Hooking Up, an all-new sexy and hilarious standalone by Helena Hunting Chapter Reveal!!
Coming November 7th!
Title: Hooking Up
Author: Helena Hunting
Publication Date: November 7th, 2017
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Synopsis
Amalie Whitfield is the picture of a blushing bride during her wedding reception–but for all the wrong reasons. Instead of proclaiming his undying love, her husband can be heard, by Amalie and their guests, getting off with someone else. She has every reason to freak out, and in a moment of insanity, she throws herself at the first hot-blooded male she sees. But he’s not interested in becoming her revenge screw.
Mortified and desperate to escape the post-wedding drama, Amalie decides to go on her honeymoon alone, only to find the man who rejected her also heading to the same tiny island for work. But this time he isn’t holding back. She should know better than to sleep with someone she knows, but she can’t seem to resist him.
They might agree that what happens on the island should stay on the island, but neither one can deny that their attraction is more than just physical.
Filled with hilariously scandalous situations and enough sexual chemistry to power an airplane from New York City to the South Pacific, Hooking Up is the next standalone, laugh-out-loud romantic comedy from Helena Hunting, the New York Times bestselling author of the Pucked series and Shacking Up.
Preorder Today!
Chapter One
Wedding Unbliss
Amie
This is the happiest day of my life. I allow that
thought to roll around in my head, trying to figure out why it doesn’t seem to
resonate the way it should. This should
be the happiest day of my life. So I’m not exactly certain why the uneasy
feeling I associate with cold feet is getting worse rather than dissipating.
I’ve already done the hard part; walked down the aisle and said “I do.”
My husband excused
himself to go to the bathroom several minutes ago and, based on Armstrong’s
itinerary for the day, speeches are supposed to begin promptly at eight-thirty.
According to my phone, that’s less than two minutes from now, and he’s not
here. The emcee for the evening is awaiting Armstrong’s return before he
begins. And then the real party can start. The one where we get to celebrate
our commitment to each other as partners for life. As in the rest of my
breathing days. Dear God, why does that make my stomach twist?
I sip my white wine.
Armstrong pointed out that red is not a good idea with my dress, even though
it’s my preference. Besides, I don’t want it to stain my teeth. That would make
for bad pictures.
I glance around the
hall and see my parents, who are probably celebrating the fact that I didn’t
walk down the aisle with a convicted felon. And frankly, so am I. My dating
history pre-Armstrong wasn’t fabulous.
The sheer number of
people in attendance spikes my anxiety. Speaking in front of all of these
people makes me want to drink more, which is a bad idea. Tipsy speeches could
lead to saying the wrong thing. I check my phone under the table again. It’s
after eight-thirty. The longer Armstrong takes to return, the further behind
we’ll get. The music playlist, devised by Armstrong with painstaking
efficiency, leaves no room for tardiness. If we don’t start on time I’ll have
to take out a song, or possibly two, to compensate for his delay and he’s
selected the order in such a way as to make that difficult and that will annoy
him. I just want today to be perfect. I want it to be reflective of my decision
to marry Armstrong. That I, Amalie Whitfield, can make good choices and am not
a disgrace to my family.
“Where the hell is
he?” I scan the room and take another small sip of my wine. I should switch to
water soon so I don’t end up drunk, especially later, when all of this is over
and we can celebrate our lifelong commitment to each other without clothes on.
I’m hopeful it will last more than five minutes.
Ruby, my maid of
honor and best friend for the past decade, puts a hand on my shoulder. “Would
you like Bancroft to find Armstrong?”
Bancroft, or Bane for
short, is Ruby’s boyfriend who she’s been living with for several months.
Recently I find myself getting a little jealous of how affectionate they still
are with each other, even after all this time. Cohabitation hasn’t slowed them
down on the sex or their PDA. I have hope that Armstrong and I will be more
like Bane and Ruby now that we’ll be sharing the same bed every night.
I’m about to tell
Ruby to give him another minute when a low buzz suddenly fills the hall. It
sounds like a school PA system. I start to panic—they can’t start the speeches
without Armstrong at my side. What’s the point of speeches if the groom isn’t
present?
I’m halfway out of my
seat, ready to tell the deejay, or whoever is behind the mic, he needs to wait,
when a very loud moan echoes through the room. The acoustics are phenomenal in
here, it’s why we chose this venue.
I glance at Ruby to
make sure I’m not hearing things. Her eyes are wide. The kind of wide
associated with shock. The same shock I’m feeling.
Another moan
reverberates through the sound system, followed by the words, “Oh, fuuuck.”
A collective gasp
ripples through the now-silent crowd. While the words themselves are scandalous
among these guests, it’s the voice groaning them that makes me sit up
straighter, and simultaneously consider hiding under the table.
“Fuck yeah. Ah, suck
it. That’s it. Deep throat it like a good little slut. Fuuuuuccckkkkk.”
