23 March 2017

WALK OF SHAME Excerpt Reveal @_LaurenLayne @TastyBookTours

The City’s HOTTEST Cold War!
WALK OF SHAME
a Love Unexpectedly novel
Lauren Layne
Releasing April 18th, 2017
Loveswept

 

Sparks fly between a misunderstood New York socialite and a cynical divorce lawyer in this lively standalone rom-com from the USA Today bestselling author of Blurred Lines and Love Story.
 
Pampered heiress Georgianna Watkins has a party-girl image to maintain, but all the shopping and clubbing is starting to feel a little bit hollow—and a whole lot lonely. Though Georgie would never admit it, the highlights of her week are the mornings when she comes home at the same time as her uptight, workaholic neighbor is leaving to hit the gym and put in a long day at the office. Teasing him is the most fun Georgie’s had in years—and the fuel for all her naughtiest daydreams.
Celebrity divorce attorney Andrew Mulroney doesn’t have much time for women, especially spoiled tabloid princesses who spend more time on Page Six than at an actual job. Although Georgie’s drop-dead gorgeous, she’s also everything Andrew resents: the type of girl who inherited her penthouse instead of earning it. But after Andrew caps one of their predawn sparring sessions with a surprise kiss—a kiss that’s caught on camera—all of Manhattan is gossiping about whether they’re a real couple. And nobody’s more surprised than Andrew to find that the answer just might be yes.
 
Georgie

Tuesday morning

Let’s talk about five a.m. for a second.

Also known as the worst hour of the day, am I right?

Here’s why:

If you’re awake to see five in the freaking morning, it means one of a few things, all of them heinous.

Scenario one: You’re on your way to the airport for an early morning flight. Heinous.

Scenario two: You’ve been out all night, and now your vodka buzz is fading, and you’re just sober enough to realize that the rest of your day will likely involve Excedrin, carbs, and indoor voices. Heinous.

Scenario three: You’ve got a crap-ton on your mind, and you’re lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, hating your life. Maybe hating yourself a little bit, I dunno, who am I to judge? Heinous.

Now brace yourself, because scenario four is the most heinous of them all: You’re awake at five a.m. because you’re an uptight prick whose schedule is even more rigid than your posture, and your life is an endless string of working out, the corner office, repeat. You’re also likely the type of person who subsists on protein shakes and kale smoothies, and you have been known to utter the phrase the body is a temple, thus solidifying what we already knew about you.

You have no friends.

But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself.

See, it’s five a.m., and I, Georgie Watkins, am . . . kind of excited about it.

I know. I know. Four months ago I’d have bet my favorite vintage Chanel bag that there was exactly zero chance I’d actually look forward to the ghoulish hour of five in the morning.

And yet here we are.

I guess you could say there’s a scenario five on reasons to be up this early.

“Good morning, Ramon,” I sing, pushing through the revolving doors of the luxury high-rise on 56th and Park, the place I call home.

The concierge/security guard/all-around good guy glances up and gives me a friendly smile. “Ms. Watkins. Good morning.”

Usually the massive front desk is a bustling, busy affair. Starting at around seven, an army of well-dressed concierges will be smoothly facilitating the needs of impatient residents, as tiny dogs let out sharp, high-pitched barks of greeting from their Louis Vuitton carriers.

But that’s later.

Right now, the luxurious lobby is mostly silent, with just the lone overnight guy working the front desk, holding down the fort until the day guys arrive to handle the morning crush.

My new Tory Burch clutch tucked into my armpit, I hold up the box in my hands and waggle my eyebrows. “Brought you something.”

Ramon’s smile grows wider, brown eyes lighting. “My wife says you’re going to make me fat.”

“Tell Marta that the dad bod is totally in style right now,” I say, setting the box of donuts on the counter and lifting the lid. “Unless, of course, you don’t want a maple bacon donut?”

Ramon is already reaching inside the box, shaking his head in reverence as he lifts the sugary treat. “Still warm.”

“Well, technically the shop doesn’t open until five, but I’m such a loyal customer, they let me in a bit early,” I say, surveying the array of donuts and trying to decide if I’m in a chocolate kind of mood or if I want to risk the powdered sugar one.

Since my Alexander McQueen minidress is black (the archnemesis of powdered sugar), I reach for the chocolate as I set my clutch on the counter and fish out my phone: 4:58 a.m.

Two more minutes.

“How’s Marta dealing with the pregnancy of baby number three?” I ask, taking a bite of the donut and shifting attention back to Ramon, who’s already polished off his donut and is contemplating a second. I nudge the box toward him.

“She’s good,” he says. “Excited that we’re finally having a girl.”

“A girl!” I say, reaching across the counter and squeezing his massive forearm. “Congratulations, I hadn’t heard!”

