Hard Cover

by Jamie K. Schmidt

  Hard Cover is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2017 by Jamie S. Kleinkauf-Schmidt

  Excerpt from An Ex for Christmas by Lauren Layne copyright © 2017 by Lauren LeDonne

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book An Ex for Christmas by Lauren Layne. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  Ebook ISBN 9780399594052

  Cover design: Okay Creations

  Cover illustration: Ollyy/Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1: Dawn

  Chapter 2: Rory

  Chapter 3: Dawn

  Chapter 4: Rory

  Chapter 5: Dawn

  Chapter 6: Dawn

  Chapter 7: Rory

  Chapter 8: Dawn

  Chapter 9: Rory

  Chapter 10: Dawn

  Chapter 11: Rory

  Chapter 12: Dawn

  Chapter 13: Rory

  Chapter 14: Dawn

  Chapter 15: Dawn

  Chapter 16: Rory

  Chapter 17: Dawn

  Chapter 18: Dawn

  Chapter 19: Dawn

  Chapter 20: Dawn

  Chapter 21: Rory

  Chapter 22: Dawn

  Chapter 23: Dawn

  Chapter 24: Dawn

  Epilogue: Dawn

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Jamie K. Schmidt

  About the Author

  Excerpt from An Ex for Christmas

  Chapter 1

  Dawn

  Rory Parker was a billionaire douche bag who looked like a movie star. I knew this because we had gone to the same high school. I Google stalked him when he started sending me emails earlier this year. We traded quips and banter for several months like it was some bizarre foreplay. Then the real reason he contacted me came up. Rory hadn’t wanted to “reconnect,” he wanted to buy me out of my lease. I wanted him to go to hell. When it was apparent neither one of us was going to budge, the emails mysteriously stopped being friendly. I felt partly triumphant that I stood my ground, and a little disappointed that he only was interested in me because of my store. However, I should have known he wasn’t giving up and was just refocusing his attack.

  A combination of old money and real estate mogul, Rory was planning a redevelopment project for the shops by the Haven docks. He was throwing money around that had everyone scrambling to sell out. I wanted to punch him in his perfect white teeth—when I wasn’t fantasizing about what I’d like to do with him. With his pretty rich-boy looks and body by CrossFit, Rory was eye candy. He was also the enemy, and I had to keep that in mind.

  In high school, he had been a senior when I was a freshman—not to mention his crowd wouldn’t let him be caught dead going out with me. Still, we managed to flirt every chance we got. Once he left for college, it was out of sight, out of mind for both of us. I felt like an idiot for getting all oogly-woogly when he emailed me out of the blue. I was such a sap. Maybe I was even a little desperate. That’s why it stung so much when he followed up my “Want to get dinner sometime?” with “Funny, you should ask . . .” I told him I wasn’t interested in having him buy me out of my lease, and then stopped responding to his emails. Rory still sent them, though.

  When the emails no longer worked for him, he sent my landlord, Larry Briggs, with a generous offer. I ripped up the paperwork and set it on fire inside the copper bowl by my cash register. It had been worth the citation for the fire hazard. I’ll pay that fine next month, as well as another one when the next bullshit charge they try to lay on me comes around. The town’s officials were collecting offenses, hoping to evict me, but they were going to have to work a lot harder on that one. I paid my rent on time and I was a model tenant—if a little eccentric.

  I hoped that would be the end of it. I couldn’t care less if I was delaying hometown boy’s pet project. I still had five years left on my ten-year lease. He and this town could kiss my ass until then. When it was time to find another place for my bookstore, it probably wouldn’t be here. No one would rent to me. I was the quartz in their otherwise shining jeweled crown of the conservative New England town of Haven, on the Connecticut shoreline. Eight months out of the year the only customers I had were locals I brought in through workshops and my lecture series. But during the summer, I made a great deal of money selling unique books about feminism, sex, and various other forms of enlightenment.

  The tinkling bells over the door alerted me someone was coming into the bookstore. I glanced up as a woman walked in with her two children. She took one a look at me and my purple hair and tattoos, grabbed their hands, and rushed out of the store.

  Namaste, bitch.

  I wasn’t your usual bookstore owner, and I certainly didn’t belong among these stores—at least that’s what some of the town politicians thought. They replaced the potter who had the shop next to me with one that sold Limoges, Waterford crystal goblets, and Hummel figurines. The old fisherman who had the store on the other side of me took Rory’s generous buyout offer as well. Packing up his handmade birdhouses and fishing lures, Old Man Mack left an empty store space that smelled vaguely of Skoal tobacco and codfish. They replaced the business with a small art gallery, with painters I’ve never heard of, from places far away from Haven.

  The First Selectmen of the town—Rory’s father—said they wanted to make over my store into a chic bookstore cafe that sold things that would be more universally appealing. I offered to put a few USA Today best sellers in the front window as a compromise, but that wasn’t good enough.

