“What?” I crack up, something he makes me do ten times a day. “You’re such a dickosaurus.”
“Sorry? Don’t understand that accent? Did you say you want to see my giant dick?”
“Oh stop. Come over here.” He dives into bed and starts kissing my neck. My cell on the nightstand starts vibrating. It’s Leland. I know something is up, but it will have to wait. Mitch comes first. Just like I do for him. We’re a team now and there’s nothing we won’t conquer together.
THE END?
Want more OHellNo? Then great! Because, hell yes, it’s coming!!
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MY PEN IS HUGE
(OHellNo #5)
“This is a man’s game, love. So step aside.”
My name is Leland Merrick and I’m a dedicated journalist—born, raised, and schooled in England. But don’t let the nice suits and accent fool you. There isn’t a muddy jungle I won’t crawl through, a freezing iceberg I won’t float on, or a scorching desert I won’t cross to get a sensational story. But bloody hell! What was I thinking?
My friend convinced me to take on an intern as a means of getting a free assistant. But this American exchange student I hired, Gisselle, was smart (and not so bad looking) and caught on to my scheme. Little did I know she was watching and learning all my tricks with the intention of becoming a real journalist. Now, everywhere I turn, the little minx is there in her sexy outfits, trying to distract me and steal my stories.
This time, I’ve got to throw her off my scent because I’ve come across the big one! The once-in-a-lifetime story people will be talking about for decades.
Besides, who does she think she is? The weight of my pen carries credibility, years of journalistic experience, and a knack for telling a good story. My pen is huge. She should take her little play-pen home and give up before I crush her.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Hello, Mates! I hope this book gave you a little giggle or two. I’m not going to lie, I had a little too much fun investigating all of the slang words for penis. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, each of them funnier than the next. I highly recommend doing an internet search when you need a good chuckle.
As for the next book, MY PEN IS HUGE, I’m looking at a fall slot. Be sure you’re signed up for my newsletter to get updates and random crap straight from my desk:
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And now…what you’ve been waiting for! FREE SIGNED BULGE BOOKMARKS!
STEP 1: Email me with your shipping address. (Include country if outside the US, por favor.)
STEP 2: If you LOVED, LOVED the book and did me the honor of leaving an awesome review, share the link or a screenshot. While supplies last, you’ll get a sexy BULGE fridge magnet. (They do go fast, so hurry!) At the very least you’ll get a thank-you from me and a tiny unicorn will giggle, creating a rainbow somewhere in the world.
STEP 3: Light a candle in support of my Sharpe so I can complete the harrowing task of signing a thousand bookmarks in one day.
STEP 4: Keep a lookout for a confirmation email from me. (Don’t hate me, but sometimes it takes about one month to get to all of them.) If you don’t hear from me by then, assume the spam-monster has eaten your email.
All right…back to writing.
Happy Reading Everyone,
Mimi
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Another “OH HELL YES!” for Team Mimi, without whom this book #37 couldn’t be born! I keep thinking that every time I write a story, I will absolutely have enough time for everything. Inevitably, I end up with my head about to explode because nothing’s done and I’m out of time.
So thank you to Dali, Kylie, Latoya, Su, Pauline, and Paul for always being there to get ’er done!
A special thanks to my mate, Sarah Connelly, for helping out with my Aussie slang questions!
To Mack, my new puppy, I kinda hate you right now. That was the biggest puddle EVER you left on my floor. How does a four-pound dog create one gallon of pee?
To my guys, thank you for all of your sacrifices and support. I know it’s not easy having a wife/mom who lives in PJs and spends her days in a cave.
With Love,
Mimi
Coming Soon!
COLEL
The Immortal Matchmakers are back!
SOMETIMES LOVE BITES AND SOMETIMES IT STINGS.
The Goddess of Bees has been looking for Mr. Right for over seventy thousand years. So when she meets the hunky owner of a local flower shop and explodes with flutters and tingles, she’s almost certain that he’s the one.
Only two problems: her tiny black-and-yellow army suddenly won’t let her anywhere near him, and…is that a freaking epinephrine pen in the fridge? “Dear gods! He’s allergic to bees? Say it isn’t so.”
If simply dating the guy will kill him, how will she ever know for sure if he’s really the one?
Colel has a solution, but it’s drastic. Like…vampire drastic. And what if he says no?
For More:
www.mimijean.net/colel.html
THE LIBRARIAN’S VAMPIRE ASSISTANT
Book 3 (Standalone)
Michael Vanderhorst, the reluctant leader of the vampire world, finds himself caught between protecting the tiny librarian he can’t stay away from and solving a mystery that will save the humans.
Coming Fall 2019!
For more, go to:
www.mimijean.net/the-librarians-vampire-assistant-3
MY PEN IS HUGE
www.mimijean.net/mypen.html
THE BOYFRIEND COLLECTOR
Part Two
Finally free from the grip of her evil family, will this modern-day Cinderella find her prince?
