Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Harlow James is destined to rock the dating world. The creator of Kissmet, the app helping singles find love, she’s in New York to secure advertisers. But the sassy, small-town girl can’t help meddling in other people’s business.
When she runs into a muscular stranger at her go-to food truck, Harlow doesn’t realize he’s Landon “Andy” Burke, the NFL’s most-wanted free agent, in town to talk contracts. She just sees a hottie about to get burned by undercooked street food. Though she tries to warn him, he shrugs her off, making a little wager instead.
In a messy twist of fate, Andy finds himself in the same hotel as Harlow. When she collects on their bet, they make a mind-blowing—and bed-rocking—connection. But after the weekend, she goes home to Green Bay to her goofy dad and corgi, ready to focus everything on work again. Kissmet, however, has other ideas, when Andy knocks on her door…
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter 1
Harlow
Being single has its perks.
I have no one to answer to.
I have an entire bed all to myself, no sharing.
I can travel at a moment’s notice, like I am now.
Yup. Life is real good.
“Just a small-town girl, chillin’ in a big, bad world . . .”
I sing off key, as usual, unable to carry the melody, a jaunty pep in my step as I bop along the street, kicking a wayward stone that somehow made its way onto the sidewalk.
As I get closer to the entrance to Central Park, here to people watch and get some vitamin D, I shift my laptop bag higher on my shoulder.
And work, obviously.
I look like a local and feel like a local, adopting the New York state of mind. Low patience for the congested traffic. Basking in the hustle. Harboring a newfound disdain for tourists. Wearing sneakers with every outfit. Walking everywhere.
When I need a cab, I stick my arm out into the street to flag one down as if I’ve been doing it my whole life.
I’m miraculously able to locate an empty bench near the entrance of the park, plop down, and unzip my computer from its sleeve before setting it in my lap and cracking it open. It whirs to life, my desktop icons slowly loading—and while it’s doing that, I scan the area around me with curiosity, nibbling my lower lip.
A tired-looking woman pushes a stroller with an infant in it while a toddler catches a ride on the back. Is she the nanny? Or are these her children?
A man in tiny tight khaki shorts struts past walking a miniature poodle with a pink leash.
I stare down the hot dog cart, which also sells soft pretzels, chicken kebabs, chicken tenders, and a few other things that don’t make sense to sell together. Ice cream. Gyros. Apples.
A few men linger near the truck, obviously on their lunch break, each of them wearing a different version of the same outfit: dress pants, polo shirt, shoes with no socks.
Loafers.
Men back home don’t wear anything like this.
I hide a smile, tucking it into the collar of my crewneck, not wanting to be sitting here grinning like an idiot to myself.
The air is fresh.
The environment is loud.
Busy.
Full of people who always seem to be in a rush to get somewhere.
Yet, somehow, I’m relaxed on this park bench.
Ahh.
This is the life.
I stretch, feeling very much like a New Yorker—heck, I might even leave with an accent by the end of the weekend!
My stomach grumbles.
Guess that bagel and lox I ate this morning on my walk here wasn’t enough.
My stomach grumbles again, this time so loud I can hear it, so I root around in my laptop bag for a granola bar I know is buried in a pocket somewhere; I normally carry emergency snacks for occasions like this, but my hand digs and digs and comes up empty.
No snacks for me.
I rise, stuffing my laptop back into its sleeve, then into my computer bag. Sling it over my shoulder as I meander to the food truck parked at the curb, walking to the back of the short line. Only two people wait in front of me, so I make a show of studying the menu, eyes slowly straying from the menu . . . to the man in front of me.
His shoulders are wide, back tapering to a narrow waist.
Athletic shirt tight, the center column down his back soaked with sweat.
White cords are attached to the buds stuck in his ears.
Old-school headphones. Nice.
He has a thick neck, and is it possible to get physically turned on by the back of someone’s neck? Judging by the butterflies in my stomach, all signs point to yes.