Vote Then Read: Volume II

by Lauren Blakely

  I press my finger to his little palm and high-five him.

  “If I didn’t think that was the cutest thing I ever saw, I’d call you pathetic for trying to bribe our newborn baby so we can have sex.” Vada leans against the doorway, shaking her head at me and smiling.

  “Not just any sex, though,” I defend, and her smile widens. “Postpartum sex, which means as soon as the doctor gives the thumbs up, I’m stripping off all your clothes.”

  “We’re not having sex in the doctor’s office!” she warns.

  “Babe…” I tease. “Never say never.”

  She rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

  “C’mon. Think of all the good book inspiration.” I grin.

  “You’re horrible,” she quips. She walks over to us and presses a gentle kiss on London’s head. “Your daddy is bad, London. Such a bad boy.”

  “Yes, but a good, bad boy,” I correct with a smile.

  “For now.” She winks.

  After getting London back to sleep and in his crib, Vada and I head into our room. “Are you writing tonight?” I ask, knowing she’s been gradually getting back to it.

  “I think so. Olivia’s been sending me some juicy details,” she explains with a knowing grin.

  “Really?”

  “Yup. Apparently, the new author she’s assisting is forcing her to road trip with a new cover model to a signing event across the country.”

  “Oh yeah? Is he a bad boy, too?” I wink.

  “According to Olivia, he’s worse.”

  “Worse? How?”

  “He has quite the reputation of being a playboy and Olivia isn’t happy about it.”

  I laugh. “I give them a week, and they’ll be doing it.”

  She winces. “Ethan!”

  Chuckling, I shrug. “What? You know that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”

  “Well, in my book, of course. But Olivia is a bit uptight,” she reminds me. “She’s not one to sleep around.” She told me all about Olivia when she worked for her before moving here.

  I smirk at my internal prediction. “Then I guess he’ll have fun breaking her in.”

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  Read about Olivia & Maverick in Falling for the Playboy!

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  Never trust a man who gets paid to take off his clothes for a living and then uses it as a pick-up line to get girls in bed with him.

  That should’ve been enough for me to call in sick that day.

  I’ve worked with male cover models like him before and they’re all the same—smooth-talking, sexy as sin, egotistical know-it-alls who think they’re God’s gift to women—all traits I know to steer clear of.

  Assisting authors comes with many perks—reading on the job, using my organizing skills on a daily basis, drinking coffee by the gallons—but Maverick Kingston barges into my life and demands more than I can handle.

  When we’re forced to road trip across the country together, he pushes every boundary I have and rearranges my thoughts on playing it safe. And when he “accidentally” drops his towel, he makes it very clear what he’s offering and proves he’s packing more than abs of steel under his clothes.

  Working with him was brutal, but falling for him was unexpected—And playing by the rules will be impossible.

  Books by Kennedy fox

  CHECKMATE DUET SERIES

  BISHOP BROTHERS SERIES

  BEDTIME READS SERIES

  ROOMMATE DUET SERIES

  CIRCLE B RANCH SERIES

  EX-CON DUET SERIES

  LOVE IN ISOLATION SERIES

  Click here for the full Kennedy Fox reading order

  Copyright © 2019 by Lauren Blakely

  Cover Design by Helen Williams. 1st Edition, 2019

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This contemporary romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This book is licensed for your personal use only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with, especially if you enjoy sexy romance novels with alpha males. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  About the Book

  I was only trying to help a friend. I swear. I was legit asking for a friend who was finally ready to date again.

  I knew what she wanted in a man -- smart, funny, ambitious, well-read (no, the sports section doesn't count), and plays a wicked game of badminton.

  So I did what any good friend would do. Posted it for her. It seemed like a good idea at the time -- I'd weed through the candidates, and bring her my top picks.

  But then he responded.

  Is it wrong to date the guy I screened for my bestie? Not asking for a friend.

  This book is dedicated to Kathleen. Thank you.

  A Note From The Author

  Dear Reader:

  In this story, the characters reference a number of books. Some are fictional and some are real. The following books cited in this novel are actual books: Gone with the Wind; Harry Potter; Pride and Prejudice; Like Water for Chocolate; L.A. Confidential; Casino Royale; And Then There Were None; Little Women; Where’d You Go, Bernadette; The Princess Bride; Fight Club; Lord of the Rings; The Far Side; and Looking for Alaska. The rest of the books mentioned are fictional, created for the characters in the novel. The TV show Spying on My Neighbor and the characters in it are fictional.

  Her Prologue

  Amy

  A thesaurus is a girl’s most satisfying lover.

  I’ve been devoted to the delights of mine since I was eight, and it remains my loyal, pleasure-giving companion twenty years later.

  My love for it is omnivorous. I devour synonyms from Roget’s online, and the urban version too.