  My best friend, Jeannine, worked in the selectmen’s office and overheard a conversation between my landlord and the selectmen. After she filled me in on their nefarious plans, I quickly installed cameras and put up signs that said: If You Enter This Store, You Agree to Be Videotaped. I had to assure my regulars that it was for security reasons and not because anyone wanted to spy on their purchases. It lost me some customers, though.

  But it saved my ass when the guy they sent in to buy a deck of tarot cards accused me of trying to sell him drugs. I showed the police the video transaction and exonerated myself, much to my landlord’s chagrin.

  Fuck you, Larry.

  The guy got the worst end of the deal, but he had a pretty good lawyer. I let him sweat a little bit before I dropped my defamation lawsuit. It would have gone to small claims court and I would have represented myself, but the guy was “judgment proof,” as my dear old dad, the esteemed Judge Nolan, used to say. Or in other words, the guy didn’t have a lobster pot to piss in. The fuckers in charge paid off a dock rat who hung around the wharf to do their dirty work for them by trying to make it seem like I was doing something illegal. I would have loved to sue the McMansions out of the brains behind that little scheme, but they were untouchable.

  Story of my life.

  Still, it would have been fun to see my father recuse himself from the case. Not that I would have gotten a fair trial anyway in this town. One of his judge friends would have passed judgment on me in his absence. Disobedient daughter? Gavel down. Guilty.

  Glancing out the window, it looked like
it was a beautiful day. Thankfully, it had stopped raining. I had been considering building an ark. April showers indeed. I was looking forward to the summer kicking into high gear. Not only would it help me get some savings back into my account after my jerkwad ex-boyfriend drained it to finance his band’s tour, but maybe I could also get enough scraped together for a condo or an apartment. At the very least, I wanted to be able to afford to hire a salesclerk so I could go for a bike ride and enjoy the nice weather.

  I hadn’t had a day off in two years. I couldn’t even have lunch yet, because two tourists were wandering around my bookstore. They seemed to be boaters looking for a paperback to read on the beach or out on Long Island Sound. I could hear them giggling in salicious delight at a few of the erotic romance novels I had in the back. I carried local, self-published authors, so chances were these were new series for them.

  As I eavesdropped on their whispered conversation as they read the juicy bits to each other, a man wearing black socks with sandals stormed into the shop. The tinkling bells over the door to my store filled the air with music, which took some of the menace out of his entrance. He slammed a package onto the counter. “I demand to speak to the manager.”

  “You’re speaking to her.” I grinned as he took in my tongue ring and purple hair.

  “You?”

  Rolling my eyes at the camera above his head recording this transaction, I asked, “How may I help you?” Unfortunately, I didn’t have any uptight-asshole remedies.

  “I want a refund.”

  “May I see your receipt?”

  My politeness seemed to throw him and he searched the bag. “I don’t have it.”

  I stifled a sigh. “When did you buy it?”

  “I wouldn’t shop here.”

  Yeah, he wasn’t my demographic. I couldn’t see him buying a Reiki soundtrack or a fertility statue. He slid the bag toward me and I pulled out a well-loved copy of The Woman’s Journey. Some pages had been highlighted, and others were dog-eared. I looked in the front and it had been signed by the author, Joan Miller. The dedication read, “To Delores: You are worthy of love, respect and happiness.” I had done a book signing event for Joan in January. She always drew a big crowd. Her fans were always grateful for the opportunity to meet her.

  “Fill this out, please, and I’ll process your return.” I passed him a sheet I made up for just these occasions. He would have to give me his name, address, and phone number.

  “Do I have to do this?”

  “Without your receipt, I need this in order to give you a refund. Otherwise, I’ll have to give you store credit.”

  He blanched and filled out the paperwork.

  When he handed it back to me, I looked it up online to make sure it was a real address. Nodding, I opened up the register and handed him a ten-dollar bill.

  “The price is fifteen,” he pointed out.

  “Restocking fee,” I deadpanned.

  He glared at me, but pocketed the money and strode out. I slid the book inside a padded mailing envelope along with a few bookmarks and a poster for our next lecture series: “Taking Charge of Your Own Orgasm.” I addressed the package to Delores and included a note that she should probably hide this better from—I looked at the return slip—Walter. Weighing the package, I printed out the postage and left it in the bin for the mailman to pick up later.

  I rang up the tourists’ books and gave them walking directions to the Village Wharf restaurant. They had the best fish stew in the state. Served up with their homemade bread, I could eat it for lunch every day.

  The bells tinkled as they left and I went in the back to nuke my tea. That asshat Rory hustled the tea seller off as well. She had gone to Loonsbury, which was a hippy-er town than Haven. But it was in the center of the state and I would miss the shoreline too much if I moved out there. I munched on a granola bar while I waited for my tea. All the talk of the Village Wharf had my stomach grumbling. Maybe I’d put up the Be Right Back sign and get some stew and a loaf of bread to go. Sighing, I took another granola bar instead. Until the summer crowd picked up, I really couldn’t afford to eat out.

