Prologue
Hudson
There are some things that are better left unsaid.
Like the fact that I have a soft spot for romance novels. A few years ago it reached the point that I started narrating them as a side gig to my full-time job at my buddy’s bar, Line ‘Em Up.
That’s right, ladies. It’s my smooth and sultry tone you hear when you crack open that fresh audio book about some billionaire and his baby making ways. It’s my voice that slides into your ear canal like a well lubed erection.
Hmm, too far?
How about I’m the sexy, gravelly voice that adds the va-va-voom to those sensual scenes you love so much, saying all the right things in all the right ways to make hearts across the planet swoon. I’m practically a superhero. Call me Bat... er, Supervoice? No, how about Captain Aural, master of cunnilingus for your ear.
Another thing I have no intention of mentioning to my friends is that little side career was the first step into the world of romantic comedies written by yours truly. Usually with a billionaire or a grumpy hero thrown in for good measure, but never a best friend. I’ve even done alright with publishing them under a pen name, because people out there get me. They read my books and they laugh and cry and swoon.
But my friends will never know. Because the one thing that’s worse than your best friends ribbing you about being lazy is having them tease you about being pathetic.
I learned that lesson the hard way when I first started writing romance. There is no better joke than a fifteen-year-old boy who writes about love. There is nothing more pathetic than the guy whose own happy ending is so elusive that he settles for fiction.
I’d like to take a moment to add that I don’t believe eating, breathing, and living romance is ridiculous. I don’t care what your gender or sexual preference is, or if you have a favorite kink, or trope for that matter, I get you. We all need some romance in our lives and to escape for a while. We all deserve a little pleasure, or to experience love, even if it’s only in our imagination. Give me a second chance romance or an enemies to lovers story every day of the week and I am happy as a pig in mud. I’ll gladly come out of my manly closet and admit that.
It’s just I know the guys that I work with and if they ever found out that I’m such a dreamer that I write books about love I would never live it down.
And one more thing that I would never admit to anyone. Not even my best friends. I don’t want to only write romance. Recently I’ve watched two of my closest buds fall in love and commit to the women who make their lives better.
Callan has Hayley now. And a baby on the way. He’s still stoic, but he’s no longer a cranky jackass.
Fleetwood has Sadie. They got engaged a few weeks back and are already planning their wedding.
And I have... Vale. Don’t get me wrong, I love the guy. He’s my brother from another mother. Part of my family. It’s totally Bromancia with us two. But chilling on his couch, playing Xbox over a couple of beers and talking shit is not how I envision spending the rest of my life.
For one, he doesn’t have the tatas.
Or the ass. And I’m definitely an ass guy. There is something so juicy about a woman’s curvy hips and deep bass shape that calls to the Neanderthal in me. In the immortal words of Sir Mix-a-Lot... well, you know where I’m going with this... Vale doesn’t have the kind of buns that would make me give up the single life.
But I am tired of being single. I’m starting to think having someone special to come home to would be nice. I look at Callan and Hayley, or Fleetwood and Sadie, and I wish I had what they have. I’ve started daydreaming about having one girl to wrap my arms around night after night. One girl to tell all my deepest secrets. A girl with a baby bump and a ring on her finger and a smile that’s all for me.
She has your face, love. Your smile. Your eyes. Your laugh.
But I never did have a chance with you...
So I’ll send you a funny meme that reminds me of you or type out a text telling you how much I miss you, which I’ll never send. Then I’ll spend the rest of the afternoon playing video games with Vale. And I’ll pick up that blonde who flirts with me at the bar tonight and take her home for the night. And I won’t tell a soul about any of these thoughts and feelings in my head.
Not even you.
Chapter One
Hudson
Oh man, this is my jam. I pump up the volume on my phone up as one of my favorite nineties pop hits starts. I was six years old the first time I heard the Spice Girls and I am still in love with them to this day. I wiggle my shoulders along to the music as I walk toward Chicago’s train system, the L, to head to the bar where I work.
A woman in denim cut offs and a long, flowy open shirt over a singlet top touches her hair under the brim of her straw hat and smiles as we get close on the sidewalk. I sing along to the tune in my ear and stretch out my arms, palm forward, one after the other. Shake my fists back toward my shoulder, cross my heart, and shimmy my shoulders. When I wink as she passes she blushes and giggles.
If she’d stopped to talk to me I would have considered flirting with her, but she doesn’t so I bust a dance move in the other direction. It’s a beautiful day. My latest book is selling like hotcakes on the online retailers. Even the local indie bookstore a block from my apartment was out of stock. Well, except the one copy that the lovely Colleen puts away for me whenever a new J.J. Valentino book comes out.
She asked me once if I was the anonymous author. I refused to confirm or deny her suspicions and told her that J.J. Valentino gets me right in the feels. Which is true. I might not tell my friends about my secret career as a romance author, but there are people like Colleen and my readers out there in this big wide and beautiful world who understand my passion in a way my friends wouldn’t.
Not that my friends don’t appreciate me. They do. They have since college. I’m the Scary Spice to Cal’s Sporty, Fleetwood’s Posh, and Vale’s Ginger. The loud one. The Bro. The comedian. That’s me. Most of the time. What they don’t get is the stuff I don’t tell them. The parts of me that end up buried in the stories I’ve published as J.J. Valentino.
The song switches and I do a little spin on the pavement. “Hey, you. Hey, you. I don’t like your boyfriend. I could be your boyfriend.”
Okay, they’re obviously not the real words, but whatever. I’ve been singing my own version of this song since I was a skinny eleven-year-old who couldn’t pick up a chick on his best day. Trust me, I wasn’t born this perfect. A lot of effort went into becoming this spunkerific hunk over the years. Lots of protein. And throwing around beer barrels. The physical difference between stocking beer and drinking it is amazing too. That’s a nifty little hint I picked up throwing all night ragers in college.
I catch a glimpse of the platform as the song ends. It’s less than a five-minute wait for the train. There are teens in school uniforms huddled in groups of four or five like mini gangs. One of the heathens shakes up a spray can while he shares a cigarette with his buddy. I was doing dumb shit too at that age.
A mom with a pram tries to corral twin toddlers. Other parents stare longingly in the direction the train will come from while small people yank on their arms in an effort to explore. A few backpackers talk loudly in a language I’m almost certain is Swedish. Interspersed among them are the usual riff raff, those of us on our way home or to work or otherwise travelling around the city in our usual manner.