Meet Oliver & Vivian in this sexy, quirky & emotional stand-alone. You will laugh, you will cry and most of all, you will not be disappointed!
NOW AVAILABLE
Amazon US: http://amzn.to/1ydrcfX
Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/1w6SmWO
Kobo: http://bit.ly/1CclBe4
iTunes: http://bit.ly/1Fot4VL
"What lies beneath my veiled perfection is the ugly truth—my truth, my reality, my destiny."
Vivian Graham has an acceptance letter into Harvard, a badass tattoo, loyal friends, ties to marijuana, a penchant for Dunkin’ Donuts, and her pesky V-card.
Everyday she takes the Red Line to her job at The Green Pot in Boston while her friends enter the coveted, black iron gates to higher learning. The ramifications from a tragic accident have put her life on hold while time marches on for everyone around her.
After graduating from Harvard Law, Boston native, Oliver Konrad, moves to Portland to start his career and his life. Three years later, after a horrific discovery, he returns home to trade in his three-piece suit for leather work boots and his suburban home for a condo in Cambridge.
All he brought back to the East Coast was an aversion to pillows and secrets he keeps hidden behind a mysterious locked door. Oliver’s days are predictable and his nights are lonely until he meets Vivian on the subway. Her long raven hair, green eyes, and mile-long legs are achingly sexy, but the way she "innocently" fingers and licks her Boston Kreme doughnut can only be described in two words—complete torture.
When their paths cross at every turn, laughter is abundant, friendship is easy, and love is unintentional. However, their future seems improbable.
Rating:
I laughed, I cried, I loved it!Vivian is a beautiful, young woman living in Cambridge as she works and saves money before beginning Harvard in the fall. Her lovely exterior hides shyness and inexperience as she is haunted by a terrible accident in her teens. She is happy with the status quo as her life is full of satisfying work, good friends and a supportive family. A chance meeting on the train to work, however, begins her journey out of the past and makes her dream of things she never thought possible.
Oliver and Vivian meet when donuts and a moving train don’t mix. Instant attraction is the beginning of their relationship as they both cautiously grow closer while struggling to hide their personal demons. The story is fraught with mysterious clues, anger, laughter and love as they struggle to find their happily ever after amidst a wonderful supporting cast of friends and family.
I LOVED this five-star read! This is the first book I’ve read by this author and happily found it well-written, sexy and fun. At the same time the story was deeply emotional and revealed itself in layers as both Vivian and Oliver shared the secrets in their past in their own way and time. There were twists and turns and I was happily brought along for both the highs and lows. Secondary characters included friends and family who provided loving support and comical laughter through the ups and downs of their relationship. Until the last pages of the book I really couldn’t see which way the story would end – when it did I was happy with the outcome but sad that I would be leaving Oli and Vivian and their circle. I will be eagerly looking for more books by this author.
Copyright
2014
CHAPTER
ONE
Ivy League
Doughnuts
Vivian
Wake. Stretch.
Shower. Then navigate through the bustling morning crowd to the
subway via the corner coffee shop. A kaleidoscope of colors and the
inviting bittersweet aroma of America’s favorite pick-me-up dazzles
my senses.
No offense to Paul
Revere, but when I think of Boston and its exhausting list of
historical figures, William Rosenberg is the name that warms my chest
and tempts my tummy. It’s my firm belief that his inspiration and
influence in the business world fed my ambition to achieve the high
merits that earned my acceptance into a well-known university north
of the Charles River.
“Boston Kreme and
a medium Dunkaccino, please.”
I ignore the
piercing glances, rolling eyes, and subtle head shakes behind me.
Yes, at five foot eleven inches I can eat whatever I want and not
gain a pound. Long, wavy, ink black hair and green eyes, a runway
model on the outside. Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before. My
personal assessment of the reflection in my mirror includes the words
lanky, bony, witchy hair, monster eyes, and freaky freckles. A tiny
grin tugs at the corners of my mouth as I focus on my phone, moving
my thumbs over the screen with effortless strokes to send off a text.
Me: Up,
bitches? 2 hrs. to study then get your asses to work. The real world
awaits.
Judgments are
nothing more than presumptuous thoughts, flawed opinions at best.
What lies beneath my veiled “perfection” is the ugly truth––my
truth, my reality, my destiny. Though, for now, I grab my decadent
treats and sashay out the door with a wicked smile.
Two years after I
nailed the admissions interview, I have yet to see the inside of a
Harvard lecture hall, but it won’t be long now. Instead, I take the
Red Line at Harvard Square to Central Square every morning while my
two bitches enter the coveted black iron gates to “Grow In Wisdom.”
