A romantic comedy set in the world of Vi Keeland and Penelope Ward’s Stuck Up Suit
What’s a girl to do when she discovers that her boss/boyfriend (I don’t need a lecture, thank you very much!) is a cheating windbag?
Dump him and quit her job, of course.
After that, it was supposed to be the Summer of Me—a totally self-indulgent few months.
Except that I met a drop-dead gorgeous Viking with a bossy attitude.
We clashed on his arrogance and crassness, but geek bonded over Star Wars and Star Trek.
He offered himself as a no-strings-attached candidate for my get-my-groove-back sex plan, and I left because he already had a girlfriend, even if they were on a break.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
I really, really needed to find someone less complicated, but he infiltrated my thoughts.
He was hot, after all (And his towel might have slipped on purpose.) Seriously hot.
No matter how many times I decided not to pursue anything with him, he kept showing a softer side of himself.
But we couldn’t keep going like that, neither here nor there.
Some decisions had to be made.
One that could change everything.
If someone had told me how my Summer of Me would end? I’d never have believed them.
But I regret nothing.
—
EXCERPT:
“I won’t change for him or any man. No matter how fab I treat them, they still cheat. Maybe I just need to focus on my career and let relationships happen later.”
“What you don’t need to do is waste your prime-time mourning losers. You need to have a passionate fling to get that windbag out of your system. A rebound could make you over, babe.” Hopefully my rebound, if I found one, won’t ask if I’ve come seconds after he does. Thank you, Randall. Pretentious, pipe-sucking ass.
My phone buzzed. Randall’s smug face popped up. Speak of the devil. I swiped the decline button. “He’s still calling.”
“Forget him. What you need is a good fling to recharge your ego. Reach in my bag and check my phone. My Tinder app should be accessible.”
I pulled up her handbag from the back seat and pressed her profile.
My mouth dropped open. “You kept this secret.”
Tam Nguyen—valedictorian, summa cum laude, Phi Beta Kappa, most likely to win a Nobel Prize for physics—had a raunchy profile with pictures of close-up body parts.
“What the hell, Tam? Some creep is copying this on his phone.”
She grinned and lifted her shoulder while keeping her hands on the wheel. “I don’t care. I’m not running for political office. Besides, women shouldn’t be afraid of expressing their sexuality.”
She took the ramp for the highway and increased her speed to join the traffic ahead.
I returned her phone to her purse and groaned. “I’m not ready to advertise or date again. Maybe time alone is good.”
“That’s feeling sorry for yourself bullshit. You fall off; you get back on. And before you find the guy who lives inside your heart, you recharge. I’m not talking about dating. Go to a bar or nightclub and hook up to get him out of your system. Just be safe. Find a man who turns you on. You’re not trying to date him, so you can be as shallow as fuck.”
“Don’t we always go for what attracts us?” I asked.
“Rhetorically speaking. But in reality, not all the time, and you know it. But this time, you do for sure. Kiss the guy in the bar to make sure you won’t end up with a sloppy tongue. Feel his junk under the table too. Or better yet, ask to feel his cock, like you can’t make it out of the bar without touching it, so you can make sure you’re on the same wavelength.”
I shook my head. “That’s your advice, grope a stranger?”
“You’ll thank me later. Trust me, it will save you the naked reveal.”
I howled with laughter. “You’re crazy. I’m feeling up random guys to find the cock-nirvana? I guess this is a bar I never want to return to out of sheer embarrassment.”
“Everyone goes to bars and nightclubs to hook up. Who are they to judge? Oh, and make sure you tell him you want to get fucked, not make love.” She said make love like it was a nasty word. “Keep the convo on sex. Don’t let him talk too much about himself. You don’t want this guy in your head.”
“Am I hooking up, or is this Silence of the Lambs?” I mused.
“These are trade secrets, darling.” We laughed.
Revenge sex aside, I still wasn’t completely sold on a mindless man-toy fling.
Author Bio:
Amelie S. Duncan writes steamy, sexy stories. Her inspiration comes from many sources including her life experiences and travels. She lives on the West Coast of the United States with her husband.
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