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THE DATING BY NUMBERS SERIES – Book 2
I don’t know what love is anymore.
Well, that’s not entirely true, but I’m going to tell you a little secret: I’ve lost the spark.
You know the kind of spark I’m talking about?
Where butterflies take flight in your stomach from two hands innocently colliding. Or catching your breath when you first meet someone attractive. Yeah, that spark.
Except I haven't felt that feeling in forever; there is nothing left inside of me.
Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem--but I’m a writer on a serious deadline, and my editor is breathing down my neck for a romantic, Nicholas Sparks type love story. No pressure, right?
That's how I find myself flying across the country to crash a wedding in the name of research, dress and heels stuffed into my small suitcase.
It should be the easiest book research ever. Drinking some free champagne, basking in the love of two strangers, and tapping into my romantic side. That will be a breeze. I'm a pro. I can handle this.
Until I mistakenly end up in the wrong hotel room, naked as the day I was born, with the sexiest human I have ever met staring me down, wondering what I'm doing taking a shower in his bathroom. I don't think calling it research will get me out of this pickle.
“What
brings you to Key West, Beck?”
I
feel like that’s a question I should have asked a while ago but with the whole
naked hotel room exposure—which I have yet to tell my friends about—and the
sweatshirt burial, we haven’t had a real chance to get to know each other. Not
that I’m complaining all too much. What I know about Beck so far is that he’s a
gentleman and likes to have a good time, even if that means torching a
sweatshirt and sending it on it’s way.
There
aren’t many people I know who would stand there, hand over heart, talking about
the thread count of a sweatshirt while fake crying.
The
corner of my lips pull up just from the image of Beck wiping “tears” from his
eyes with the back of his index finger.
“Do
you want the truth, or do you want a fabricated lie that will cause you to fall
madly in love with me?”
Chuckling,
I answer, “Both.”
“Fair
enough.” Beck pushes his foot against the sand below us, sending the hammock
into a relaxing swing. “Want the truth or the lie first?”
“Hmm,
how about I guess which is which.”
“Ah,
things are about to get exciting.” He chuckles and rubs his hands together.
“Okay, reason number one.” He clears his throat. “I’m attending a wedding this
coming weekend, a wedding I wasn’t invited to, but my friend begged me to
attend because he wanted to bone his wife without children around. It doesn’t
make sense, but hey, I’m a good friend so here I am.”
Errr,
that’s eerily familiar. I swallow a little harder than expected. There is no
way he’s crashing a wedding like me. That’s only something a desperate author does
in order to find signs of love again. “Okay, reason number two.”
“My
sister is getting married this weekend and I’m giving her away. Our dad passed
away a few years ago from a heart attack, and even though we’d been estranged
for two years, she asked if I would be a part of her wedding. So here I am.”
Silently
he swings us, my mind whirling with what the truth could be. Both stories were
told so effortlessly, so he’s either a really good liar, or some kind of con
artist. I should be scared. I should go to my hotel room right now, wishing
Beck a good night, but I don’t, because I’m intrigued by this man. Behind the
good looks and intelligence, there’s something beneath the surface, something
dark that makes understandable the age in his weathered eyes.
Because
of that, I go with option number two. It seems the most plausible, because who
really crashes weddings? Only crazed women with the tendency to sit in a bush
with a notepad and pen and take notes while staring at couples and listening in
on their conversations.
Research
and all, it comes at a high price, like spikey branches to the tush.
“Hmm,
I’m going to go with reason number two.”
He
nods and says, “I knew you were going to say that, but you’re pretty little
self is wrong. I don’t even have a sister.”
Stunned,
I prop myself up as best as I can on the loose woven thread of the hammock and
stare him down. “You’re here to crash someone’s wedding?”
He
winces. “Uh, yeah, kind of.”
“Unbelievable.”
I shake my head in disbelief and lie back down.
“Now
before you judge me and give me a lecture about RSVPing—”
“I’m
not judging you.” I turn toward Beck, the hammock making the shift slightly
difficult. “I’m just a little . . . surprised.”
“I
don’t plan on eating any food.” He bites his bottom lip. “That’s a lie. I plan
on eating a lot, but hey, I’ll bring the party to the dance floor. If anything,
I’m bringing them the gift of dance, so you can’t be mad at me for that.”
“I’m
not mad.” I laugh, still surprised. “I’m just trying to comprehend this.”
Looking him square in the eyes, I say, “I’m here crashing a wedding as well.”
This
causes Beck to sit up, his brawny chest straining the fabric of his shirt. He
intently studies me, his eyes flitting back and forth until he finally asks,
“You’re serious? You’re really crashing a wedding?”
I
press my lips together and nod.
A
sharp laugh escapes Beck as he lies down on the hammock and sends our swing
into more of a frenzied movement. “I’m just going to assume, given our luck of
baby puke, naked encounters—”
“I
knew you saw boobs.”
“I
didn’t see . . . ah hell, what’s the point? I totally saw your tits and fuck,
woman, they’re hot.” I blush . . . horrendously, my face heating up along with
every vein in my body. “But like I was saying, with our luck, we’re going to
the same wedding.”
Clearing
my throat, trying to move past the part where Beck just made my nipples harden
and pop out like turkey thermometers, I lamely say, “Yeah, that would be our
luck.”
“Let
me guess, wedding is on Saturday at The Hemingway House.”
Cue
another rush of heat to eclipse my body. “The one and only.”
He
nods and lies there silently for a second before saying, “So what you’re
telling me is that I have a date for the wedding Saturday night.”
Not
expecting him to say that, I laugh out loud and for some reason say, “I’m
wearing teal, in case you want to match and take couple pictures. You know,
might as well do the whole couple thing up, right?”
This
garners, a deep, low, rumble of a laugh from Beck. “Thank God I packed grey
pants with a white button-down. There won’t be any kind of clashing in those
couple photos.”
“Nope,
not even in the slightest.”
About the Author
Born in New York and raised in Southern California, Meghan has grown into a sassy, peanut butter eating, blonde haired swearing, animal hoarding lady. She is known to bust out and dance if "It's Raining Men" starts beating through the air and heaven forbid you get a margarita in her, protect your legs because they may be humped.
Once she started commuting for an hour and twenty minutes every day to work for three years, she began to have conversations play in her head, real life, deep male voices and dainty lady coos kind of conversations. Perturbed and confused, she decided to either see a therapist about the hot and steamy voices running through her head or start writing them down. She decided to go with the cheaper option and started writing... enter her first novel, Caught Looking.
Now you can find the spicy, most definitely on the border of lunacy, kind of crazy lady residing in Colorado with the love of her life and her five, furry four legged children, hiking a trail or hiding behind shelves at grocery stores, wondering what kind of lube the nervous stranger will bring home to his wife. Oh and she loves a good boob squeeze!
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