Don’t miss part two of the duet series…
FOR MORE, GO TO:
www.mimijean.net/boyfriendcollector
EXCERPT – BOOK ONE
THE BOYFRIEND COLLECTOR
FIND MR. RIGHT IN 30 DAYS? CHALLENGE ACCEPTED.
Treated like a servant in her own home, twenty-year-old Rose Marie Hale can’t stop dreaming of her next birthday. It’s the day she’ll inherit a fortune, break free from her cruel family, and finally start living her life—finish school, travel, find love. After a lifetime of hardship, it’s all she’s ever wanted.
But when Rose discovers she must marry before her twenty-first birthday to claim the money, she has no choice but to push herself out into the world in search of a man she can love and trust. Unfortunately, those are the very things that have been used as weapons against her.
With only a month to go, can she find true love? Or will her past hold her back, leaving her penniless and alone?
(Part One of Two)
CHAPTER ONE
Bex
Well, this is not a promising start. Seated in my black leather armchair, I rub the stubble on my jaw and glance down at the questionnaire in my other hand. The agitated young woman lying on the couch in front of me has left the entire form blank except for her name at the top. Rose Marie Hale.
Rose. The name fits her. At first glance she looks like a delicate, fragrant flower—long, lean stems for legs, trim body, and blonde silky hair—but a sharpness in her dark brown eyes tells me she’s not all soft petals.
I make a quick note of my observation in the margin of the page before interrupting her fast talking—something about dating…or men…or I’m unsure, actually. “Miss Hale, excuse my insensitivity, but I’m here to help people, not waste their time. Or mine. So what, exactly, do you mean when you say you have to find a husband? Sounds like you need a friend or a dating app, not therapy.” I
rest my gold pen across the clipboard on my lap, waiting for her to answer.
Like the pen, this office—situated in a renovated brick warehouse in Atlanta’s trendy Buckhead district—once belonged to my father, who was also a psychologist. I stepped in, merging my practice with his when he became ill last spring. By the time he died a month ago, I learned many things about the man, bad things I loathe him for. The first disappointment came when I discovered he never practiced what he preached in terms of treating his patients, who were receiving little more than touchy-feely pep talks: You can do it. I believe in you.
Complete bullshit. The only thing he accomplished was creating a steady stream of customers who became dependent on him instead of themselves.
I don’t blow smoke up patients’ asses just so they’ll come back next week for another fix of self-esteem injections. I say it like it is, and if they truly want to get their lives together, they listen.
As for this woman on my couch, I don’t know what to make of her other than the obvious that she’s in her early twenties, her attractiveness is distracting, and I’m unsure why the hell she’s here. If she’s looking for boyfriend advice, she’s come to the wrong place.
“Dr. Hughes? Are you listening?” she says, her slender body stretched across my white couch.
Not really. Her lips are moving so fast, I feel like I’m at an auction. “Rose Marie—”
“I prefer Rose. Just Rose,” she corrects.
“Okay. Rose, I’m sorry, but I’m a psychologist, not a romance coach.”
She sits up and plants her feet on the floor. Her red heels look expensive, as does the matching red sweater. Her jeans are the type most men like on women—tight, a bit short to show off some toned calf, and cut to accentuate the feminine curve of her hips.
“I’m not here for love coaching,” she says with a frantic tone. “I have to get married. Quickly. My entire life depends on it.”
Trying to hide my impatience, I lift my brows. She strikes me as the quintessential entitled princess who thinks her social life is the most important thing on the planet. Oh no, someone didn’t like my selfie on Instagram. Whatever shall I do? If she can’t give me a legitimate reason to see her or convince me that she’s here to work, I’ll turn her away.
“This isn’t the Dark Ages,” I say. “Many women lead long happy lives and never marry.”
“I know. And that’s not what this is about. Not even close.”
“All right.” I inhale slowly, taking a moment to rally my patience. “Why don’t you try explaining it once more.”
She lies back down, crossing her long legs at the ankles, her large eyes focused on the exposed wooden beam running across the ceiling.
I wait while she mulls. She’s hopefully realizing how silly it is to pay a licensed therapist, with a doctorate in social neuroscience, just to talk about boys. I never would have agreed to see her if I knew this was her “problem,” but Rose left a frantic message with my service last night. A short conversation followed, where she disclosed nothing and pleaded to see me first thing this morning.
Fast-forward to fifteen minutes ago. I get to my office before my assistant has arrived and find Rose walking around the hallway. My office is one of many on the second floor, so it’s easy to miss. Downstairs are several boutiques and a small coffee shop, where I practically live between patients.
Which reminds me that I skipped the latte this morning, and I’m wishing I hadn’t because I’ll need a heavy dose of caffeine to keep up with all the whining I’m hearing.
Yes, if I were a lesser man, I might be content to sit here all day, staring at a gorgeous woman while she rambles on about her love life. But I am not that man. I’m here to help people. And I think this woman came to the wrong place.
