PROFESSOR FEELGOOD

by Rayven, Leisa

  Table of Contents

  PRAISE FOR MISTER ROMANCE

  PROFESSOR FEELGOOD

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ALSO BY LEISA RAYVEN

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PRAISE FOR MISTER ROMANCE

  “No one is writing modern romance as well as Leisa Rayven.”

  – Alice Clayton, NYT & USA Today Bestselling Author of Wallbanger

  “Mister Romance is the perfect balance of laugh out loud hysterical, vaporize your panties hot, and tissue crumpling emotional.”

  – Helena Hunting, New York Times Bestselling Author of Pucked

  “A superbly written modern love story. I’m not sure how Leisa Rayven will top Max and Eden’s romance but I can’t wait to find out when book two comes out.”

  – Harlequin Junkie

  “Utterly UNPUTDOWNABLE! This is definitely a top recommendation for every romance reader!”

  – Aestas Book Blog

  “I think Max Riley may have reached a new level of book boyfriend that I didn’t know was possible.”

  – Paperback Reverie

  “The beauty of this story lies in not only Rayven’s exquisite prose, but her snappy dialogue and sharp characterization. Everything flowed effortlessly, creating a story that felt more film than book, making it utterly addictive.”

  – Glass, Paper, Ink Book Blog

  “Sometimes we come across a book that reminds us of why we love romance so much and this would be it.”

  – Totally Booked Blog

  “Top fave of 2017! Mister Romance is everything. I’m so in love with this book!”

  – Shh Moms Reading

  “Max Riley is EVERYTHING. If you did not believe in true love, romance and HEA you will now.”

  – AC Book Blog

  “Leisa Rayven has penned one hell of a phenomenal story here. With such a complex and intricately laid out story line, the execution of Mister Romance had me salivating. Pure. Freaking. Genius.”

  – Read and Share Book Reviews

  “Mister Romance was a hilarious, sexy, and breathtaking journey cover to cover. I was absolutely BLOWN AWAY.”

  – Shayna Renee’s Spicy Reads

  In a time when it’s hard to find a book with an original idea, Ravyen delivers a unique and fascinating romance that I know I will be rereading in the future!

  – Rachel Reads Ravenously

  “Leisa Rayven’s writing is one of the most glorious treasures I’ve been fortunate enough to experience. Yes, she delivers a story I think everyone can get lost in and every reader will fall in love with, but the way Rayven writes EVERY book is what keeps me coming back. I’m addicted.”

  – Angie & Jessica’s Dreamy Reads

  “I already suspected that Leisa Rayven could do no wrong, and she has proven herself yet again with this amazing book! Wonderful characters, great dynamics, sensational banter and dialogue, and a gorgeous, chemistry-filled love story with just the right amount of angst.

  – AJ’s Reviews

  “Leisa Rayven has a way of making her story feel fresh and brand new, almost as if this trope had never been done before. There is something very different and unique about her writing that draws you in like a magnet. This book was absolutely phenomenal from beginning to end, the perfect romance novel!”

  – Biblio Belle’s Reviews

  “Not only is this story completely different from any others, but Leisa Rayven’s writing is phenomenal! She has the ability to write with such a great mix of humor, entertainment, and angst that it leaves you addicted and not wanting to put her books down!”

  – Three Girls and a Book Obsession

  “I’ll admit that when I imagined Max Riley […] I knew that I would love him because ... hello, Ethan Holt and Liam Quinn. But I didn’t expect that he would be the fictional character to set the standard for every fictional, and non-fictional man from here on out.”

  – Fiction Fangirls’ Book Review

  “Leisa absolutely kicked it out of the park with Max, she wrote my dream book boyfriend. Right now, he’s my favorite male character EVER.”

  – The Bookish Sisters

  “Mister Romance is so much more than romantic comedy, showcasing Rayven’s artistic cleverness in creating a magically unique storyline that is unlike anything I’ve seen before.”

  – Chezshayonline

  “A great book is one that you think about when you put it down. It’s one where you find yourself thinking about the characters when you have to pause in your reading. An amazing book is one that keeps you up at night, that makes you ignore work in the morning, because you just can’t put it down. I was awake until 3am with Max and Eden. It was amazing.”

  – Booked All Night

  “This was phenomenal. 6 stars! Incredibly entertaining and funny with this great mix of tension that had me on the edge of my seat.”

  – About That Story

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, and events that are portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  PROFESSOR FEELGOOD - Copyright @2018 by Leisa Rayven. All rights reserved.

  Except as permitted under the US copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  WWW. LEISARAYVEN.COM

  First edition: September 2018

  Cover design: Regina Wamba, MaeIDesign

  Formatting: CP Smith

  Cover photograph: Deposit Photos

  ISBN: 978-0-9953847-3-6

  DEDICATION

  For my father-in-law, who read every one of my books multiple times, loved every character

  like they were long-lost friends, and filled our family with infinite generosity, joy, and grace.