  The bells announced another customer and I walked out of the back still chewing and dusting crumbs off my boobs. I froze midstep when I recognized Rory Parker from his social media photos that I shamelessly stalked through. Instead of being in a suit and tie like he was on his business website, he was dressed in a polo shirt and khaki shorts. All he needed was a sweater tied around his neck and a tennis racket and he would look the same as he did in high school.

  “Dawn Nolan?” he asked.

  Really? It had been ten years give or take since we’d last seen each other. It shouldn’t have been a big mystery. Aside from the purple hair, I hadn’t changed that much. “Hello, Rory,” I said.

  His smile should be illegal. He was the exact opposite of my type, yet here I was forcing myself not to smile back. We circled each other like fighters after the bell clanged.

  “Nice store.” He nodded without taking his eyes off mine.

  I refused to let him get me hot and bothered, but the challenge in his gaze was a turn-on. “Are you looking to get in touch with your feminine side?”

  “Sure, what do you recommend?”

  I hated being condescended to, but I was more than up for the challenge of embarrassing the hell out of him. I brushed by him and got a cheap thrill rubbing against his hard body. So he worked out. Big deal.

  Trailing my fingers over the spines of the books, I found the one I wanted: How to Orgasm Like a Woman. I handed it to him and watched as he tried not to choke at the title.

  “They say a man can achieve multiple orgasms, like a woman. But I’m not sure I buy that. Men don’t have the right”—I paused and looked him up and down—“equipment for it.”

  Rory opened his mouth. Shut it. And repeated that a few times.

  Score one for me.

  I was behind the counter with my tea before he fully recovered. “You can’t possibly be making rent selling this crap.”

  I bristled at the crap comment, but tried to soothe myself. It’s not like I hadn’t heard it before. “I’m sure you’ve checked my finances and my on-time rent payments. That’s fifteen ninety-five, but if you sign up for our newsletter, you get ten percent off your purchase today.”

  Rubbing his hand down his perfect face, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, you seem to be a savvy businesswoman.”

  “Don’t say it like it’s an oxymoron,” I said in my coldest voice.

  Rory grimaced in frustration. I found it cute. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

  I’d actually like to put my tongue in his mouth, and that surprised me. He smelled like the ocean, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d be wild like the sea in a storm during sex. I licked my lips. I’d like to try him out. I tended to dominate the crap out of Ivy League boys like this and it was always fun. Once. He had been a stuffed shirt in all of his emails. I had reacted by being more outrageous than I normally was. I’d send him pictures of me giving him the finger in front of serious cleavage, or sticking my tongue out at him, making sure my tongue ring showed.

  I had issues.

  “I’m offering you three times your yearly income, as well as buying you out of your lease.” He slapped a check for $120,000 on the counter.

  I blinked at it. I could almost buy my own house for that. Of course, nowhere near the ocean. Swallowing hard, I had to clench my fists to avoid taking the check. I could buy a new car and drive anywhere in the United States. Get far away from here and all the emotional baggage I still carried with me. I could find another store. Start all over again where no one knew me as Judge Nolan’s delinquent daughter. It was tempting.

  “Take it,” Rory said in a voice as smooth as chocolate syrup.

  Take it, the voices in my head encouraged.

  I cleared my throat. “You can have the store in five years, once my lease is up.”

  He ground his teeth in frustration. “You can’
t want to stay here. Your store doesn’t fit in.”

  What he really meant was you don’t fit in. Unluckily for him, that wasn’t the first time I heard that.

  “Sorry, I like my store and so do my clients. You should have done a preliminary poll instead of just assuming you could bulldoze anyone in your path.”

  Rory smiled again, and again I had to stop myself from smiling back. I didn’t want to smile at him. He was a jerk, albeit a charming one. “Maybe you don’t quite understand.”

  Oh here we go. Next up was either a veiled or not-so-veiled threat, or he’d attempt to mansplain why I wanted to give up my store to make it easy for him.

  “This ought to be good.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

  Distracted, he looked down at my cleavage. So he liked those cheesecake photos I had sent him. Well, all right. Score one for the girls. I wore a deep V-neck because I hated things around my neck, and if I was showing more boobage than usual, I would take whatever advantage I could. I just wish I didn’t feel the burn of his gaze down to my toes. Pretty Boy was making my nipples hard, and for the life of me, I didn’t understand why. Was it the hint of five o’clock shadow on his jaw? Or maybe it was the barely banked lust in his hazel eyes. He was so wrong for me, and I think that’s why I was so into him. Or maybe fourteen-year-old me still had a crush on him. I was mad at him too, and my anger tended to leak out into sex. I licked my lips, thinking about throwing him down on the couch and riding him until he behaved like a good boy.

  He cleared his throat, and for a moment I wondered if I said that last part aloud. “I’m offering to buy you out of the remaining five years on your lease.”

  “Yup, got that from the emails.”

  “That you refused to take seriously. Instead, you counteroffered with trying to buy me a conscience.”