Good In Bed
Page 1
Good In Bed
Kristy Bromberg
Lauren Blakley & Lili Valente
Julia Kent
CD Reiss
Flip City Media
Copyright
Sweet Cheeks by K. Bromberg
Copyright © 2016
The V Card by Lauren Blakely & Lili Valente
Copyright © 2017
Random Acts of Trust by Julia Kent
Copyright © 2013
Iron Crowne by CD Reiss
Copyright © 2019
All Rights Reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher or author constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property.
FBI Anti-Piracy Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, in investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
These books are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and sexual positions are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental or just your lucky day.
Contents
Sweet Cheeks
Prologue
1. Saylor
2. Hayes
3. Saylor
4. Saylor
5. Saylor
6. Hayes
7. Saylor
8. Saylor
9. Saylor
10. Saylor
11. Hayes
12. Saylor
13. Saylor
14. Saylor
15. Saylor
16. Hayes
17. Saylor
18. Hayes
19. Saylor
20. Saylor
21. Saylor
22. Saylor
23. Hayes
24. Saylor
25. Saylor
26. Saylor
27. Hayes
28. Saylor
29. Saylor
30. Hayes
31. Saylor
32. Hayes
33. Saylor
34. Hayes
35. Saylor
36. Hayes
37. Saylor
38. Hayes
39. Twitter
40. Saylor
41. Saylor
42. Hayes
43. Saylor
44. Saylor
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Other Works by K. Bromberg
About the Author
Random Acts of Trust
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Excerpt: Random Acts of Fantasy
Other Books by Julia Kent
About the Author
Iron Crowne
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
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue 1
Epilogue 2
Crowne of Lies
36. Crowne of Lies Excerpt
ALSO BY CD REISS
Acknowledgments
The V Card
Also By Lauren Blakely
Also by Lili Valente
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
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Another Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Other Books By the Authors
Contact
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Sweet Cheeks
K Bromberg
It all started with the invitation. To my ex-fiance’s new wedding.
I should have ignored it. Thrown it away. Set it afire. But I didn’t. I replied.
With a plus one.
And then my assistant accidentally mailed it.
Enter Hayes Whitley. Mega-movie star. The man who has captured the hearts of millions. But I gave him mine years ago. He was my first love. He was my everything. Right until he up and left to chase his dreams without so much as a simple goodbye.
When he showed up out of the blue ten years later, I should have known to steer clear of him. I should have rejected his offer to take me to my ex’s wedding. I should have never let him kiss me.
But I didn’t.
And now we’re left wondering if the pieces of the life we once shared still fit together somehow. First loves are hard to forget. The question is, do we want to forget? Or do we risk the chance and see what happens next?
Love doesn’t need to be perfect,
it just needs to be true.
-Anonymous
Prologue
Saylor
This has to be a joke.
It’s my only thought as I stare at the square invitation in my hands and take in the uncanny similarities.
Champagne-style font. Check.
A scroll pattern embellishment. Check
Cream-colored linen cardstock. Check.
The words, the physical layout of them on the paper, and every other detail I can discern. Check. Check. Double check.
How is it possible that the invitation in my hand looks exactly like the one I’d spent hours obsessing over when deciding the particulars for my own wedding invitations?
I rub the expensive paper between my fingers as if I need to make sure it’s real. Finally convinced it is, I scrutinize the details all over again.
It looks like my wedding invitation all right. Same groom—Mitch Layton. Same ceremony time. Same destination: the tropical paradise of Turks and Caicos.
Everything is identical except the bride’s name and the date. Because this invitation says Sarah Taylor.
And that’s not me.
In fact, the only place it says Saylor Rodgers is on the outside of the envelope where it sits discarded on my desk. I double-check the address one more time. Yep, it w
as definitely sent to me. On purpose.
I’m an invited guest? Seriously?
Surely the man I left high and dry the week before our wedding wouldn’t invite me to his wedding—to someone else—a mere six months after I called ours off.
But there it is. My name. My address.
Sweet Cheeks CupCakery
Attn: Ms. Saylor Rodgers
1313 State Street
Santa Barbara, CA 93101
Definitely not a mistake because that’s me, and this is where he knows to find me.
The irony. It’s been six months, and not once has Mitch sought me out to ask for a more detailed explanation other than “because I just can’t do this anymore” as to why I left.
And his first attempt at communication is like this? Inviting me to his wedding in what I can only assume is an obvious attempt to show me how easily I could be replaced? To try to make me feel inadequate while boosting that bruised ego of his?
Such a classic Mitch Layton move; passive-aggression at its finest.
My temper fires but I don’t understand why I’m angry. This doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter. But if I don’t care about him in the least, why does the sight of this invitation make my stomach churn?
And even more importantly, why am I setting down the RSVP card, picking up a pen, and opting for the filet mignon rather than the macadamia nut encrusted halibut as my entrée selection when I have no intention of going?
None.
Whatsoever.
Making a selection is just my crazy talking.
So even stranger, why am I placing an X next to the “plus-one” for a guest when there is no plus-one in my life?