  I’m sorry you didn’t get to read this one, Dad, but please know that your light and love will continue to inspire me.

  Always.

  In the story of our lives, we’re our own storytellers, but the tale we tell isn’t always the truth. Our fickle memories invent alternate realities. We make the highs more buoyant and too-bright. But even worse, we carve our many lows into the bark of our Tree of Regrets, until there are whole forests, silent and gray, creaking and groaning in the thick, bitter air of our subconscious.

  I don’t want to be my own unreliable narrator. I want my story to be the truth, even if the line between villain and hero is hazy and indistinct.

  No matter how much I want to erase my mistakes and start over, I know that’s not possible. Our old beginning is the only one we get. But we can change our ending. That’s still being written.

  Excerpt from The Story of Us by J.A. Stone

  ONE

  ____________________

  Feelgood in My Pants

  WELL, THIS IS MORTIFYING.

  Here I am at 7.30 on a Monday morning, more turned on than I’ve been in all my twenty-three and three-quarter years. But am I with the man of my dreams? Am I being wined and dined and romanced o
ut of my pants? Am I in an exotic location involving sand, sea, and half-naked waiters serving drinks with tiny paper umbrellas?

  No.

  I’m sitting at my desk at Whiplash Publishing, surrounded by an empty office and the faint clicking of the water cooler, as I’m bombarded with very bad thoughts about a man I’ve never met.

  This is not good.

  I hear a banging sound coming from down the hallway. The only other early bird here today is our Scottish finance manager, Fergus, who has an antagonistic relationship with our ancient photocopier and doesn’t care who knows it.

  “Youuuuu base creature,” he bellows, his thick brogue rising in volume as I hear more banging. “You foul, fetid fucker.” His words are punctuated by the sound of ripping paper. “Just … fucking … staple it, you fecking cock-swaddling dick-licker!”

  There’s a loud beeping sound, followed by Fergus screaming in frustration. I’d offer to help, but I can’t drag myself away from my word-porn high. Also, Fergus is always extra cranky when he’s compiling the end-of-quarter profit/loss projections, so I’d like to stay out of his orbit as much as possible right now.

  As the copier abuse continues, I cross my legs under my desk and glance around to make sure I still have the main office area to myself. If anyone saw me right now, would they be able to tell how turned on I am? Would they know that the blood flooding my bright, blushing face fades into comparison with the blood rushing to lower parts of my body?

  With a cleansing exhale, I stand and head toward the bathroom. The rest of the crew will be here any second, and I seriously need to get myself under control before that happens.

  I push into the ladies’ room and run my hands under cold water before patting myself down. When I look up at my reflection, I shake my head. No amount of water could get rid of my ridiculous bright-pink blush.

  “What the hell are you doing, Asha? Seriously. You want to lick a man you don’t even know. Worse, a man whose face you haven’t seen. You’re out of control.”

  This isn’t like me.

  I’m a romantic. I want flowers and dinner dates, and long slow kisses in the moonlight. I’m not into random hook-ups and indiscriminate sex. I never understood how my big sister could gain so much satisfaction from one-night stands. I’ve tried them. They’re awkward and full of self-consciousness. I prefer to know the men I allow into my body. To me, there’s nothing sexier than a man who wants to be in a relationship.

  But I guess that’s the main reason I’ve developed intense horn-dog cravings for a total stranger. My mystery man has lost the love of his life, and he’s unashamedly telling the world about it. When I read his words, I find his passion contagious and, apparently, stupidly arousing.

  After taking a deep breath, I head back to my desk. Once there, I grab my mouse with every intention of getting a jump on the giant pile of work on today’s agenda, but instead, I end up taking one final scroll through the Instagram feed of the man who calls himself Professor Feelgood. Goddamn, he got the name right. Although he probably should have added ‘in my pants’ to be accurate. Right above his name on his profile is a picture of Harrison Ford as Han Solo, and below it is his bio, which reads, “A recovering asshole engaging in brutal introspection one day at a time. I’m a collection of bad choices masquerading as a semi-functioning man.” Well, apparently, a whole bunch of people relate to his bad choices, because he has over three million followers.

  I stumbled across his feed a couple of weeks ago when someone I follow reposted one of his poems, and ever since, I’ve fallen down a rabbit hole into his world. There are grainy, arty photos of him, all taken at angles that make it impossible to see his face. Some have been taken overseas in front of famous landmarks, while others are so close to his taut, muscular body I feel like I’m caressing him just by gazing at them.

  But more than the provocative images, it’s his words that slay me. His sometimes sweet, sometimes sad, always-sexy words about love and loss seem to bypass my brain and speak straight to my soul.

  I want to be inside you, surrounded by your warmth

  Trembling muscles and cloudy brain as I thrust, and thrust, and thrust.

