Loan sharks are circling, I’ve got my dad’s hospital bills to pay, and my landlord is about to kick me out onto the street. It’s all doom and gloom until my best friend, Jesse, tells me that she’s found me a job impersonating the famous hotel heiress, Tamara Honeywell.
I get to live on a ranch in Montana for a month and the money is sweet. The only snag is I’ll have to have my lips injected, and act like a spoilt, demanding, selfish brat. but, what the hell? Collagen is temporary, and I can act like the world’s most bitchy heiress for a month.
Until I see the jaw-droppingly handsome cowboy who comes to collect me. All flashing eyes, sun drenched skin, steely muscles…and spitting venom. Oops, he can’t stand talentless celebrities. Absolutely hates them. Damn, he looks like he wants to put me over his knee and spank me.
This should be interesting!
I notice a small smile on her lips before she tosses her hair like some goddamn horse and tilts her head. The minx pushes her sunglasses down her little nose and peers up at me with laughing blue eyes. Oh, man, I’m so fucked. How could these eyes belong to a vapid creature pairing all the sad dick hopping with alcohol and drugs?
“I figured a handsome cowboy like you wouldn’t mind carrying a few bags for little old me,” she says with a teasing lilt.
Fuck. Part of me wants to do it. Manipulative little bitch. I’m gonna need all my wits about me. “Lil’ old you had better get strong fast because you’ll be lifting things much heavier than those bags.”
She pushes her sunglasses so they lie on top of her head. “I have a secret to tell you,” she whispers with pouting lips. Tamara takes another step closer and stands on her tiptoes to speak into my ear. Her lips only come as far as the middle of my neck because of our height difference. Her breath fans over me and goosebumps run down my arms. Jesus, she smells like a slice of heaven.
“I’m not really a bitch,” she whispers. “I’m very sweet if you do what I want.”
Even the dust motes stop swirling. And for one crazy second, I experience the primitive urge to grab her sweet smelling soft body and kiss the hell out of that sexy, pouty, slutty mouth. My hands open into claws, ready to squeeze her flesh. Then sanity asserts itself. What the fuck am I thinking? This is Tamara Honeywell. STD-guaranteed-Tamara-Honeywell. Suddenly, I see the thick layer of greasepaint she has troweled on her face. The blazing heat must have affected me while waiting for her in the midday sun.
I take a giant step backward.
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The first romance novel I ever read was a coverless Mills & Boons that I had smuggled into bed to read by torchlight.
I opened the book, and suddenly, I was transported into a wonderfully exciting world where a tall, dark and handsome man sparred with an ordinary girl just like me, and in the end…she got to keep him!
My stories still carry the scent of that dashing hero from my first book, because, you see, that billionaire was my very first love. And I’ve never ever really forgotten him.
When I’m not reading, or writing about hot Alphas, or eating delicious cashew nut cookies, I can be found…washing dishes, gardening, cooking, cleaning, dusting, or even picking up dog poo.