Published by Hot-Lanta Publishing, LLC
Copyright 2020
Cover Design By: RBA Designs
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All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.
www.authormeghanquinn.com
Copyright © 2020 Meghan Quinn
All rights reserved.
Contents
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Excerpt: Boss Man Bridegroom
Prologue
Dear Gents,
See that remote in your hand? Yeah, the one that’s covered in pizza sauce and last night’s Buffalo wings? I want you to take a good look at it. Do you have it memorized? Good, now bend at the waist, set it on the coffee table, and stand up. Don’t you dare look at that remote again, don’t even glance at it. And the Xbox that’s calling your name, go ahead and forget about that as well, because guess what? You’re starting a new journey and it doesn’t include television, video games, or high-fiving over a bubbly belch from the bowels of your intestinal tract. Forget everything you’ve ever known about being a man, forget the hall passes you have for being a man, and forget every natural instinct you carry inside your bones. Because I’m here to refine you, replenish your knowledge on the male species, and turn you into a modern gentleman: a well-respected, polished, and confident individual with an epic sex appeal and killer style that will woo any female with a simple flash of your honest charm.
Stick with me, gents. I’m starting a revolution and it begins with you.
Sincerely,
The Modern Gentleman
Chapter One
WES
“Dude, you’re drinking a Mang-o-Rita.”
I stare at the can in my hand and shamelessly nod. Yup, I am. I’m also wearing cut-off sweatpants and a neon orange Hawaiian shirt I wore once for a destination wedding in Hawaii. It’s a far cry from my usual impeccably tailored suit and tie.
Caden, my best friend, continues, “It’s not even a Lime-a-Rita. It’s mango, chick-flavored piss-water, man.”
Don’t I fucking know it.
It’s without a doubt, a chick drink, and yet, it’s the only thing I have left of her.
“And what’s with the lady scarf?”
Ehh, okay, so I have her scarf too. I found it in my hall closet and sniffed it for about an hour and a half last night while I tipped a carton of cold lo mein noodles into my mouth for dinner. Sniff, tip, sniff, tip. It was a process I repeated until I was out of noodles. And then I proceeded to pick the missed noodles off the floor and eat those as well. Can you see where this is going? I’m a hot mess.
“And why is the scarf wrapped around your head?”
Because that’s how she would wear it . . .
“My head was cold.” I stick my chin up in the air. Yes, good answer.
“And the Joni Mitchell playing in the background? Clouds and illusions? What kind of crap is that?”
Depressing, that’s what it is. It’s depressing crap. But I can’t help but sniff the tail end of the scarf wrapped around my head, hold my lady can to my chest, and sway . . . fucking sway.
“I really don’t know love at all . . .” I sing softly with my head tilted to the sky, memories of the woman I love floating through my mind.
I miss—
A pillow whips me in the face, dislodging my headscarf and making me spill my lady drink all over my offensively colored Hawaiian shirt.
“What the hell?” I hold the dripping can away from me and sit up on my couch, just as Caden sits next to me.
“Dude, you need to get your shit together.” Caden looks around my apartment. “When was the last time you cleaned in here? It smells like rotten goat cheese with a touch”—he sniffs the air—“of Doritos.” Maybe because I was crushing Doritos in my palm last night, letting the tortilla shards indent my palm, anything to take away some of the pain in my heart. They didn’t do the trick. “I leave town for a few days and this is what I come back to? An unshaved, stanky version of The Modern Gentleman. What the hell happened?”
Everything. Everything that was not supposed to happen happened. And I should have known it would pan out like this. Anyone reading my column could have easily guessed the outcome of my future, the outcome of my “experiment.” Most of them probably tuned in every week and laughed at my words, saying, “Oh this is going to backfire, this is going to backfire sooo badly.”
It did. Oh boy, did it backfire.
Meeting someone over a pile of dog crap doesn’t necessarily scream, “This is the start of the world’s most epic romance.” Yup . . . should’ve known.
Dog doo-doo. You read that correctly. I met the love of my life over dog doo-doo.
And I lost her because of my boss’s “brilliant” idea he proposed to me to “amp up” my column.
I sigh and take another sip of the piss-water. “She broke up with me, man.”
His eyes widen and he opens his mouth briefly, then shuts it, considering how he wants to approach this conversation. I know what he really wants to say. Cringing, he finally asks, “Did she find out?”
I nod, knowing what’s coming next. “Yup. And if you say, ‘I told you so,’ I’m going to knock your nuts off your body.”
He smirks. “What about I warned you?”
“Same fucking thing.” I slouch on the sofa, regretting every decision I made over the last two months.