My mouth drops and I
look to Ruby to ensure I have not completely lost my mind. “Is that—” I don’t
finish the sentence. I already know the answer to the question, so it’s
pointless to ask. Besides, I’m cut off by yet another loud groan. I clap a hand
over my mouth because I’m not sure I’m able to close it, my disbelief is as
vast as the ocean.
Ruby’s expression
mirrors mine, except hers is incredibly animated since she’s an actress. “Oh my
God. Is that Armstrong?” Her words are no more than a whisper, but they sound
very much like a scream. Oh no, wait, that’s just Armstrong on the verge of an
orgasm. But these sounds are nothing like the ones he makes when he’s in the
throes of passion with me.
I clutch Ruby’s hand.
The next sound that comes from him is a hybrid between a hyena laugh and a wolf
baying at the moon. And every guest at our wedding is hearing the same thing I
am. Our wedding. Someone other than
me is blowing my husband at my own wedding. My mortification knows no end.
I grab the closest bottle
of wine and dump the contents into my glass. Some of it sloshes over the edge
and onto the crisp white tablecloth. It doesn’t matter. There’s plenty more
where it came from. I chug the glass, then grab Ruby’s.
People lean in and
whisper to each other, eyes lift to the speakers. A few people, the ones who
are probably just here for the social-ladder-climbing potential, question who
it is.
“Is the deejay
watching porn?” That comment comes from a table full of mostly drunk singles in
their early twenties.
Several eyes shift my
way as I carelessly down Ruby’s wine and someone asks where the groom has
disappeared to.
The grunts and groans
grow terrifyingly louder. This is nothing
like what I’m used to in bed with Armstrong. The dirty words aren’t something
he ever uses with me, mostly it’s just noises and sometimes a “Right there” or
“I’m close,” but that’s about it. He’s never talked to me like he is to the
woman currently providing oral pleasure. And I’m very adept at oral. Although
with Armstrong it’s very polite, neat oral, with no sounds other than the
occasional hum. Slurping is uncivilized and a definite no-no.
I reach past Ruby for
the bottle of red since I don’t really give a flying fuck about purple teeth
right now. As I sink low in my seat I pour another glass of wine, surveying the
people in the ballroom from behind the cover of the centerpiece. The
centerpieces are huge and excessive and I don’t like them at all, but at least
provides a protective barrier between the guests and my disgust, which I’m
certain they must share. He sounds like a wild animal rutting. It is entirely
unsexy. I have no idea who he’s getting intimate with, but I’m suddenly very
glad it’s not me.
And doesn’t that tell
me more about our relationship than it should.
It’s only been about
thirty seconds—the most humiliating thirty seconds of my life—before Armstrong
comes. How do I know this? Because he says, very clearly, “Keep sucking, baby,
I’m coming.”
And “baby,” whoever
she is, makes these horrific gurgling noises. It sounds like some form of alien
communication. It’s way over the top, and apparently Armstrong is loving it,
based on the string of vile profanity that spews from his asshole mouth.
“Holy crap. Is this
for real? That was really fast,” Ruby mutters.
I guzzle my glass of
wine. Then decide the glass is unnecessary and take a long swig from the bottle
before Ruby snatches it away. Wine dribbles down my chin and onto my chest,
staining the white satin purple. My dress is ruined. I should be freaking out.
But I really don’t care.
“Come on,” Ruby tugs
on my hand. “We need to get you out of here while people are still distracted.”
My older brother
Pierce and the emcee are standing in the middle of the hall, gesturing wildly
to the speakers above us. My other brother, Lawson, is on his way toward the
podium in an attempt to do something. I don’t think there’s anything he can do
to stop this train wreck from there.
Ruby tugs again, but
I’m frozen, still trying to figure out what exactly just happened. Well, I know
what’s happened. I just can’t believe it.
The sound of a zipper
and the rustle of clothes follows. “Thanks for that, now I’ll be able to last
later tonight,” Armstrong says.
“What about me?” A
female asks. Her voice is nasally and whiny.
“What about you?”
“Well I helped you,
aren’t you going to help me?”
“Didn’t you come with
a date?”
“Well, yes, but—” God
her voice is familiar. I just can’t figure out where I know it from.
“My cousin, right? He
loves my sloppy seconds. Speeches are starting. I gotta get back to my ball and
chain.”
Gasps of horror
ripple through the room, followed by a few giggles. These people really are
assholes.
I think I’m going to
throw up. I can’t believe he’s going to come out here and pretend nothing just
happened. Like some other woman didn’t just have her lips around his cock. His
distinctly average cock. Maybe even slightly below average in length, if I’m
being one hundred percent honest.
A door opens and
closes.
Lawson turns on the
mic behind the podium and taps it, sending screeching feedback through the
room, making people cringe. Too bad no one did that a minute ago.