“Just found out yesterday,” he says with a happy smile, apparently deciding that the occasion calls for another donut.

“Oh my gosh, I have the perfect baby gift,” I say, nibbling at a piece of my donut. “I saw this adorable Burberry onesie in Bergdorf’s the other day, with this precious little red bow—”

“Yes, because that’s what every infant needs,” a low voice interrupts. “A four-hundred-dollar piece of fabric that needs to be dry-cleaned. Don’t be ridiculous, Georgiana.”

I don’t have to look at my clock to know what time it is.

Five o’clock.

On the dot.

Not even bothering to turn around, I roll my eyes as my red nails tear off another piece of donut and pop it into my mouth. “Ramon, do you think you could talk to maintenance about adjusting the temp? It just got a little cold in here.”

Ramon’s been working here long enough to know my request isn’t for real. He’s not even paying attention to me. He’s already set his donut aside and has straightened up, practically saluting the newcomer.

“Mr. Mulroney. Good morning, sir.”

“Mr. Ramirez.” The voice is low and serious, a touch impatient, although not quite rude.

You know that adage that you catch more flies with honey? I’m not so sure it’s true. I bring donuts to the front desk guys just about every morning, and they adore me. I know they do.

But they respect him.

Giving in to the inevitable, I finally let my eyes flick to the side, my gaze colliding with a stern brown scowl.

I put on my widest, sparkliest smile, only because I know it drives him crazy.

As always, I see a muscle in his jaw twitch as I flutter my eyelashes.

“Good morning, Andrew,” I say sweetly.

“Georgiana.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Only my late grandmother has ever called me that, and I’m pretty sure that’s because I was her namesake. Everyone else calls me Georgie. Well, okay, not everyone. Ramon and the other guys still insist on calling me Ms. Watkins, but I’m working on it. See: daily donuts.

I smile wider and push the box in Andrew’s direction. “Donut?”

His lip curls. In case you haven’t already gotten a read on this guy, he’s the type that sneers at donuts.

He lifts a boring black travel mug. “Already have my breakfast.”

“Blended-up quinoa sprinkled with a few bits of spinach and pretension?” I ask.

“Whey powder protein shake.”

“Sounds immensely satisfying.”

He takes a sip of the nastiness and watches me with cold brown eyes. “The body is a temple, Georgiana.”

There it is.

Full circle to my above commentary about what sort of people are up and about at five a.m.

 

Lauren Layne is the New York Times bestselling author of over a dozen
romantic comedies.
 
A former e-commerce and web marketing manager from Seattle, Lauren relocated to New York City in 2011 to pursue a full-time writing career.
 
She lives in midtown Manhattan with her high-school sweetheart, where she writes smart romantic comedies with just enough sexy-times to make your mother blush. In LL’s ideal world, every stiletto-wearing, Kate Spade wielding woman would carry a Kindle stocked with Lauren Layne books. 
 

 

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21 January 2017

Good Girl Sale Blitz @_laurenlayne @TastyBookTours

Good Girl

A Love Unexpectedly Novel

By: Lauren Layne

Released May 17, 2016
Loveswept

 

New York Times BESTSELLER • Lauren Layne brings all the unpredictable heat of Blurred Lines to an all-new cast of characters! Country music’s favorite good girl is hiding away from the world—only to find herself bunking with a guy who makes her want to be a little bad.

Jenny Dawson moved to Nashville to write music, not get famous. But when her latest record goes double platinum, Jenny’s suddenly one of the town’s biggest stars—and the center of a tabloid scandal connecting her with a pop star she’s barely even met. With paparazzi tracking her every move, Jenny flees to a remote mansion in Louisiana to write her next album. The only hiccup is the unexpected presence of a brooding young caretaker named Noah, whose foul mouth and snap judgments lead to constant bickering—and serious heat.

Noah really should tell Jenny that he’s Preston Noah Maxwell Walcott, the owner of the estate where the feisty country singer has made her spoiled self at home. But the charade gives Noah a much-needed break from his own troubles, and before long, their verbal sparring is indistinguishable from foreplay. But as sizzling nights give way to quiet pillow talk, Noah begins to realize that Jenny’s almost as complicated as he is. To fit into each other’s lives, they’ll need the courage to face their problems together—before the outside world catches up to them.

Lauren Layne’s USA Today bestselling Love Unexpectedly series can be read in any order:
BLURRED LINES
GOOD GIRL

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Noah

Even in my shitty mood, I don’t fail to miss the look Finn and Vaughn exchange, which means trouble. These two have hated each other forever. If they’re joining forces, it means absolute shit for me.

“Sorry,” Vaughn says slowly. “But when my best friend tells me he’s headed out to a remote property he didn’t know he owned to get it ready for a tenant he’s never met . . . I’m going to tag along.”