Since my hopes of love and marriage were snuffed out like a torch my
senior year of high school, I have my whole life to focus on becoming
a successful entrepreneur.
The air grows thick
and musty on my final descent to the subway. And then I see him, my
new visual indulgence. He first captured my attention a week ago. A
sky scraper among the diverse sea of heads bowed and drawn into their
handheld technological gods. But then again, when you’re my height
the bar for being considered tall is set pretty high. He must be at
least six foot four with lean muscles, short sandy blond hair, and
cornflower blue eyes. Sipping my Dunkaccino, I peek over the lid and
worm my way through the morning crowd, positioning myself to get on
the same car. Everyday he’s dressed in faded jeans, an old T-shirt,
and leather work boots. Maybe he’s married, or has a girlfriend,
but it doesn’t matter. My infatuation will go no further than
basking in his sexy aura and taking mental pictures to use for my own
pleasure.
The train screeches
to a stop and the whoosh of the hydraulic doors sets the crowd in
motion. Most mornings I find a seat opposite my rugged blue-collar
worker. We play a flirty game of peek-a-boo where I unabashedly stare
at him until he glances at me then diverts his shy eyes, taking a
deep swallow. I eat my Boston Kreme doughnut and sip my coffee
keeping my eyes fixed on him. Click,
click, click—I
take my mental pictures.
This morning,
however, the car is herded to capacity. I find myself next to him
with my drink in one hand and my doughnut in the other. As the rest
of the passengers cram in, I glance up and smile. He returns a
hesitant smile, and for the first time I can see his straight white
teeth and dimples. Holy
crap!
He has dimples. My heart rate increases exponentially as I lift my
doughnut toward my mouth. Dimples!
The doors fold shut and the train jerks forward before my legs have a
chance to balance and root into the floor.
“Oh shit! Oh my
gosh, I’m so sorry!” I’m drowning in horrid humiliation while
peeling my half-eaten doughnut off his gray T-shirt. I can’t look
at him.
Through my squinted
eyes, all I see is a smeared glob of chocolate frosting in the middle
of his shirt. Risking a glance, a grimace takes over my face while
meeting his raised brows, eyes darting back and forth between me and
his shirt. Depositing the doughnut back in the bag, I retrieve the
wad of napkins I shoved in my purse and begin to wipe his shirt like
a mother would do to a child. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t
move. My brain registers the faint giggles and snickers from a few of
the lucky commuters who have witnessed this embarrassing mishap. I
may have to start taking the bus from now on, or dress incognito so
I’m not recognized as the clumsy doughnut girl.
“It’s fine,” a
deep voice sounds. Long fingers encircle my wrist, halting my frantic
strokes. “It’s just a shirt.”
Biting my lips
together, I nod unable to make eye contact. He releases my wrist and
I shove the napkins into my bag.
“I, uh … I’m
just so, very clumsy … embarrassed, and uh, again … sorry.” I.
Will. Not. Move. I shall stay bowed in shame until I leap from the
train at the next opportunity.
“It’s really
okay, no need to feel bad.”
“Central
Square,”
the speaker sounds as the train’s piercing brakes pull to a halt.
My frantic dash to
the door threatens to take out a few unsuspecting passengers. I can’t
concern myself with that; sometimes casualties are unavoidable and
necessary.
“Is this your
stop?” Mr. Frosting Shirt says with a questioning tone, probably
because for the past week he’s gotten off the train before me.
It is today!
Without looking back
I nod and sprint off the subway.
#
Lucky for me, when
the white sign with the green planter’s pot becomes visible over
the hill, there isn’t a line of miffed people waiting under it to
get in the door.
“Maggie, I’m so
sorry,” I say with a genuine apologetic tone as I shove my bag
under the counter and tie on my green apron over my fitted T-shirt
and frayed denim shorts. “I had to take the bus and walk the last
mile.”
“Vivian, dear, why
are you apologizing? I told you to take the day off anyway.” Maggie
shakes her head while arranging the packs of seedlings into cardboard
flats.
I take over while
she rings the customer’s order up on the register. “I know, but
this is the busiest time of year and who knows if or when Alex and
Kai will show up to help.”
Maggie, proud owner
of The Green Pot nursery, originally started her business as a front
for growing marijuana. She’s not a law-breaking pothead, per say.
She’s a ten-year cervical cancer survivor.
“You don’t see
me looking too concerned do you?”
I laugh. Maggie has
saintly patience and I love working for her. The Green Pot has become
a legitimate greenhouse—one of the top suppliers for local
landscaping companies—but she still has a stash of wacky tabbacky
for those who don’t want to jump through the hoops to get it
legally. Her only request is that these VIP customers don’t all
come on the same day with their scarf and bandana wrapped heads
asking for the Brown Bag special.
