by Grant, Pippa
America’s Geekheart
Pippa Grant
Contents
Introduction
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
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Sneak Peek at Hammered
Sneak Peek at Stud in the Stacks
Complete Pippa Grant Book List and Reading Order
About the Author
Copyright
Introduction
America’s Geekheart
A billionaire underwear model / geek with a secret / fake boyfriend romantic comedy
Remember that time you accidentally sexted your in-laws?
Yeah. I just did that. Except worse. Now my million social media followers are reading and sharing the rude, smartass message I meant to send privately to my little sister...and I’m officially public enemy number one.
I’m Beck Ryder. Former boy bander. Underwear model. Fashion mogul. And I just buried my entire leg in my mouth—not just my foot—modern internet style, and publicly insulted my sister’s neighbor.
Sarah Dempsey.
Also known as the woman of my dreams, who loves geeky TV shows, baseball, and giraffes, who’s just as turned on by food as I am, and who has a huge secret that I didn’t see coming.
Now it's time to grovel and apologize publicly on social media and hope that those same followers who helped start the raging shitstorm will help calm the waters.
Because Sarah doesn’t want the spotlight. For very good reasons that I can’t tell you right now and trying to convince her to be my fake girlfriend to fix this mess and make me look like less of a jackass is worse than taking a kick to the nuts by Jackie Chan.
And I thought modeling underwear made me feel naked.
Trying to start a relationship in the era of the twitterazzi isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.
America’s Geekheart is a rockin’ fun romantic comedy featuring a billionaire fashion mogul who got his start modeling underwear, the geeky girl next door with a secret the size of California, and more superstitions and secrets than you can shake a baseball bat at. It stands alone with no cheating or cliffhangers.
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Pippa Grant Reading Order
The Bro Code Series
Flirting with the Frenemy (Wyatt and Ellie)
America’s Geekheart (Beck and Sarah)
The Mister McHottie World…
Mister McHottie (Chase & Ambrosia)
Stud in the Stacks (Parker & Knox)
The Pilot and the Puck-Up (Zeus and Joey)
Royally Pucked (Manning and Gracie)
Beauty and the Beefcake (Ares and Felicity)
Rockaway Bride (Willow and Dax)
Hot Heir (Viktor and Peach)
The Hero and the Hacktivist (Rhett and Eloise)
Charming as Puck (Nick and Kami)
Standalones
Exes and Ho Ho Hos (Jake and Kaitlyn)
Co-Written with Lili Valente
Hosed (Ryan and Cassie)
Hammered (Jace and Olivia)
Coming Soon
Truth or Heir
The Princess and the Protector
The SEAL and the Starlet
And more! For the most up-to-date book list, CLICK HERE.
One
Beckett Ryder, aka a man completely oblivious that he’s just mistweeted his way to being public enemy number one
Life is pretty fucking perfect.
Weather’s a glorious seventy-five degrees and sunny on this brilliant June morning. My new jogging shoes fit like I’m running on a cloud. The green leafy canopy over Reynolds Park is hitting that perfect level of shade, and I’ve got my tunes dialed up and nowhere to be until my sister’s engagement party tonight.
Ten solid hours of doing whatever the hell I want.
I’m grinning to myself as I run the familiar pathway through the city park, so glad to be back in Copper Valley. Love my job, but there is no place in the world like home.
I nod to a woman pushing a jogging stroller going the other way, and she scowls and flips me off.
Odd.
Crazies are normal when I’m in LA, or sometimes in Europe, but here?
My hometown loves me.
I dial down the volume on my tunes and double-check my shirt.
Nope, nothing offensive about a Fireballs T-shirt. They might be the biggest losers in baseball, but they’re lovable losers.
I glance lower, and—yep, remembered to put pants on today. Shorts, really. My brand, naturally, but not because they’re my brand. More because I picked them to be in my RYDE fashion line because they’re really comfortable.
I might’ve been singing along to Levi’s latest hit, but I’m not that bad. Sure, I was the eye candy in the boy band Bro Code back in the day, but I can still carry a tune.
She must’ve mistaken me for someone else. Or her fingers are stuck that way. Resting bitch face knows no boundaries and can happen to even the most innocent victims. Probably not her fault.
I keep on truckin’, and an elderly woman on a bench shakes her cane at me and says something I don’t catch while her dog yaps along. I pop out one earbud.
“You’re a disgrace to good men everywhere,” she crows.
