From New York Times
bestselling author Julia Kent comes the first in the Her Billionaires series…
Could she really find the right guy on the internet?
"Hot, luscious woman who can suck a golf ball through forty feet of garden hose seeks rippling-ab'd firefighter who has a tongue that thrums like a hummingbird and enjoys painting my toenails and eating Ben & Jerry's out of the carton while watching Mad Men."
Laura Michaels stared at the online dating site's registration screen and frowned. That's what she really wanted to write. Here was the truth:
"Needy, insecure, overweight twenty-six year old Business Analyst with three cats, a corporate job with pension and no debt seeks Mr. Impossible for way more than friendship and lots of ice cream. I'm desperate for some physical affection and oral sex with a guy who doesn't view it as some sort of favor he's granting me, and then expects to be praised like he cleaned my toilet. One night stands are better than nothing as long as you brush your teeth. So call me, maybe!"
So when hot firefighter Dylan Stanwyck responds and asks her out, it's just too good to be true. When she searches him online and learns he offers himself up for date nights in bachelor charity auctions, she wonders if she's on the right planet.
Because what could a guy like that see in a fat girl like her?
Or would he not be who he seemed?
This title is published by Prosaic Press and distributed by Untreed Reads.
Dylan Stanwyck couldn't quite believe what he saw when he logged into the online dating site. Four months of weeding through so many crappy profiles had jaded him. Finding the right woman would be like coming across the proverbial needle in a haystack, but in this case he didn't want to face any pricks.
And yes, women could be pricks. So far he had been inundated with requests to chat, and he knew exactly why. Being a firefighter who competed in weightlifting competitions for fun, along with the occasional mini triathlon, made his pictures look quite nice. The problem with the women who were responding to him was that they were also the type to be drawn to appearances only. It seemed so shallow of him to think it, but sometimes being built the way he was could be a curse.
Curse of the Jersey Shore chicks. Because that was the type who seemed to seek him out, like moths to a flame. A trashy, Snooki-like flame of ho-dom. When he would meet up with these women he found himself in some alternate universe, where they licked their lips and offered themselves up in the alley behind the nice tapas restaurant where he liked to take women. A few goat cheese stuffed dates and pitchers of sangria later and he was being humped up against a slimy brick wall next to the trash cans.
And when he turned them down...he still had scars from one woman's long, overdone nails raking his neck as she screeched, "You don't know me!" over and over, requiring police assistance as passersby gawked, took pictures they probably uploaded to Reddit, and mercifully called 911 on his behalf.
So when this new profile for Laura appeared, he peered at the description and leaned back in his chair, taking a deep breath. Cute. But not too cute. A little sassy. He liked sassy. He ran a hand through his thick, wavy hair. Time to get a haircut, dude. You look like a survivalist. And smell like one, too, he thought as he studied her picture and caught a whiff of himself. His morning run was done, 3.8 miles logged on his online fitness program, and he reeked.
She looked like a 1940s pin up girl. A little plumper, with soft curves to her shoulders, a fuzzy, lime-green sweater accentuating her breasts. Her jaw line seemed firm and gentle all at once, and what appeared to be naturally-blonde hair was swept up off her face in a pony tail. His mom would call her a "corn-fed farm girl" and those lips – lush and grinning a half smile that seemed to say "Kiss me, Dylan." Smart, too. A business analyst? Sounded suitably bland and yet signaled she was smart enough to carry her own in a conversation about something other than Kim Kardashian or Fifty Shades of Grey (really – why? Why had every date for the past two months mentioned it?). A real woman. What a refreshing change. So he continued reading:
“Luscious, curvy Business Analyst seeks friendship and more. Financially independent and self-assured, I'm a fit woman who wants a man (or, more than one! YOLO!) for stimulating conversation...er, yeah. Conversation. Message me (or massage me!).”
Something fierce and hot inside him came to life. From that description it sounded like she...seriously? No way.
"Mike! Hey, Mike! Get in here!" If there were a chance – any chance at all, here, then he had to act fast. Someone this amazing was about to get inundated by messages from needy weirdos.
And he needed to be the first.
His roommate wandered in. Where Dylan was all muscle and brawn, Mike Pine was tall and sleek, a marathoner's body of long, lean tissue. Dylan's dark, Italian, thick looks made him popular with women, but Mike was the golden boy, with blonde hair and blue eyes, the long distance runner with a soft heart, the guy women turned to and poured their hearts out, Mr. Sensitive to Dylan's Mr.Conquest.
Dylan tapped the screen. "Take a look at her." He smiled smugly as Mike's eyes raced across the screen. They'd been waiting for a long time. Too long. His roommate's expression told him everything he needed to know. Score! It might finally be time.
"Do you really think that's some sort of code for being up for a threesome?" Mike asked, eyebrows arched. "I don't know, Dyl...I think it's just some sort of joke she's making. You know how nervous and weird people can be when they try to distill their entire life into a few sentences."
Dylan chewed on the inside of his cheek. Bad habit. "Good point. Well, even if she isn't into a nice menage arrangement, she is one fine woman." A low whistle escaped from his lips. "I have a project on my hands now, don't I?"
Mike nodded, peering at the screen, eyes lingering. "You are going to have a lot of competition."
Dylan snorted. "Like I give a fuck. May the best man win."
Mike went silent, then grinned, his fresh-faced boy-next-door look morphed into a Wall Street trader's predatory smile that made Dylan suddenly uncomfortable for no reason he could pinpoint. "Yeah. I hope he does."
* * *
“Ding!” The little chat box on the online dating site lit up like a Christmas tree. Laura sucked the last mouthful of her coffee and gaped at the screen. You have got to be kidding me, Laura thought. Already? She clicked and read a message from “9inluvr”:
Hey, babe. I live in the city and so do you, so let's hook up for some FWB action.
She snorted. Oh, sure. Just like that. Yer a catch, Bud. A real romantic.
“Ding!” This one was from some guy named Dylan. Before she read the chat she looked at his profile.
Well hellooooo there, Mr. Firefighter. A thin line of drool formed at the corner of her mouth, an instant response to the picture before her. It was a professional picture, the guy wearing no shirt, a fireman's hat perched at a jaunty tilt. Like a stripper's picture in a firefighter's role. Oh, God. I can't date a stripper, she thought. He'd have nicer g-strings than mine.