We sit in silence, the weight of my loss hanging heavily in the room. She wasn’t just special to me; she was special to my group of friends. She exuded a bright, fun, innocent energy no one could resist, especially Caden, who told me so many times to come clean, to tell her what I was doing. But I was scared of losing my damn job.
Fuck, I was scared of losing her.
And oh the power of hindsight, because that fear was completely valid. Caden folds his hands in his lap and exhales.
“Seems like you only have one option left. You have to get her back.”
I shake my head. Not going to happen. “She specifically told me to crawl into my own scrotum and drown in my sperm. I’m pretty positive when a girl wants my unborn children to kill me, she’s not going to want to talk to me again.”
“So you’re going to give up? That’s not very modern gentleman of you. Tell me, what would he do right now?” Caden gives me a once-over. “He sure as hell wouldn’t be wearing a scarf around his head and listening to Joni Mitchell.”
No, no, he would not. Fucking Modern Gentleman persona.
Resigned, I say, “The Modern Gentleman wouldn’t have taken such a dishonest job from his boss in the
first place. God, this entire experiment is the antithesis of what The Modern Gentleman would have done. I’m a freaking oxymoron.” I finish up my drink. “No . . . I’m a moron.”
“I’m not going to argue with that.” Caden perks up and looks at me, hands still folded. “But, dude. This”—he waves his hand over my pathetic self—“needs her back in your life. What you’ve got going on right now isn’t working.”
“I know.” I sit up as well and run my hands over my face. “She’s impossible to get in touch with though, so how the hell am I going to fix this?”
Caden pats my shoulder with a smile. “With some old-fashioned wooing, bro. Your modern ways aren’t going to work with this girl.”
Isn’t that the statement of the year? My modern ways never worked with her. She’s a rare breed, the type of girl who comes around once in a lifetime, a woman so damn perfect for me that all I can do is hope and pray I can earn her respect, proving I am the right man for her. The only man for her.
What happened you ask? Dying to know?
Well, I’m going to tell you, from the very beginning, and you’re going to want to scream and say, this isn’t going to end well. Let’s all take a moment and say, “Wes, you’re an idiot.”
Good?
Perfect.
Now that we’ve got that out of the way, here’s how it all went down . . .
Chapter Two
Dear Modern Gentleman,
I’ve recently been given the opportunity to reinvent myself. Without going into details about my past, I want to drop the nerdy persona that’s stuck with me since middle school and transform myself into the epitome of The Modern Gentleman. The problem is, I’m having a hard time staying out of the friend zone. Any guidance would be appreciated.
Sincerely,
Permanent Friend
Dear Permanent Friend,
While you’re busy switching from Reeboks to your very own pair of Stuart Weitzmans, there is a general rule of thumb you need to remember when interacting with the opposite sex. Brand this motto on your soul: a gentleman on the streets, an alpha in the sheets. What does that mean? Hold the door open for your girl, but when she passes through, give that ass a gentle slap. Let it be known you are every bit the upstanding man she dreams of but you will ravish the hell out of her when you get home.
Good luck, Gent,
The Modern Gentleman
WES
TWO MONTHS EARLIER
“Let me get that for you.” I jog to the glass door that leads into the offices of HYPE, the leading news and social media company in the country.
“Thank you, Wes. You’re so sweet.”
“My pleasure.” I nod at Mary, the mother hen of the office, as she walks through the door, holding her morning coffee from the seventh floor. We’re on the thirty-third floor, but she insists the best coffee in New York City is on the seventh floor of our building. We don’t own the seventh. It’s full of accountants, but according to Mary, the people with the numbers make the best coffee. I don’t dare fight her over it.
With my very own coffee in hand—black from the local café around the corner—I pass reception and greet Esmerelda with a wave, since she’s already fielding a slew of phone calls. She smiles politely and finger-waves back.
“Wes, man. Catch the game last night?” Terrance asks as he passes me in the hallway.
“Yanks killed it, man. That rookie is giving the AL a run for their money. I’d be surprised if we’re not eating hot dogs this fall.”
As I make my way down the hallway toward my office, I greet everyone by name.
“Dalilah, is that a new dress?”
“Jo, how’s Danny? Is he over the pox yet?”
“Rose, please tell me you left more of those heavenly brownies in the break room.”
If you learn anything from me, let it be this: get to know the people around you. You never know whose day you might brighten by remembering a small tidbit about their life.
I walk through my morning routine, making the rounds, engaging in small talk, straightening out crooked ties, and handing out quick winks to those who catch my eye. When I reach my office, Caden meets me at the door, his tablet in hand, and an annoyed look on his face. The man is a workaholic, has zero time for anything outside of the office, and should be on the fast track to chief operating officer. But Frank Bellaton, our current COO, has to retire before that happens. So for now, Caden works his ass off with very little acknowledgment.