I slow and face her, jogging in place. “Ma’am?”
“Your poor momma must be ashamed.”
Ah. The underwear police. Not so unusual. While Levi went on to be a pop sensation when we called it quits as Bro Code, Cash took off for Hollywood, Tripp hung up his fame and settled down, and Davis went into hiding, I took my own route.
My post-boy-band career choices have been known to raise a few eyebrows.
“Yes, ma’am. She’s horrified. Y’all have a nice day now.” I salute her and head back down the path toward the fountain at the center of the park.
In the years since I modeled my first pair of briefs for Giovanni & Valentino, before I branched out into creating a fashion empire of my own, I’ve had my share of haters. Goes with the business.
But my momma isn’t ashamed of me.
No more than she was during my boy band days.
If anything, she’s amused. Resigned sometimes, but amused.
Ellie—my sister—gives me trouble. So do all the guys we grew up with.
That’s why I love them.
They keep me grounded.
Hell, half of them needed the grounding themselves.
; The path curves, and there she is.
My fountain.
Okay, fine, she’s not mine. But she’s on the city’s crest, and she says home to me.
I love home, but running the Beck Ryder fashion empire—yeah, go ahead and snort, it’s funny—keeps me away a lot.
I burst out into the sunshine and make the loop around the curved sidewalk, feet pounding the concrete, mist brushing my face, the five stone dolphins around the fountain joyfully spitting water into the stone mermaids’ buckets on the second tier while a circle of seahorses blows water horns.
The early summer breeze rustles the birch and sugar maple leaves shimmering in the sunlight. The air’s clear. The sky’s my favorite blue. Flowers explode in reds and yellows and purples in the carefully cultivated landscaping that masks the downtown skyscrapers and mutes the noise of the city.
It’s my own private welcome home party from nature.
Can’t wait to be here more often.
Soon. So soon.
I circle the fountain and head back toward the path that leads to Schuler Tower and my penthouse at the edge of the park. Tomorrow, I have to get back to work—there’s always work when you’re running an empire and launching a new foundation—but today, my staff has the day off, my phone’s still on airplane mode, and the whole Copper Valley metro area is my oyster.
No phone, no work, no responsibilities.
Maybe I’ll leave the city behind and head up into the Blue Ridge Mountains for a hike. Nap up there in the fresh air. Eat. Eat some more. Get back in time for Ellie and Wyatt’s surprise engagement party.
Rumor has it they’re serving barbecue.
I haven’t had good barbecue in months.
I’m so busy drooling over the thought of real Southern pulled pork that I almost miss the yoga class.
By itself, a yoga class on the lawn by the fountain isn’t unusual. But this yoga class seems less into the Namaste and more into hurling their yoga bricks.
Specifically, at me.
They charge me as a group, a yoga-pants-clad mob racing over the hilly green grass, shouting obscenities and shaking fists. One lady has her mat rolled into a cylinder and is leading the pack Braveheart style.
“Creep!”
“Jerk!”
“You go home and get your own damn apron!”
My pulse amps into sprint territory.
“Hey, hey.” I hold my hands up in surrender while I jog backwards, because seriously, what the fuck? “Y’all know I love you. What’s—”
A shoe hurtles at my face. Another yoga brick clips my shoulder.
“Get him, ladies,” the Braveheart lady yells.
Oh, shit.
They want blood.
I don’t have a fucking clue what I did, but these ladies want blood. My blood.
My run morphs into a sprint, but for once, my brain’s spinning faster than my legs.
The mother and her stroller and her middle finger. The grandmother and her cane. And now a yoga class.
I’m outnumbered.
Probably outsmarted and outmaneuvered too.
Another yoga brick.
And I’m still too far from safety.
“Shut up and let your underwear do the talking!” A clump of—oh, man, that’s disgusting. Flying horse poop. Awesome.
I pump my legs harder. Knees higher. Like I’m gonna beat Usain Bolt. Running. Sprinting. Away from a mob of angry women.
This is new.
As is having a mob of angry women gaining on me.
The ladies usually love me. Or if not, at least they tolerate me with patient smiles.
Maybe a run wasn’t the best cure for jetlag.
But how was I supposed to know today’s International Beck Ryder Is The Enemy Day?
“I’ll show you where you belong,” one of the women screeches.
I don’t have a clue where she thinks I belong, or why she thinks I belong there, but I know one thing.
I am totally fucked.