“Never thought I’d say this,” Finn says, reaching into his back pocket for the ever-present cigarettes. “But ditto to what Country Club said. You really didn’t know this place was out here?”

“If I did, you think I’d’ve let it turn into this?” I say, halfheartedly lifting a hand to indicate what must have once been a rather impressive master bathroom but is now seriously run-down.

“Why not just tell this chick no? That the place wasn’t available?”

I shrug. “Apparently she came here for some musician’s retreat thing when she was a kid. She wants to come back now that she has some money. Sentimental bullshit, sounded kind of desperate.”

Vaughn’s eyes narrow. “What’s her name?”

“Don’t remember,” I lie.

Every man knows the name of Jenny Dawson. Every woman too. Even if you don’t like her music, you can’t escape the fact that she’s a household name. She’s one of those nightmares that crosses all genres. Whether you like country music or hate country music, you can’t turn on your radio and not hear her.

And more recently, you can’t turn on the TV and not see her.

The spoiled little princess apparently got caught in a married man’s bed and thought that Glory, Louisiana, would make for a nice hideaway. She’s probably right. Glory had a population of 991 at last count.

Any other day, I likely would have ignored her email. I have zero interest in playing savior to a pampered princess, and certainly have no need for her money. But, although she couldn’t have known it, spoiled Jenny Dawson had impeccable timing.

Her email came on the exact day I was desperate for a distraction from my real life. And getting a mansion I didn’t even know I’d inherited ready for a tenant seemed as good a distraction as any.

Still, as I look around at the fading wallpaper and well-worn floorboards, I realize I might be a little out of my depth. I sent out a cleaning crew yesterday, and they called to tell me that they’d done what they could, but that their services don’t include fixing leaky plumbing and broken windows.

At least the place will be sparkling clean if it collapses.

Which it very well might.

“Somehow I can’t see Preston Walcott Sr. hosting a bunch of kids at a musical retreat,” Finn says snidely as he pulls a lighter out of his back pocket.

“Dude. Not in the house.”

He gives me an incredulous look as he waves his lighter around. “Yeah, because cigarette smoke is really the problem here. I nearly broke my neck on a half dozen missing stairs.”

“A pity about the nearly part,” Vaughn mutters.

“Pretty sure a professional singer’s not going to love her bedroom smelling like smoke,” I say as I make a mental note to fix the stairs.

Finn swears under his breath and goes to the window, wrestling it open before lighting up, keeping his arm out the window as he idly blows the smoke outward.

“Classy,” Vaughn mutters. “Still, the guy has a point. Does this girl know what she’s getting into?”

“I told her I didn’t know what kind of condition the house was in. She said she didn’t care.”

“Huh. Fucking weird, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you.”

“Yeah, well, how about you start?” Vaughn says. “You know I’ve got your back no matter what, but I’ve gotta tell you, it looks like you’re on a downward spiral here.”

“Just because he’s got better things to do than play golf with you every morning doesn’t mean he’s in a downward spiral,” Finn says.

“Shut up, Reed. You don’t like this any more than I do,” Vaughn says.

I glance at Finn. “That true?”

Finn shrugs, his shoulders big and bulky beneath the tight black T-shirt. “I’m not complaining about you ending things with the ice princess, but you’ve been actin’ weird ever since.”

“At least tell us what’s up,” Vaughn says as I bend down to pick up the toolbox. “Yvonne called, said she couldn’t get ahold of you. You getting cold feet?”

“I don’t wanna fucking talk about it,” I mutter.

My word choice always becomes less precise when I’m around Finn.

The guy brings out the other side of me. The one that doesn’t belong with Vaughn at the golf course, the one that doesn’t marry women like Yvonne Damascus. The one who spent the first half of his life living in a two-room trailer and the second half of his life trying to balance weekends in that same trailer with weeknights in a sprawling mansion in snobby Village St. George.

Finn represents one side of my life; Vaughn represents the other. It’s a juggling act even on the best days to fit into both worlds.

These are not the best of days. Lately I haven’t been sure that I want to fit into either.

 

Lauren Layne is the New York Times bestselling author of more than a dozen romantic comedies. She lives in New York City with her husband (who was her high school sweetheart–cute, right?!) and plus-sized Pomeranian.

In 2011, she ditched her corporate career in Seattle to pursue a full-time writing career in Manhattan, and never looked back.

In her ideal world, every stiletto-wearing, Kate Spade wielding woman would carry a Kindle stocked with Lauren Layne books.

For a list of all her works, please be sure to check out her official website!

Author Links:   

WEBSITE   |   FACEBOOK  |   TWITTER  |   GOODREADS

 

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