“What’s got your brow all busted today?” I ask in greeting.
Eyes fixed on the tablet in front of him, he doesn’t even look at me when he answers, “Frank called for a creative meeting this morning. He had another dream last night.”
“Oh Jesus.” I try to hold back the eye-roll that comes with mention of Frank’s dreams, but it’s damn near impossible. “Who’s going to be the sorry soul he picks on this time?”
“Who knows? No one’s safe. Remember when he made Jennifer redo all her quizzes because he had a dream they should be in a circular format rather than square?”
“Took weeks off her life.”
“Exactly.” Caden shakes his head. “He should let the directors deal with content and focus on running the damn company.”
Frank is not a reliable leader, but he has the occasional flash of brilliance, which is why the board of directors keeps him around. Too bad they know nothing about his “dreams.”
Whenever he comes into the office with a starry-eyed look, wearing his purple crushed-velvet jacket and gold shoes, you know he’s about to turn someone’s job upside down. And change is the nature of our jobs. As the leading source for news, entertainment, lifestyle, and mindless quizzes that tell you what Disney Princess you most resemble with five simple questions, we are constantly evolving to meet our readers’ demands. Thankfully, my advice column, which helps dudes transform themselves into gentlemen of class and sex appeal, never changes. Guys ask questions, I answer them. Simple, popular, and makes me a damn good paycheck.
“When’s the meeting?” I walk into my office and fire up my computer.
“Five minutes.”
“Fun.” I don’t bother taking a seat at my desk. Instead, I snag my own tablet for notetaking, coffee still in hand. I’m going to need it. Frank likes to take his time during these meetings. “Want to head over to the conference room?”
“Yup, just waiting on you.” Caden still has his head buried in his tablet as we step out of my office, but he maneuvers around the halls like a god, never running into anything.
“Hear from Roman this morning?” I ask, pausing to sip my coffee.
“No, but I heard from him last night.”
“You got a call too?”
Caden chuckles. “Pretty sure everyone in Manhattan got a call from him last night. What did he say?” Caden lifts his head for a second, squinting as he tries to remember. “Something about six shots with fire inside of them.”
“That’s his new favorite shot, a B-52. Irish cream, Kahlua, and Triple sec. He had six? Hell, when he called me he was only up to four.”
“Should I be offended that he always calls you first? I feel like I’m an afterthought after he’s fucking ripped.”
I chuckle and pat Caden on the back as we make our way down the hall. “Dude, you don’t want to talk to him six shots in. He’s way too emotional. You get fun Roman when he says whatever is on his mind. I get Roman who can’t stop crying into the phone.”
“He doesn’t cry, does he?” Caden chuckles.
“Practically.”
And speak of the devil. When we turn the corner into the conference room, Roman is sitting toward the back of the table, sunglasses on, a white button-up shirt barely buttoned, slightly crinkled, and his signature black hair askew. There’s no way he went home last night—his usual five o’clock shadow looks like a full-on beard.
He’s leaning his head into his hand, which is resting on the table next to him, the very picture of an eager employee, obviously. H
e groans and rubs his temple as we approach. Death consumes him. It’s hard not to notice.
“Fun night?” I ask, the sound of my tablet smacking the table, making Roman cringe. Caden and I take our seats, preparing ourselves for what we know is going to be another drunk story from Roman.
He lets out a long breath and stares straight ahead. “Love Swipe got the best of me, man.” I roll my eyes at the mention of Love Swipe, the premier dating app used in NYC right now. “I swiped right and wound up in crazy town with a busty blonde whose favorite pastime is sucking toes. I can’t even look, I’m too scared.” He holds his foot out under the conference table. “Take my shoe off. Do I still have fucking toenails? For the love of God, just give it to me straight. I need to know.”
I slap his foot away. “Roman, self-respect man. You look like shit, and you’re at work. Frank is going to fire your ass if you don’t get it together.”
Roman tips his glasses down and looks me dead in the eyes. “I’m not kidding when I say I walked on my heels all the way here. That lady did some serious damage. I don’t think there’s anything attached to my toes right now. I feel them bleeding as we speak.”
“We’ll deal with your toes later.” I look at my watch and swat him in the stomach. “Sit up straight, button your damn shirt properly, and tuck it all the way in. And take off those sunglasses. You’re on Frank’s last nerve as it is, you don’t need to give him an excuse to fire you.”
The only reason Frank hasn’t fired Roman yet is because he’s damn good at his job. He’s vice president of marketing and despite his inability to act like an adult, he’s able to pull it together enough to head a well-oiled machine and keep us in the black every year. And he knows the ins and outs of the entire company better than anyone, even hung over four out of the five days he’s at work.
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