Murmuring grows
louder and glances flicker to the head table and then away as Brittany Thorton,
a seriously skanky debutante, comes strutting through the doors, using a compact
to check her lipstick. She’s made it her mission to attempt to get into the
pants of half the eligible men in this room. She’s followed, not five seconds
later, by a very smug-looking Armstrong.
“I’m going to kill
him.” I grab the closest steak knife, but it appears my hasty, and possibly
felonious, plan is unnecessary. My brothers leave their respective posts and
stalk toward him. Across the room my mother is gripping my father’s arm,
whispering furiously in his ear. Great. Just what I need, additional family
drama.
“Oh shit,” Ruby
gasps.
I follow her gaze to
find Bane converging on Armstrong with my brothers. Bancroft is a tank and he
used to play professional rugby. I’ve seen him with his shirt off, he’s built
like a superhero and he’ll probably crush Armstrong, or at least break
something. Possibly multiple somethings.
For a second I
consider that Ruby should probably stop Bane from destroying Armstrong’s
pretty, regal face, but then I realize I don’t actually care. In fact, the
possibility that he might break Armstrong’s perfectly straight nose fills me
with glee. Armstrong’s wellbeing is no longer my concern, it’s more about Bane
ending up in prison for murder.
“I hope Armstrong has
a good plastic surgeon, he’s going to need it once Bane is done with him.” Ruby
echoes my internal hopes and her chair tips as she jumps up. “Come on, let’s
get you out of here.” She nods to the right.
I notice my mother
and father engaged in a heated discussion with Armstrong’s parents. I really
don’t need this right now. Not the drama. Not the humiliation. All I wanted was
a nice wedding. Instead I end up with a husband who gets a blow job during our
reception—and it’s broadcast to everyone attending.
Ruby urges me into
action. “Don’t worry about them. Get your stuff and we’ll get you the hell out
of here. I’ll have the limo meet you by the entrance near your bridal suite as
soon as I can.”
I nod and stumble
unsteadily to my feet, thanks to having consumed the better part of a bottle of
wine in the last minute and a half. It’s amazing how ninety seconds can change
a person’s entire life.
All hell breaks loose
as more men jump in to either pummel or extract Armstrong from the pummeling. I
grab my clutch and phone from the table, gather up my stupid, too puffy gown,
and head for the bridal suite, where I had prepared for what was supposed to be
the most amazing day of my life. And now it’s likely the worst, at least I hope
the mortification level I’m experiencing can’t exceed this. I feel like the
foulest version of Cinderella ever.
I rush down the empty
hall and grab the doorknob as I fumble around in my clutch for the key. I’m
surprised when it turns. I thought I’d locked it before we left for the
ceremony. Regardless, I need to get away from everyone before I either lose it or
commit a felony. Maybe both. Murder in the first. Armstrong will be my victim.
And maybe that horrible skank, Brittany.
I thrust the door
open and slam it closed behind me, locking it from the inside. Tears threaten
to spill over and ruin my makeup. Not that it matters since there’s no way I’m
going out there again. I can’t believe my forever lasted less than twelve
hours. I can’t believe the man I’m supposed to spend the rest of my life loving
couldn’t be faithful to me for even one day. What the hell is wrong with me?
With him? I’m as devastated as I am angry and embarrassed. Once I annul this
farce of a marriage I’ll become a spinster. I should probably go ahead and
adopt six or seven cats tonight.
“I need to get out of
this dress,” I say to myself. I reach behind me and pull the bow at the base of
my spine. Instead of unfurling, it knots and I only succeed in pulling it
tighter. Of course my dress has to be difficult. I growl my annoyance and rush
over to my dressing table where my makeup and perfume are scattered from
earlier today. Half a mimosa sits unconsumed beside the vase of red roses
Armstrong had delivered.
The card read: I can’t wait to spend forever loving you.
What a load of
bullshit. I drain the contents of the champagne flute, not caring that the
drink is warm and flat. Then I throw the glass, because it feels good and the
sound of shattering crystal is satisfying. Next I heave the vase of roses,
which explodes impressively against the wall, splattering water and shards of
glass across the floor.
I yank out a couple
of the drawers and find a pair of scissors. They actually look more like
gardening shears and seem rather out of place, but I don’t question it. Instead
I reach behind me with my back to the mirror and awkwardly try to cut myself
free. It’s not easy with the way I have to crane my neck.
“Goddammit! I need to
get out of this stupid dress!” I yell at my reflection. I think I might
actually be losing it just a touch now. I stop messing around with the laces in
the back and shove the scissors down the front. I nearly nick myself with the
blade—they’re a lot sharper than I realized—but that doesn’t slow me down. I
start hacking my way through the bodice; layers of satin, lace, and intricate
beading sliced apart with every vicious snip.
I just want out of
this nightmare.
About the Author
NYT and USA Today bestselling author of PUCKED, Helena Hunting lives on the outskirts of Toronto with her incredibly tolerant family and two moderately intolerant cats. She's writes contemporary romance ranging from new adult angst to romantic sports comedy.
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