  Growing up, I used to sleep with a well-worn purple thesaurus beside my pillow. Every word I’d looked up was underlined—a smorgasbord of “mint julep,” thanks to Gone with the Wind; “elixir,” courtesy of Harry Potter; and “rapture,” hailing from Pride and Prejudice.

  But I didn’t really grasp the potential until I read a Jackie Collins-esque potboiler in which a rich guy dies of a rigor mortis–inducing heart attack while screwing his mistress. Who knew there were so many alternative names for body parts?

  Knob, rod, pump, package, slinger.

  I did, that’s who. And I didn’t stop there.

  Joystick, purple crayon, drive machine.

  They sounded deceptively playful, and by middle school, I could recount things I’d read in the dirtiest books and make them sound like they were penned by choir girls.

  Later, I learned how the crafty use of words could vault me to the top of English courses, winning me essay contests and opening college doors.

  The thesaurus still comes in handy. Armed with one in your holster, you can win any shoot-out. You can go from telling your boss that the new assignment she just gave you isn’t simply a “piece of cake”—it’s a “slam dunk,” a “picnic in the park,” or, wait for it, a “doddle.”

  Or you can tell that to yourself when you take on a new project, like, say, writing a list of requirements for a dating profile.

  I tackle it with the thes
aurus by my side.

  What’s another way to say “smart”?

  Can sustain a conversation consisting of words other than “awesome,” “cool,” and “dude.”

  What’s another way to say “polite”?

  Good manners will get you everywhere. (Including in my pants. But I don’t say that. Not yet, at least. That’s for the third date, obviously.)

  How about “must like books”?

  Please be well-read. Buzzfeed and the sports section don’t count.

  Except with great power comes great responsibility.

  Because when the responses flood in, I realize I’ve opened a Pandora’s box of problems.

  His Prologue

  Linc

  It seemed like a good idea at the time.

  Scratch that. It seemed like a fantastic idea.

  Because there’s this girl I can’t resist, but giving in to the temptation of her and all her charms—from her delight in words to her obsession with pockets to her flirty-bordering-on-just-a-little-dirty mouth—could be disastrous.

  I could keep stepping on the brake with all my flagging willpower, or I could nudge the steering wheel and turn my energy elsewhere . . .

  Yes. I’ll do that.

  That’s a brilliant plan.

  I’ll find a date online, someone who’s equally fantastic and feisty, who’s just as bright and bold, so I’m not tempted by that firecracker.

  But you know what they say about resisting temptation.

  Amy

  Two weeks ago

  Every workday around three in the afternoon, I sponsor a debate with myself: shut the door and sneak in a snooze, or pop in a piece of cinnamon gum and power through the late-in-the-day doldrums?

  Today is no different, and I blame the manuscript I’ve been reading for the last few hours. It’s the story of a plucky thirtysomething woman with a pixie haircut—because, of course, plucky heroines have pixie haircuts—who gives relationship advice to couples based on the candy they buy at her sweet shop.

  But—hold the press—love knocks her on her ass one day when a handsome stranger strolls in and buys all the purple Skittles.

  Because purple is her favorite color.

  My boss pinned the tail of this manuscript donkey on me earlier this week, tossing it onto my reading pile with a droll “Supposedly, it’s Like Water for Chocolate meets Waitress meets Roald Dahl with a side of M&Ms tossed in.”

  To which I wanted to say, No one needs that. Literally no one.

  But I can’t say that because I’m merely a junior editor and she’s a vice president, and I’ll have to read enough of it to report back. Also, because the agent who sent it to our publishing house sold us a blockbuster roman-à-clef from a shoe magnate a decade or two ago. Therefore, we must read everything she sends our way in case it’s the next big thing.

  This isn’t the next big thing.

  It isn’t the next anything.

  Le sigh.

  Also, le nap. The debate tips in favor of snag-some-shut-eye as a siesta brews in my eyeballs. My lids flutter like feathers at a Victoria’s Secret photoshoot. I’m going down for the count as the heroine dishes out banalities over nonpareils.

  Until I hear five words.

  “Did you hear the news?”

  My five favorite words.

  Well, after “lunch is on me today” and “cake’s in the break room.”

  I snap my gaze up from the document, blinking at the stunning creature in my doorway.

  Looking impossibly tall and commandingly gorgeous with carved cheekbones and corkscrew black curls, Lola strikes a pose. Hell, Lola is a freaking pose.

  “News? I love news. Tell me news,” I say, stifling a yawn.

  She points to my face like she’s found evidence of a high crime. “Were you asleep, Amy?”

  “What? No!” I scoff for good measure as I adjust my glasses, hoping they aren’t lopsided.

  She cocks her head and lifts a brow. Lola possesses the most wicked eyebrow arches. It’s not fair for her to be leggy and too cool for school, all while pulling off more facial expressions than Julia Louis-Dreyfus. “Then why is there a crease in your forehead?”

