Title: Forked (Frenched Series Book #2)
Author: Melanie Harlow
Genre: NA, Contemporary Romance, Humor
Release Day: October 20, 2014
Twenty-eight year old Coco Thomas knows
the recipe for disaster:
1) Agree to plan last-minute engagement blowout for spoiled Mafia princess before you realize her choice of caterer is Nick Lupo, a despicably gorgeous young chef with a hot new restaurant in town, a reality TV show victory, and a romantic past with you—one that did not end well.
2) Strike a deal with Nick in which you agree to spend a weekend with him in exchange for his services, under the strict conditions there will be no talking about the past, no second chances, and definitely no sex.
3) Violate all three conditions within 24 hours and spend two glorious days remembering what made you fall for the sexy, egotistical bastard in the first place, and why it hurt so much when he broke your heart.
Add one road trip, plenty of good scotch, and endless spoonfuls of chocolate cake batter drizzled over your body and licked off inch by oh-my-God-yes-right-there inch, then just admit it.
You’re totally FORKED.
1) Agree to plan last-minute engagement blowout for spoiled Mafia princess before you realize her choice of caterer is Nick Lupo, a despicably gorgeous young chef with a hot new restaurant in town, a reality TV show victory, and a romantic past with you—one that did not end well.
2) Strike a deal with Nick in which you agree to spend a weekend with him in exchange for his services, under the strict conditions there will be no talking about the past, no second chances, and definitely no sex.
3) Violate all three conditions within 24 hours and spend two glorious days remembering what made you fall for the sexy, egotistical bastard in the first place, and why it hurt so much when he broke your heart.
Add one road trip, plenty of good scotch, and endless spoonfuls of chocolate cake batter drizzled over your body and licked off inch by oh-my-God-yes-right-there inch, then just admit it.
You’re totally FORKED.
“Spend
the weekend with me.”
I
shrank back. “Spend the weekend with you! Are you crazy? No!”
“Why
not?” he asked, like it would be perfectly normal to spend a weekend with
someone you hadn’t seen since he ditched you in the Bellagio bridal suite seven
years ago.
“Because
it’s ridiculous! I can’t even believe you’re asking me to…do that.” I gestured
wildly between us, totally hot and bothered.
“Do
what?”
“That.”
“I
just want to spend time with you,” he said, his face the picture of innocence.
“You’re the one who’s reading into it.”
I
dropped my hands in my lap and cocked my head. “Really. You ask me to spend the
weekend with you and you’re telling me you’re not thinking about sex?”
“Well,
now that you mention it—”
“I’m
not mentioning it. I’m vetoing it. Unequivocally.” I looked at the glasses on
our wooden tray, desperate to find some drop of alcohol we’d overlooked. The
absinthe was the only thing left, and even though it wasn’t my favorite, I took
a less-than-advisable sized swallow. And then another, grimacing as the alcohol
burned its way down my esophagus.
“What’s
the problem?” he asked.
“You.
Trying to get me in bed after all these years.”
“I’m
not trying to get you in bed, Coco. I mean, I wouldn’t kick you out of it, but
I was serious about wanting to spend time with you. Look.” He put his hands on
the tops of my legs and leaned into me, the bastard. “I know you don’t really
forgive me for leaving you in Vegas. And maybe you’re right—maybe getting
married so young was a dumb idea, maybe it would have failed anyway, but
leaving the way I did was wrong, and I’ve spent the last seven years feeling
horrible about it. We spent all that time together, and I don’t even know you
anymore. I’d like to know you again. As a human being. As a friend. That’s
all.”
It
was exactly what I’d been thinking earlier, but somehow it didn’t sound
plausible coming from him. “This would be a little more convincing if your
hands weren’t on my thighs.”
“But
I like your thighs.”
My
brain struggled to move beyond the feeling of his palms through the fabric of
my dress. I had the crazy feeling that if I lifted my skirt I’d see his
handprints burned into my skin. “Is this how you get to know all your female
friends? Invite them to move in for a weekend?”
“Not
all of them. Just the hot ones.”
“Funny.”
He still thinks I’m hot. Warmth flooded my veins. I was starting to get
that dangerous feeling, the one I get when I really, really want something, and
no matter how impractical the shoe or fattening the cheesecake or expensive the
scotch, I just can’t bring myself to walk away. How easy, how delightful
it would be to jump back into his bed. But then what? Could I trust myself not
to fall for him again?
About the Author:
Melanie
Harlow likes her martinis dry, her lipstick red, and her history with the
naughty bits left in. She lifts her glass to readers and writers from her home
near Detroit, MI.
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