sorry. Aggi likes to exaggerate. It’s what makes her an amazing author and sometimes obnoxious friend.
No that’s not right. I’m definitely the obnoxious friend in this relationship. Even I know that.
Growing up down the street from each other, Agnes Sylvester, Aggi to me and best-selling author Adeline Snow to the rest of the world, and I were practically raised as siblings. Her mom worked a lot, but with her brilliantly sharp mind was amazing at helping us with homework. My mom stayed home, but with her love of all things baked goods and soap operas, was awesome at keeping us out of trouble and nurtured.
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