  I want to be inside you, wrapped in your limbs

  Hot skin and oh-God-sweet-Jesus moans echoing around us

  I want to be inside you, making your body dance, and burn, and fly,

  But really, I want to be inside you

  because you’ve been inside me from the moment we met

  and now,

  it’s my turn.

  I’ve read this one about ten times now, and it’s just the tip of the iceberg as far as his talent goes. The more I read, the more obsessed with him I become.

  I scroll up to the beginning of his timeline, trying to figure out exactly why he stimulates me so deeply. Yes, there’s a physical response to his pictures, especially those featuring him half-naked, because seriously, his body is insane. But there’s more to it than that. All of his posts feel like deeply personal confessions. I think part of why he’s so popular is because he’s pulling apart his issues, mistakes, and regrets for the whole world to see, and the bravery and honesty that leaps off the screen feels like injecting liquid passion straight into my heart. It’s playing sweet havoc with my blood pressure.

  I jump when an exceptionally loud bang echoes down the hallway. I look up to see Fergus walking out of the photocopy room, a badly cracked document feeder slung casually under one arm.

  He walks past me and nods in my direction. “Morning, Asha.” With his accent, it sounds like ‘mooorning.’

  “Hey, Fergus. Everything okay?”

  “Oh, aye. Just grand. Going for a wee walk.”

  I’m pretty sure he’s not talking about taking a bathroom break as he strolls to the other end of the office and pushes through to the stairwell that leads to the roof. I briefly wonder if I should I be concerned that he’s going to launch the document feeder over the side of the building and into the river.

  I’m about to follow him to make sure he doesn’t do something foolish when my phone lights up with a picture of my big sister smiling as she flips me the bird.

  Such a delicate flower. “Hey, Eden.”

  “Hey yourself. You’re at work already? Max was going to cook you breakfast, but you were gone before we got up.”

  “That’s not true. Judging from the sounds coming from your room, Max was up at least twenty minutes before I left.”

  Eden chuckles, and I smile. Her happiness is well-deserved. She finally left behind her cycle of one-night stands with mediocre guys and found a real man. And now, for the first time in her life, she’s in a real grown-up relationship. I just wish I didn’t have to hear the full-on sexcapades that go along with it.

  “I’d apologize for my man not being able to keep quiet,” she says, exuding smugness. “But I enjoy his noises too much.”

  “Yeah, I got that from all of your noises. Seriously, I have no doubt that you woke up old Mrs. Eidleman on the fourth floor, and we both know she doesn’t put in her hearing aids until nine.”

  Another bout of laughter from Eden. Honestly, as aggravating as it is to hear other people having amazing sex when you aren’t, I’m over the moon that she finally has a serious boyfriend. Up until a couple of weeks ago, I thought she might have to be buried with one arm poking out of the ground, so she could eternally give the middle finger to love and commitment. But falling for Max Riley has changed all that. Now she’s so far gone, I practically see cartoon love hearts floating around her every time he’s near.

  “I still can’t believe you landed Mister Romance as a boyfriend,” I say, leaning back in my chair and twirling around to face the office. “And to think, you owe it all to me.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Here we go again.”

  “Well, can you deny that you wouldn’t have even known Max existed if I hadn’t told you? Not to mention I set you up on your first date. You both owe me, big time. But don’t worry. I won’t hold it over you forever. Jus
t a decade or two.”

  She groans. I know she tries to hide how sappy and lovesick she is, but it’s beyond obvious. And honestly, I don’t blame her. Max is pretty special. Until recently, he was the best kept secret of New York’s social elite. He was a professional escort who provided women with something way better than sex: swoony dates that gave healthy boosts to their self-esteem. He may have been able to keep his alter-ego on the down-low for a couple of years, but ever since Eden’s story on him went viral, he’s become a full-on celebrity. I still find it strange that the guy I see on all the talk shows is the same one who unclogged our kitchen sink yesterday.

  As I finish that thought, I shift my gaze to stare out the window, and that’s when I see what looks suspiciously like our photocopier’s document feeder plummeting toward the ground.

  Oh, Fergus. What did you do?

  I make a note on my day planner to call our Xerox repair dude ASAP. A few seconds later, I turn to see Fergus emerge from the stairwell with a huge smile on his face. I guess some days, you take your wins wherever you can get them.

  “If you’ve finished your daily ‘told you so’,” Eden says, bringing me back to our conversation, “can we move onto something more important? I feel like we haven’t had a real conversation in days. Are you okay? How are things going with your French boy?”

  I let out a happy sigh. “Aw, fantastic, Edie. He’s amazing. I really think he could be the one.”

  “Ohhhh,” she groans, as if she’s watching a skateboarder fall off a handrail straight onto his crotch. “That bad, huh?”

  I lean back in my chair and cross my legs. “What are you talking about? I just told you we’re great. He’s checked more boxes than any man I’ve ever dated.”