by Lex Martin
Surprise, Baby!
Lex Martin
Leslie McAdam
Surprise, Baby! © 2019 Lex Martin and Leslie McAdam
* * *
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced or transmitted in any capacity without written permission by the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
* * *
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imaginations or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
* * *
This adult contemporary romance is recommended for readers 18+ due to mature content.
* * *
Copy Editing by RJ Locksley
Proofreading by Jerica MacMillian, Keri Roth, and Amanda Maria
Cover Design by Najla Qamber Designs
Cover Photograph of Lela Hazary and Nate Peterson by Cory Stierley
* * *
March 2019 Edition
ISBN 978-0-9975139-2-9
Contents
Title
About the Book
To Our Readers
Dedication
1. Kendall
2. Drew
3. Drew
4. Kendall
5. Drew
6. Kendall
7. Kendall
8. Drew
9. Kendall
10. Drew
11. Kendall
12. Drew
13. Kendall
14. Drew
15. Kendall
16. Kendall
17. Drew
18. Kendall
19. Kendall
20. Drew
21. Drew
22. Kendall
23. Drew
24. Kendall
25. Kendall
26. Kendall
27. Drew
28. Drew
29. Kendall
30. Drew
31. Drew
32. Kendall
33. Kendall
34. Kendall
35. Drew
36. Kendall
37. Drew
38. Kendall
39. Drew
40. Drew
41. Kendall
42. Kendall
Epilogue
All About the D synopsis
Excerpt of All About the D
Acknowledgments
Contact
About the Book
There’s a fine line between lust and hate.
I don’t care that Drew Merritt spent the last year transforming himself from grungy slob to sexy playboy. With messy, dirty blond hair and gorgeous eyes, his looks aren’t the problem.
His mouth is.
And the stupid things that come out of it.
But after an emergency strands us together, and he does his damnedest to take care of me…
Let’s just say there’s one thing we don’t clash on.
And it doesn’t involve talking.
I’ve despised Drew since I met him years ago. One weekend can’t change us that much, can it?
Spoiler alert: It doesn’t.
Except he left me a little keepsake.
And in nine months, I’ll have a surprise for Portland’s most notorious player.
* * *
SURPRISE, BABY! is a romantic comedy and a full-length standalone. Due to adult situations and sexual content, it's recommended for readers over the age of 18.
To Our Readers
We hope you enjoy Surprise, Baby! Be sure to keep flipping at the end for the first chapter of All About the D, which is Josh and Evie’s book.
* * *
xo,
Lex & Leslie
Dedication
To our husbands, for their endless love, inspiration, and support
I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine.
— Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
1
Kendall
With one eye pinned on the naked guy in the plush white bed, I peel my lace panties off the lampshade.
This is a travesty.
Pink panties decorating expensive hotel décor should be reserved for truly epic evenings, but last night turned out to be a dud.
Lawrence is a nice guy. Handsome. A good conversationalist. Smart. On paper, we’re the perfect match. We’ve gone on a few dates. Enjoyed a few dinners. Had a few laughs. He’s a partner at Powell & O’Toole. He’s affable and charming. Motivated and focused.
Too bad he couldn’t find that spot between my legs even after a personal introduction.
My grandma Nonny always says a girl needs to take a car for a test drive before the purchase. Nonny knows what she’s talking about.
Because despite how well Lawrence and I get along, despite how we’re both career-minded with similar goals, when we got naked, everything fizzled faster than a soda past its expiration date. That’s sad because I could really use some explosive bubbles.
Except every time he thrusts, he grunts like he’s returning a volley at Wimbledon.
Shuddering at the memory, I slip on my skirt and blouse as I tiptoe around the room. As much as I’d like for Lawrence to wake up so we can have the awkward morning-after talk now and spare us an uncomfortable phone call later, I’m already running late. Judging by what he told me in his post-orgasmic state, he wants to do this again.
Me? Not so much.
I should’ve left last night, but I was so damn tired, my whole body ached, and that thousand-thread count felt amazing. Better than sex with Lawrence, sadly. I’ll give him props, though, for splurging on the five-star hotel.
We’d had dinner at the beautiful bistro on the corner, including a fantastic bottle of wine. One thing led to another, and we ended up here. But my to-do list is too long to venture these dating waters with someone who doesn’t rock my bedpost.
Is it too much to ask the universe for a boyfriend who can deliver stress-relieving orgasms and the occasional snuggle? I probably only need sex once a week and some mentally stimulating dinner conversation that doesn’t revolve around my clients. Is that really an impossible request?