Two
Sarah Dempsey, aka a geek with no intention of having Beck Ryder’s babies
The last time I wore sunglasses, a ball cap pulled low over my eyes, and a sweatshirt to go to the store—in June—I was in LA, seventeen, and all I wanted was a pack of Pokémon cards.
Today, I’m low on toilet paper, which is literally the only thing in the world that would make me leave my house. It’s not until I’m in the checkout lane with my four-pack of Charmin clutched to my chest that it occurs to me that people aren’t staring because Beck Ryder tweeted me last night to shut up and go make some babies, but not with me, of course, but because there’s no legitimate reason for me to be acting like a celebrity in hiding since no one here knows I’m @must_love_bees on Twitter, and honestly, @must_love_bees isn’t a celebrity by any measure anyway.
Damn underwear model.
He’s screwing with my head. And my life.
My regular cashier gives me a once-over. “You goin’ to a party?” she asks, her gaze drifting between my sunglasses, hat, and the toilet paper on the belt.
“Social experiment,” I reply. “Are you more or less likely to talk to people when they come into the store in sunglasses?”
“More,” she says the same time the guy at the other register says, “Less. Gotta respect the privacy.”
“People only dress like that when they want attention,” the grandma behind me informs us all. She taps the cover of one of the tabloids. “Like this guy claiming to be Genghis Khan reincarnated with a penis shaped like a dragon. He wears sunglasses everywhere.”
So long as no one asks to see my peen-dragon, I think I’ll be okay.
I escape all of them and hustle my toilet paper back to my car, which I now feel foolish for driving, because the temperature is in the high seventies, the sunshine is broken up by drifting fluffy white clouds, and it’s only a ten-minute walk from my house to the store.
When I reach my neighborhood three minutes later, none of my neighbors are snooping in my windows.
Not even Ellie Ryder next door, who’s undoubtedly related to the underwear ape, though we’ve never talked about family, because reasons, but who’s also out of town this week.
Or so she said when her boyfriend showed up with his kid last weekend. Something about a pirate festival in the mountains. I didn’t ask any more.
I don’t get close to people.
Most people, I should specify. There are exceptions. But not my neighbors.
My cat, Andromeda—Meda for short—is sleeping in the front window of my little Craftsman bungalow. And there aren’t any unusual cars parked on the street under the oaks and hemlocks.
It’s not that I’m paranoid.
It’s—okay. Fine.
I’m paranoid.
You would be too if you had my parents and my childhood.
I should probably call them.
I pull into the garage and hit the button to drop the door behind me before I get out of the car with my toilet paper. I drop my haul in the bathroom and bypass my little computer hidey-hole because ugh.
It will be weeks before my social media feeds quit blowing up over that stupid underwear model and his asinine suggestion that I’m nothing more than an ugly baby factory.
Might as well reinvent myself.
Again.
Especially if the neighbor is related to him. And if she remembers my Twitter handle.
She’s an environmental engineer.
I’m an environmental engineer.
She likes animals.
I like animals.
It made sense to tell her about my science and conservation website.
Whatever.
There are probably thousands of Ryders in Copper Valley.
“You know what pisses me off the most, Meda?” I say to my cat.
She meows back from her perch in the windowsill, giving me a piece of her mind while I nod along. She’s half-Siamese, half tabby—I think—and all sass and attitude to make up for not fitting sq
uarely into a box, and we get along very well.
“Exactly. I finally had a following of people who love science and geeking out over planetary discoveries and new recycling technologies, and there he goes, turning my entire existence into a circus about my uterus instead of about saving the planet.”
I don’t have to log on to my social media accounts—or my website stats—to know what it looks like. It’s the same as every digital public lynching.
Everyone assumes they know the whole story. They post their opinions about it on the internet, then start with the name-calling—on both sides—and post things they’d never say to your face, and eventually someone will find my address and I’ll have to go into hiding.
Again.
Dammit dammit dammit.
Not that I didn’t enjoy my gap year, but I like my life now.
I throw my sunglasses onto the upcycled coffee table in my eclectic living room and follow it with my hat, which lands squarely inside the massive box of Avengers bobbleheads that Mom sent last week and that I haven’t yet dragged to the basement.
No time like today, because when I have to leave, those can stay behind. Not because I don’t appreciate them—I think the Golden Thor is in that box, and hello, golden hottie, but please don’t tell anyone I said that—but because I anticipate needing to make a fast escape with just the essentials.