“Chance should be
here soon if you want to go out back and double check to see if his
order is all there.”
Ah, Chance Konrad,
the horny green jack-of-all-trades owner of The Handy Hunk. Chance is
a real player and, in his eyes, I am the World Series of his playboy
game. For two years he has tried to sweep me off my feet and into his
bed. For two years I have rejected his often times outrageous efforts
to win my affection.
The familiar red
flatbed truck backs into the loading zone as I finish double checking
the order. “Vivian.” Chance’s velvety voice caresses my name as
he strips me with his usual lustful gaze.
I give him the eye
roll he’s come to expect while shaking my head. “Chance.”
I’m not naive
enough to think that he has been waiting in patient celibacy for me
to succumb to his advances. In fact, I can’t imagine him going a
single night without some gullible girl’s naked body wrapped around
his. Not that I too don’t find him physically appealing, but I’ve
resigned myself to believe that all my orgasms will be self-induced.
Chance is eye candy, another visual for my private moments. Click.
Click. Click.
“Hate to
disappoint you, I know how much you look forward to our sexy banter,
but my brother is working with me now so you’ll need to use a
little more discretion with your advances,” Chance says as he leans
against the back of his truck with his arms folded over his chest.
Uncontrolled
laughter erupts from my chest but halts in my throat, nearly choking
me, as the other door to the truck opens and a very tall guy steps
out with a chocolate stain stamped in the middle of his gray T-shirt.
Kill. Me. Now!
“Viv, this is my
brother Oliver. Don’t mind his shirt. Some chick on the subway
rammed into him with her doughnut.”
My eyes are so wide
I think they’re locked in this position. “That uh, really sucks.
She must have felt awful.”
“Yeah, what did
you say?” Chance looks at Oliver. “That she scurried off at the
next stop with her tail between her legs?” Chance laughs.
Oliver grimaces,
glancing at me. “I don’t think that’s exactly what I said.”
“Yeah, bro, it
was. You also said––”
“I’m sure she
gets the point!”
I nod and cross my
arms over my chest. “Oliver’s right. I get it. I can totally
imagine it. But I’m sure she didn’t run off with her
tail between her legs.
It was probably just her stop.” I give Oliver a tightlipped grin
and offer my hand. “Anyway, Vivian Graham, nice to meet you.”
Oliver stares at my
hand for a few moments then meets my eyes. “Nice to meet you,
Vivian.” We shake hands and my grip cinches to convey my unspoken
displeasure with his interpretation of what happened this morning.
“Mind if I use the
restroom before we load up and head out?” Chance asks, not waiting
for my response before he heads into the building.
Oliver and I divert
our gazes away from each other as an awkward silence closes in on us.
I glance at his shirt and an uncontrollable giggle bubbles up and
out.
“What are the
chances?” I laugh, shaking my head and meeting his gaze.
He grins and
chuckles.
“I really am
sorry. I’ll get you a new shirt.”
Wiping his hand over
the dried chocolate stain, he licks his lips and smiles so big his
dimples steal my attention. “Not necessary. It will probably come
out and if not, I’m quite certain I have at least twenty other old
T-shirts just like it.”
“Load ’em up!”
Chance emerges from the building as we slip on our work gloves and
start arranging the plants into the back of the truck.
When everything is
loaded and secured, Chance hops in the truck, starts the engine, and
rolls down the window. “Let’s go, Oliver, no need to flirt with
my girl. After two years of rejecting yours truly, I’m pretty sure
she’s a lesbian. And for some reason that makes my dick even
harder.”
Oliver closes his
eyes and shakes his head as I laugh. “Please excuse my vulgar
brother. He doesn’t have a delay button between his brain and
mouth.”
I wave a dismissive
hand. “I’ve been putting up with him for two years. His potty
mouth is the highlight of my lesbian day.”
Oliver furrows his
brow with a slow nod. “All right then, I guess I’ll see you
around.”
“Later, guys.” I
hand the order receipt to Oliver with a wink and walk away to check
on Maggie.
#
Oliver
“Now I know why
you’re taking on so many landscaping jobs instead of sticking to
mowing and home repair.” I flash Chance a knowing glance.
“She’s hot as
hell, isn’t she?” He grins, pulling out of the back parking lot.
I shake my head.
“It’s been two years. I think it’s safe to say she’s not
interested.”
He lifts his
shoulders. “She’s baiting me, slowly reeling me in.”
“She’s stamped
rejection on your head so many times you have brain damage and can no
longer see you make her skin crawl with your dick talking out of your
mouth.”
“She’s a nice
girl. We have a good thing going. Didn’t you notice how she
defended the doughnut chick from this morning?”