If I’m being completely honest with myself, no one has matched up to my ex. But now Bobby’s happily married with a new wife and a new baby, living the suburban life while killing it in the NBA.
It shouldn’t bother me.
But it does.
As if I need a reminder of what’s on the agenda today—work, always work—my phone buzzes in my purse.
The screen blinks my assistant’s name with a flurry of incoming messages.
If I were a normal person getting inundated by work texts at eight on a Saturday morning, this is where I’d curse like a sailor.
But I’m not a normal person.
I’m in public relations, so my job never stops. Ever. Because one of my clients is always releasing a new product or filming a new movie or getting in trouble. (Sorry, ladies and gentlemen, my client did not mean to get head from his married neighbor on the side of the road! He swears rehab will help him walk the straight and narrow!) And they pay me to clean up their messes, put the spit-shine on their latest pet projects, and make everyone believe they’re gods and goddesses among the plebs.
I do a damn good job of it, if I do say so myself.
And while I love the adrenaline rush that comes with this gig, I’m starting to wonder how much more I can handle, which is not the thought I should be entertaining eight months into starting my own PR firm.
After I send a quick text to Lawrence—Thanks for dinner! Hope you have a great weekend!—I rush out of his hotel room while trying to
hop into my designer heels, a rare indulgence from my old life. I have too many fires to put out today to worry about what I look like, unfortunately. Since it’s almost Halloween, maybe the lobby will be too full of hungover zombie revelers for anyone to notice me. Thank God for my giant sunglasses. They’re in my purse somewhere.
When I reach the elevator, I frantically push the button while I slip into my second Louboutin, but I can’t seem to pull it on. So I lean my shoulder against the steel exterior for balance as I reach for my shoe.
Which is a mistake.
A big mistake.
Because I start to tilt and slide. Fast.
Fuuckkk.
“Whoa, Nelly.”
Two strong arms come around my waist, and I’m so grateful I didn’t face-plant on the carpet, I want to kiss whoever is holding me up.
My back is pressed against a hard chest, and I see the man’s muscular physique like a giant shadow looming behind me in our reflection in the glossy steel of the elevator doors.
Hello, handsome.
From this angle I can’t quite see his face, just his rugged jaw and a light brown five-o’clock shadow, but with a body like that, the rest of him has to be attractive. I have it bad for athletes, though lately I’ve been trying to stay away from them since my relationship with my ex went down in flames.
Suddenly, I regret flying out of that hotel room without making sure I’m completely presentable. I do a quick survey of myself in the shiny elevator exterior. My hair is in an off-center ponytail, and my face is free from makeup after giving it a quick scrub this morning, but at least my clothes are on straight. My white, silky top shows just the right amount of cleavage. It’s still mostly tucked into my form-fitting skirt.
My heart pounds from nearly killing myself in my four-inch heels, but I’m smiling, almost laughing with relief because I didn’t break my leg.
I’m about to turn around to thank my mystery man—because maybe something good will come from last night after all—when his phone blares “I’m Sexy and I Know It.”
I pause, my face frozen, my brain flipping through an internal Rolodex of guys I’ll never bone as that song rings like a harbinger of douchebaggery.
And then it comes to me.
No way.
I clench my eyes shut, willing my arch-nemesis to be somewhere else in Portland at this very moment and not right up against my ass and turning me on. Because if he’s the one witnessing my walk of shame, I’ll never live it down.
“Drew, if that is you about to cop a feel, I’m going to punch you in the throat.”
His arms un-band from my waist, and I turn around so fast, I nearly trip again. Big hands steady me, and I slap him away.
He chuckles. “Hey, K-dawg. Fancy meeting you here.”
Can he ever just call me by my fucking name? Is Kendall that difficult to say?
My nostrils flare when I finally see Drew Merritt face to face. And goddamn it, he’s gracing me with one of his come-hither smiles, and it’s all I can do to not knee him in the balls. Especially when I take him in. A snug T-shirt that showcases all of his recent efforts in the gym. Jeans that sculpt around his taut thighs. His hair disheveled in a way that makes his green eyes magnetic. Never mind that he towers over me in a manner that’s both a little intimidating and arousing. God, no.
When did he get this hot? When I first met Drew more than two years ago, he was a slob, complete with baggy clothes, a beer belly, and a disgusting habit of getting shitfaced drunk at any and every occasion. He started losing weight shortly after our best friends started dating, but that’s a far cry from this Instagram-model look he’s rocking.
Drew comes from an absurdly wealthy family that founded the century-old MerrittCo, aka the famous Merritt Company Department Store chain, and is used to getting his way. Guys like him are the reason I have a job.