  I grab my phone, turn it to selfie mode, and curse, rubbing my fingertips over the line in my forehead—evidence indeed. “Dammit.”

  She laughs. “You’re so busted.”

  I flap my hand at the offending document on my cluttered computer screen. But the file is no longer visible, since my computer is cycling through photos of my dog, Inspector Poirot. It’s on screen saver mode—more proof of my midafternoon inactivity. “You try staying awake while reading what ought to be in the slush pile. At the very bottom.”

  She shoots me a sympathetic smile. “How is it you’re still weeding through those type of manuscripts?”

  “It’s from Ella Yarn.”

  “Whose last big hit was turned into a movie starring Neve Campbell. Neve Campbell is sooo yesterday, and so is Ella Yarn.” Lola stabs a perfect, unpolished nail on my desk. “You’re better than this.”

  “Tell that to Rainey McGuire. She only gives me her slush, Antonia gets the good books, and agents aren’t sending me their cream yet. Did you see the sign on my door? It says Amy Summers—middling junior editor.”

  “We need to change that, stat.”

  “I know. Trust me.” I wave away the subject, because my work woes make me want to stab myself in the eyeballs. In the pitch meeting last week, I didn’t even have books to present. Meanwhile, Antonia, who jumped from boss lady’s assistant to assistant editor last year, pitched two. And we bought them.

  “Anyway, tell me your news. I hope it’s more exciting than romance predictions based on Skittles. Not even Baldwin would dig this book, and you know he’s a sucker for candy references.”

  She blinks as if to ask how can you possibly be reading that drivel, then segues to her reason for the visit. “This news should make you incandescently happy.”

  I sigh contentedly. “Divulge everything. Hold nothing back.”

  She glances behind her, then side to side, then cups her hand to her mouth. “Mike Beanman is leaving.”

  My eyes pop. “Leaving for the day?”

  “No, he’s leaving for Europe. Next week. He’s opening the London office of Bailey & Brooks Publishing. And that means—”

  “There’s going to be an opening for an editor?” I’m not a religious person. I’m a just-in-case-er, so just in case it will help, I offer a string of silent prayers to any deities who might be listening—especially the goddess of good fortune, because I do want to believe in her. “There is, right? That’s what you’re saying? There hasn’t been an opening in years.”

  “So the rumor goes,” Lola says, sliding a dozen or so silver bracelets higher up her wrist as she steps inside my office, shuts the door, and folds her long self into a chair.

  “I love rumors,” I say, tightening my messy bun. “I love them more than ballet flats and Betty Boop and DoorDash and wearing jammies all day long on Sundays. Even more than the woman who invented vanilla lattes.”

  One corner of Lola’s lips curls skeptically. “I don’t think espresso was invented by a woman.”

  I hold up a hear me out finger. “But in my revisionist history, coffee was created by a woman. A learned woman, who rescued kittens and puppies and kept a reverse harem of men to pleasure her, all of whom looked like Thor.”

  Lola leans her head back and laughs. “Some days I wonder what it’s like to be stuck inside your brain. My bet is it’s like a secret room you’d find behind a secret door in an eccentric person’s mansion.”

  “I want to go to that mansion,” I say, then wiggle my fingers as if beckoning. “But tell me more about the job opening.”

  “They’re talking to outsiders, but word on the street is it’ll go to an insider.”

  I squeal. “More, more. Tell me more.”

  “And the VPs are going to consider everyone in house who’s qualified.”

 
; My shoulders sag. “Including Antonia.”

  “She’s only an assistant editor. You’re higher up, even as a junior editor,” Lola points out.

  “But she’s Rainey’s right hand, left hand, back hand, extra hand, and winning hand.” I pause dramatically before I state the obvious. “Also, let’s not forget one itty-bitty thing she has going for her.”

  “And what is that?”

  I make a megaphone of my hands. “Everyone loves her.” My voice returns to a normal level. “Literally everyone. She’s like the sweet librarian in the children’s section who happily reads to kids all day long. And who also happens to have great taste in books.”

  Lola furrows her brow. “And everyone hates you and your awful taste?”

  “Well, one simply does not go through life without acquiring some haters,” I say haughtily, then immediately drop the act. “Anyway, you know what I mean. She’s the golden child. I’m the middle child. No one notices me.”

  “Look, all the veeps decide, and you have a great track record. Even if you’re not the loudest voice in the room, you do have a solid foundation with your acquisitions and the books you’ve edited. We just need to pitch you and pitch you hard.”

  Lola is a goddess. Not only because her cover designs are the stuff of legend, but because as a designer, she floats between departments. That means she knows everything. Who’s banging who. Who’s acquiring what. And how to get stuff done. I am one lucky lady to have her in my corner.

  “I love that we’re a we,” I say.