I stare at where I wrote my name on the RSVP card, think about everything I’ve been through over the past six months, and know the answer: because it makes me feel good to do it. To know that Mitch can’t affect me anymore. He wanted to upset me with the invitation, and hell yes, for a minute I was just that, angry and hurt. Wouldn’t anyone be when they find out their ex-fiancé has moved on so quickly? But when all is said and done, he accomplished nothing more than making me grateful I’m not the one marrying him. I chalk it up to Mitch being Mitch. Egotistical, arrogant, and childish.
Screw him.
So I stuff the RSVP card inside the little self-addressed stamped return envelope.
All the while imagining the look on Mitch’s face when he opens it and finds my name written on the card inside.
I run my tongue over the adhesive on the flap.
Envision his surprise when he sees I’m bringing a date. You’re not the only one who has found someone to make them happy, Mitch.
Close the flap and press it so it sticks. Picture the look on Rebound Sarah’s face when he hands it to her and tells her to add two more to her headcount. Does she sneer? Does it cause a fight? Or do they snicker over it until they sit back and wonder if I’m really going to show up.
And then worry that I am.
Even if I’m the only one who’ll ever know it, there’s an oddly therapeutic sense of satisfaction holding the sealed envelope in my hand. In knowing his plan has backfired.
God, I’m being ridiculous.
I roll my eyes and toss the sealed envelope on my desk with no intention of ever thinking about it again. I shouldn’t have wasted my time filling it out in the first place because I don’t care. Not one bit. Not about him or what the future Mrs. Layton looks like or his childish need to get the last word in about our relationship by sending me this.
In fact, leaving him was the best thing I’ve ever done.
I’m happier now.
Without a doubt.
Definitely happier.
I think.
Saylor
“Saylor.”
My brother grumbles my name for what feels like the tenth time in as many minutes. I ignore him and keep my focus on the elaborate design I’m perfecting on the cupcake in front of me instead.
It’s so much easier to keep my head in the sand than listen to the lecture I know is coming. The comments about how the payables are more than the receivables. The do you know that even with this small business loan you acquired you’re still going to drown in debt unless you figure out how to acquire more business? The you need to come up with a marketing plan different than everyone else so you’ll attract more customers.
And then he’ll start his spiel. How I need to be more active on social media. How Internet orders are huge these days and where the bakery can find longevity and success. Get enough online orders, up the demand for my product in surrounding cities, sell franchise opportunities to service those demands, then sit back and reap the rewards.
Doesn’t he see I’m doing everything I can? That I’ve poured my blood, sweat, and tears into my dream since breaking up with Mitch? Not only to prove to myself that it was the right decision, but probably more so to prove to everyone else that it was. That I can make it on my own. Without him or his family name or their bank accounts full of money. That none of that defines me.
And so I keep my head down, add the pearl lacing around the edge of the cupcake I’m decorating (for a wedding no less) while intermittently glancing to the foot traffic outside, hoping they’ll stop in and buy a cupcake.
Or several dozen.
Because his groan is only going to get louder the deeper he gets into the mess I’ve made of the spreadsheet his number-crunching brain deems easy. His columns, rows, and formulas with symbols that make no sense to me. I’ve got more important things to do than stress over adding numbers into the sheet.
Like running all aspects of the business he’s currently—and deservedly—bitching about.
“Saylor?”
The change in his tone has me lifting my head to look through the open doorway where he stands watching me. The look in his aqua-blue eyes is full of confusion and what I think is anger. There’s something in his hand I can’t quite see.
Crap. What did I do now?
“Did that asshole seriously have the audacity to invite you to his wedding?”
I slowly set the piping tube down and brace my hands on the butcher block in front of me in preparation for Ryder’s protective older-brother gene to kick in. For the anger to come out on my behalf when he should be the one pissed off after what Mitch’s family did to him because of me. And due to my own stupidity for not tearing up the invitation in the first place.
I’d completely forgotten about it.
Or at least that’s what I tell myself as I look at the champagne cardstock in his hand and remember the RSVP card I filled out in haste last month. More as an act of “screw you” than of real intent. Regardless, the dread I felt was more than real when my assistant, DeeDee, told me she mailed out the envelope I’d left on my desk. The one I’d meant to throw out but had become distracted by a customer and had forgotten all about.
My smile is tight as I pretend to be perfectly fine with having been invited. Because it’s easier to pretend than to let the tears of guilt burn bright over the fallout that has affected him as well. My sweet, gruff, overprotective brother who loaned me the money to start this business and then found out his largest account—Layton Industries—withdrew their business, his top source of dependable income over the past eight years.
I see the stress in the lines on his face. Know he’s trying to help me as much as he can and at the same time chase new clients to keep his consulting business afloat. Be the mom, dad, and big brother to me all in one fell swoop. But I know he hates when I thank him for it, so I focus on answering his question instead. I recognized the did that fucker Mitch really invite you? in his tone despite the polite way he phrased it.
“It appears so,” I murmur and worry my bottom lip between my teeth, attempting to divert the topic at hand. “How bad did I mess up the spreadsheet?”
“Screw the spreadsheet, Say. Does that prick really think that—?”
“I left him, Ryder.” My voice is quiet when I speak. A mixture of uncertainty ting
eing its edges. “Not the other way around.”