Rose
I knew it would be a waste of time coming here, but this exceeds my worst expectations. Everything about this guy says he doesn’t care. The drab gray tie, plain white dress shirt, and black slacks tell me he doesn’t have a warm bone in his body. All business. The polished concrete floor and a bland gray rug to accent his work space confirm he lacks imagination. And not one item in his office indicates he has any hobbies or passions. I don’t even see a family photo despite the fact he’s fidgeting with his wedding ring. Married. But he obviously doesn’t want to think about her at work. What does that say about him?
“Rose,” he says in a deep, authoritative voice that sounds rehearsed, “this session is only an hour, and I get paid either way.”
In other words, I should start talking if I want my money’s worth. But Dr. Bexley Hughes doesn’t seem interested in hearing anything I have to say. I doubt I’d be sitting here at all if I hadn’t begged him last night over the phone. But I need help, and now that his father is dead, I have no one else to turn to.
I squirm on his lumpy couch. The fabric is soft—some sort of white velveteen—but the springs are pushing into my ass. Another bad sign. He doesn’t care about his patients enough to buy comfortable furniture.
I get up and walk over to the wall of books behind the black leather armchair where he’s seated. I know he’s waiting for me to explain why I need to get married, but his intense stare makes it difficult. I don’t like it or him one little bit.
Ironically, if I saw him walking down the street, the two of us complete strangers, he’d have me looking twice. Dark hair, light blue eyes, and a hard jawline. Classically handsome. Just my type. Though he’s a little older, maybe twenty-nine or thirty.
Of course, all that’s irrelevant. Doesn’t matter if he’s good looking. Doesn’t matter if I like his personality. The question is, will Dr. Bexley Hughes help me? He seems more uncaring and heartless than my family, if that’s even possible.
With our backs to each other, I pluck a book off the shelf and thumb through the crisp white pages. It’s inscribed to Dr. Murdoc Hughes, his late father. Funny, they look nothing alike. Murdoc had warm brown eyes and an even warmer smile.
“I met your dad before he died.” I turn and speak to the back of Bexley Hughes’s head. “He was a good man. Maybe the only decent person I’ve ever met. I hoped you’d be like him. Are you?”
“You knew my father?” he says with a tinge of skepticism, pivoting in his seat to face me.
I nod.
“But you were never a patient.”
“No,” I confirm. “He told me to see you if I changed my mind.”
“Changed it about what?”
I shut the book with a clap, place it back on the shelf, and walk over to the white couch, where I sit with hands clasped. I don’t know why this Dr. Hughes makes me so uneasy, but he does. It’s odd given how I’m no stranger to unpleasant people.
“I met your father last spring,” I say, “when he gave a lecture at my university about the psychology of storytelling. I am—I mean, I was an English major. I dropped out.” I had promised myself that no matter what my grandmother did or said, I wouldn’t leave school this time. But she has a way of slithering inside my head and undermining every positive thought, every productive intention—“You should be home, Rose, fulfilling the promise to your dead mother. There will be time for college later.” After weeks of being guilted, I finally gave in. Idiot.
Or maybe it was fate?
Had I not stopped taking classes, I never would’ve been home on that fateful day when I overheard a strange conversation my grandmother had with her lawyer. Then I wouldn’t have had that quiet nagging feeling in the back of my mind, telling me that maybe, just maybe there was more to my mother’s will. And I certainly wouldn’t have been prompted to go through my grandmother’s safe a week ago when she left it open by accident.
But now I know the horrible truth: The copy of the will shown to me all those years ago was a fake, and everything I’ve been promised is about to be taken away.
I continue, “I liked your father’s perspective about how every epic story has a villain, a victim, and a knight.” The older Dr. Hughes said that in the world
of psychology, a therapist’s job is to make every patient their own knight, the hero of their story. “When I decided I needed to talk to someone, I looked him up. He called me back right away, and it was the first time I remembered anyone just listening and wanting to help. Nothing in return.”
I was really sorry when I found out he was ill, but he urged me to come in and see his son instead. Trusting strangers isn’t easy for me, so I told him I’d think about it. Of course, the situation I’m facing now is entirely different. It’s no longer about the guilt or the shame my family has poisoned me with. This is about justice. This is about wrong versus right.
I look away from the younger Dr. Hughes’s judgmental gaze and add, “Your dad told me if I ever needed someone to trust, someone who’d help me, it would be you.”
I suddenly notice Dr. Hughes’s face is a hostile shade of red, and while I didn’t think it possible for anyone to look more anal retentive and intimidating, he’s just proven me wrong.
He sets his clipboard on top of a little wooden table to his side and leans forward. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
I blink. “Sorry?”
“I can’t help you.”
“Did I miss something?” He’s clearly pissed, but what did I do?
“I am not the right therapist for you, Miss Hale, but I can suggest a colleague who specializes in relationships and commitment issues.”
I frown. “Why would I need help with that?” All right, yes, I have issues in those areas, but not how he thinks.
“Didn’t you say you’re here because you’re trying to find a husband?”
“Yes, but—”
Battle of the Bulge Page 18