Because they always fuck up.
And Drew tends to crash and burn more than most.
I give him another once-over, expecting a wave of stale sex stench to waft my way, but I only catch a whiff of cigarettes and a hint of cologne.
When has Drew ever worn cologne? I want to laugh at the idea he tried to spiff himself up for whomever he screwed last night. Ridiculous. Drew never tries for anyone but himself. And just because he doesn’t smell like an orgy doesn’t mean one didn’t happen.
I take a fortifying breath, ready to lay into him like I always do, because old habits die hard, when the door to the left of us opens, and out struts Lawrence.
Wrapped from the waist down in a sheet.
Headed my way.
What is he doing?
I have my answer when he pulls me into his arms and buries his face in my neck. “Hey, baby. Last night was amazing. Give me five minutes, and let’s grab breakfast.”
Drew’s eyebrows hike up as he watches the guy I slept with last night—the one I need to break things off with—snuggle me. In the hall.
In front of fucking Drew Merritt.
What the holy hell have I done to earn this humiliation?
When I said I wanted a man to snuggle me, I meant in bed. In private. Not in front of this guy who’s always hated me.
I clear my throat and peel Lawrence off me. I try to smile. “I’m so sorry, but I have a client emergency.” Not a lie. Exactly.
He nods like he understands, and I nod back awkwardly. I turn toward the elevator and press the button manically. Where is the fucking elevator?
Lawrence finally seems to notice Drew and laughs. “Sorry, man. Just wanted to say bye to my girl.”
Drew smirks at me over Lawrence’s shoulder, and I roll my eyes. But he must see the desperation in my expression because he claps Lawrence on the back—hard—and then says the craziest thing.
“Sorry to steal her away, man, but KK here is the best publicist in the whole world, and I needed her input AS-AP or my life is gonna implode. Like”—he waves his hands in the air—“ka-pow!”
God, he’s an idiot.
He is funny, though.
Then he shoots me this oddly sweet smile, and I almost smile back. Almost.
I press the button again. Drew and his nicknames. No one in my life has ever called me KK.
Lawrence’s eyebrows pull tight. “Oh. You’re her client?” He looks down at himself like he just realized he’s not wearing anything but a white sheet. Christ almighty, he’s hairy. How did I not notice this before? “Of course. I’ll let you guys get to it.”
He backs away toward his room with a sheepish grin. “I’ll call you later, KK.”
Drew snorts, and I wave, relieved as hell when the elevator doors open behind me.
I’m so elated to be making my escape, I don’t even mind when Drew places his big bear paw on the small of my back and ushers me in or when he throws his arm over my shoulder and gives me a smug smile in our reflection once the doors close.
He wags his eyebrows. “So you did the dirty with Chewbacca?” He starts humming “Me So Horny,” and I jab him in the ribs with my elbow.
“Why are you always an ass?” I ask under my breath.
Whatever. I refuse to be embarrassed because I had sex last night and I’m obviously hoofing it home the morning after. Drew’s hooked up with half of Portland, which makes me wonder what he’s doing here, strutting out of a hotel this early on a Saturday morning.
“Part of my charm, kitty cat.” And then he surprises me for the second time this morning. “But I’m glad you didn’t fall back there. I kinda like your face.”
My head tilts. I don’t think he’s ever, and I mean ever, complimented me.
Are we…becoming friends? It would make sense that we’d finally be comfortable around each other since my bestie Evie is married to his BFF Josh. But Drew and I have always only clashed in the worst ways from the first moment we laid eyes on each other.
Extend the olive branch, Kendall. Be nice to him for once. He did save your ass this morning. Maybe he’s finally growing out of that dickhead phase.
>
I’m about to thank him for being a somewhat decent human being and helping me upstairs when we walk out into the lobby, and one of the hotel staff comes bounding over.
He leans over and whispers to Drew, “How many panties did you get last night, D? I told Carlos you snagged at least two, but now I see you with this hot little angel, so maybe it’s more?”
Yeah, now I want to punch him in the throat all over again. Especially when the helpful hotel employee, who’s obviously one of Drew’s “bros,” points to the multi-colored lace hanging out of Drew’s back pocket and asks me which pair is mine. At which point, a nearby mother shoots me a dirty look and ushers her three children away.
I clench my eyes shut, wishing I could channel some desperately needed Zen.
When will I ever learn that this guy is literally the last man on the planet I’ll ever be friends with?
Because Drew Merritt is a PR nightmare.
Before I can say anything to him that I’ll regret, I do what I always do.