Release
date: April 30, 2019
Genre:
Romantic Comedy, Contemporary Romance
An
all-new STANDALONE from New York Times bestselling author Julia Kent
It
all started with the wrong Help Wanted ad. Of course it did.
I’m
a professional fluffer. It’s NOT what you think. I stage homes for
a living. Real estate agents love me, and my work stands on its own
merits.
Sigh.
Get your mind out of the gutter. Go ahead. Laugh. I’ll wait.
See?
That’s the problem. My career has used the term “fluffer” for
decades. I didn’t even know there was a more… lascivious
definition of the term.
Until
it was too late.
The
ad for a “professional fluffer” on Craigslist seemed like divine
intervention. My last unemployment check was in the bank. I was
desperate. Rent was due. The ad said cash paid at the end of the day.
The
perfect job!
Staging
homes means showing your best angle. The same principle applies in
making a certain kind of movie. Turns out a “fluffer” doesn’t
arrange decorative pillows on a couch.
They
arrange other soft, round-ish objects.
The
job isn’t hard. Er, I mean, it is — it’s about being hard. Or,
well… helping other people to be hard.
Oh,
man…
And
that’s the other problem. A man. No, not one of the stars on the
movie set. Will Lotham – my high school crush. The owner of the
house where we’re filming. Illegally. In a vacation rental.
By
the time the cops show up, what I thought was just a great house
staging gig turned into a nightmare involving pictures of me with an
undressed naked star, Will rescuing me from an arrest, and a
humiliating lesson in my own naivete.
My
job turned out to be so much harder than I expected. But you know
what’s easier than I ever imagined?
Having
all my dreams come true.
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Excerpt
“It
is time to DANCE! Find a partner and hold each other’s hands,
facing one another.”
Five
women start walking toward Will.
“Mal?”
Shyness infuses his question, sending chills up and down my arms and
legs. They settle at the base of my neck, riding shotgun next to the
arousal centers of my nervous system. He’s adorable, one hand out
to me, eyebrows slightly up, blue-green eyes asking to dance with me
but hinting at more.
Or...
am I inventing that part?
“Sure,”
I say, instantly regretting my answer. Does it sound grudging? He
doesn’t seem to think so as I take his hand and stand before him,
tall in my high heels but he’s even taller. Looking at him from
this height makes him even more human, more masculine, more real.
My
heart skips a beat.
But
the music sure doesn't.
“Now,
the ‘man,’” Philippe starts, using finger quotes because there
are several female-only couples in the class, “puts one hand on the
woman’s waist. The right hand.”
Will
complies.
It’s
like sticking my finger in a light socket and orgasming at the same
time.
His
left hand takes my right hand and he holds it, strong and firm,
smiling at me with a boyish grin that makes me feel instant remorse
for hurting him today.
“I’m
sorry I bashed your head in,” I whisper, moving near his ear, our
mouths inches apart.
There
is a gap between us. My lungs live there, in that space. They
breathe. I don’t make a move. My autonomic nervous system works
without intention. If it didn’t, I’d die.
Because
I would hold my breath forever in Will’s arms.
Philippe
is moving from couple to couple, adjusting positions, commenting and
correcting.
“Closer,”
Philippe says right behind me, the press of his firm palm against my
lower back a shock as he pushes me into Will, closing that gap.
My
autonomic nervous system gives up entirely.
“Look
into each other’s eyes,” Philippe commands, his accent making
this even sexier. “When you dance, you show your love with your
hips, your eyes, your languid grace. You are making love in public
with your bodies, fully clothed.”
Is
Will holding his breath, too?
“Your
hand goes here, Mallory,” the teacher says, taking my left hand and
putting it on Will’s shoulder. My breasts brush against his chest,
our breathing ragged. I try to look away, but we’re too close. All
I can do is look at his eyes or his mouth, and right now, both are
so, so dangerous.
No
one else in the room exists. The light that bounces off the polished
floors is ours. The murmurs and giggles in the background are ours.
The way he breathes my air and I inhale him is ours, too. We’re
touching, my thigh against his, and every warm part of Will Lotham’s
front half that is decent to display in public is rubbing against me.
Except
his lips.
“Now,
take one step forward,” Philippe says. “Together.”
Will
steps on my foot. Hard.
I
make a very unfeminine sound and start to pitch backwards. Tightening
his grip on my waist, his hand sliding, open and splayed, across the
small of my back, he saves me from a complete wipeout.
But
that save has its costs.
In
an instant, all traces of that teenage girl in me are gone,
disintegrating, turned to stardust that sweeps off me like a fine
spring breeze. I am all woman now, mature and wanting.
All
I want is this. Now. The man before me, his arms warm and assured,
grasp confident and bold.
And
very much wanting me back.
About
the Author
New
York Times and USA Today Bestselling
Author Julia Kent writes romantic comedy with an edge. From
billionaires to BBWs to new adult rock stars, Julia finds a sensual,
goofy joy in every contemporary romance she writes. Unlike Shannon
from Shopping for a Billionaire,
she did not meet her husband after dropping her phone in a men's room
toilet (and he isn't a billionaire). She lives in New England with
her husband and three sons in a household where the toilet seat is
never, ever, down
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