“Shit.” I laugh
and run my hands though my hair. “She is
the doughnut chick from this morning, dickhead.”
“What the hell are
you talking about?”
I roll down my
window and pull my Red Sox baseball cap on. “Vivian was the one on
the subway who fell into me with her doughnut. Thanks to you, now I
look like a real asshole because you had to run your mouth about the
whole tail between the legs comment.”
Chance laughs.
“Damn, you lucky son of a bitch! I should start taking the T. I’m
probably missing out on a huge untapped population of hot women.
They’re wasting their time bumping into you, the one guy who won’t
ever give them the time of day.”
I sigh. “You’re
right. I couldn’t care less.”
#
At the chance of
risking what’s left of my manhood to some philosophical bullshit, I
have to admit that digging in the dirt and being in the sun all day
is somewhat therapeutic. I can’t help but mentally pat myself on
the back for coming to that conclusion without the help of a
psychiatrist. Lord knows in an effort to save one hundred and forty
dollars an hour, I can ask myself how I’m feeling and why I think
I’m feeling it with less resentment than I felt from those damn
therapists in Portland.
We’re adding
raised-bed gardens to a hotel in the Seaport district so they can use
the fresh vegetables and herbs in their restaurant. Just one of a
million reasons I love this town.
“Wanna go out
tonight?” Chance asks while mixing the compost into the soil.
“Nope.”
“Tara is going to
bring her sister. We’re going to some new Italian place by the
wharf then to Mike’s for Cannoli.”
“Who’s Tara?”
I sit back on my heels and wipe the sweat from my brow with the
bottom of my chocolate-stained shirt.
“The girl I took
to Mom’s birthday dinner.”
“Not interested.”
“Oliver, you need
to get out.”
“You don’t know
what I need and I told you never to mention a fucking second of my
past!”
“Jeez, dude! I’m
not talking about your past. I’m talking about now!
Nothing more than dinner with a pretty woman. She just graduated from
MIT and she’s brilliant. A nerdy scholar like yourself. It’s okay
to let a nice piece of ass make your dick twitch every once in
awhile. Gives your hand a break.”
“Bite me!”
“Nobody says that
anymore, but whatever, your loss.”
I hate that he’s
right, but I’d rather gnaw off my own arm than admit it out loud.
“Sorry, Chance,
I’m just … shit, I’m just not ready. I’m not saying never,
just not now.”
He pats me on the
shoulder. “Don’t sweat it, Bro.”
With a deep sigh, I
close my eyes and try to shake the image of the one person who does
make my dick twitch. And when that fails, I decide to call it a day.
It doesn’t appear that my hand will be getting a rest anytime soon.
#
I’ve been back for
two months settling into my new life. I feel like a zombie most of
the time. Food lacks taste, I see the sun but I can’t feel it touch
my skin, comedy is void of humor, and the monotonous play of life in
all its muted colors doesn’t catch my eye. At least that was the
case until last week when I started working with my brother.
Living in Cambridge,
I take the Red Line to South Station. Every morning for the past
week, I’ve sat across from this long-legged woman with raven hair
falling in unruly waves around her slender shoulders and down her
back. Soft green eyes peek through sexy long lashes, casting a spell
on me, and I’ve found myself locked in a trance watching her eat
her cream filled doughnut with chocolate frosting. She makes a
complete mess of it, and by the time she’s done every guy in the
subway car is sporting a boner from watching her lick her full lips
and suck the sticky sweetness off her long fingers one at a time like
a fucking Dunkin’ Donuts porn movie.
So now the only
thing I smell is a mixture of coffee and doughnuts. I can taste sweet
cherry red lips that I will never kiss. It’s absurd I’m so
fucking enthralled with her just the thought of the subway elicits a
pathetic schmuck grin, and the vision of her lingers like a drunken
haze even when I close my eyes. But most disturbing is the part of my
body she awakens that I swore I’d never use again.
I’m so screwed.
Jewel E Ann
Jewel is a free-spirited romance junkie with a quirky sense of humor.
With 10 years of flossing lectures under her belt, she took early retirement from her dental hygiene career to stay home with her three awesome boys and manage the family business.
After her best friend of nearly 30 years suggested a few books from the Contemporary Romance genre, Jewel was hooked. Devouring two and three books a week but still craving more, she decided to practice sustainable reading, AKA writing.
When she’s not donning her cape and saving the planet one tree at a time, she enjoys yoga with friends, good food with family, rock climbing with her kids, watching How I Met Your Mother reruns, and of course…heart-wrenching, tear-jerking, panty-scorching novels.
GIVEAWAY
Win a signed paperback of Idle Bloom
a Rafflecopter giveaway
No comments:
Post a Comment