The City's HOTTEST Cold War!
Walk of Shame
Love Unexpectedly #4
Lauren Layne
Releasing April 18th, 2017
Loveswept
Sparks
fly between a misunderstood New York socialite and a cynical divorce lawyer in
this lively standalone rom-com from the USA Today bestselling
author of Blurred Lines and Love Story.
Pampered
heiress Georgianna Watkins has a party-girl image to maintain, but all the
shopping and clubbing is starting to feel a little bit hollow—and a whole lot
lonely. Though Georgie would never admit it, the highlights of her week are the
mornings when she comes home at the same time as her uptight, workaholic
neighbor is leaving to hit the gym and put in a long day at the office. Teasing
him is the most fun Georgie’s had in years—and the fuel for all her naughtiest
daydreams.
Celebrity
divorce attorney Andrew Mulroney doesn’t have much time for women, especially
spoiled tabloid princesses who spend more time on Page Six than at an actual
job. Although Georgie’s drop-dead gorgeous, she’s also everything Andrew
resents: the type of girl who inherited her penthouse instead of earning it.
But after Andrew caps one of their predawn sparring sessions with a surprise
kiss—a kiss that’s caught on camera—all of Manhattan is gossiping about whether
they’re a real couple. And nobody’s more surprised than Andrew to find that the
answer just might be yes.
And who is he, you ask?
Andrew Mulroney, Esquire.
I know this because we moved into
the building on the exact same day, and right before we got into a horrendous
fight over whose movers should have access to the building loading dock first,
he handed me his business card.
The thick white card stock
declared that he had a fancy law degree to go along with the fancy suit he was
wearing on a Saturday.
Andrew handed it over with such
superiority, I actually wished for a half second that I had a business card of
my own that would somehow be better than his. Like, lined with gold or
something. No, platinum. With a diamond in the corner. It would be
too heavy for him to hold, and he’d drop it, thus having to kneel at my feet to
pick it up.
But then I
realized it was just as well that I didn’t have a business card.
Because it would say . . . what? Georgie Watkins,
professional party girl?
Anyway, I digress. Despite the
high temps of that swampy July morning, the encounter had been the start of an
epic cold war.
Me, the socialite in apartment 86A
against the uptight esquire in apartment 79B.
I’m not entirely sure I’m winning
the war, but I’ll never tell him that.
I let my gaze drift over Andrew,
even though his appearance rarely holds any surprises. The man’s a lesson in
sameness, like some sort of anal-retentive version of Groundhog Day.
There’s always the black mug with
some healthy gunk inside held in his right hand, Tom Ford briefcase and Armani
garment bag in his left, containing what I know to be a perfectly tailored
three-piece suit.
Andrew’s coppery hair is perfectly
styled, although I’d swear that there’s some natural curl
in there threatening to disrupt his perfect order. I imagine that annoys him,
so it therefore makes me happy.
Let’s see, what else about my
nemesis?
He’s got a hard, unfriendly jawline
that’s perfectly shaven.
Dark brown eyes, cold and flat.
Black gym bag over one shoulder.
I suppose you
could say he changes up his attire, because he does alternate between black and
gray gym shirts. But considering that they seem to be the exact same fit,
both colors molding perfectly to his impressively sculpted upper body, we’re
not giving him any points for variety there.
Same goes for the lower half. The
black shorts worn in summer have given way to sleek black sweatpants now that
October’s upon us, but they’re both black and Nike, so we’ll give him no credit
for changing it up there either.
The shoes, though . . .
I do a double take.
Well, well, well . . .
Instead of the usual black gym
shoes, the man’s shoes are red. I don’t know how I missed it
before.
I drag my eyes back up his body
with a grin, and he gives just the slightest roll of his eyes to indicate that
he’s noticed my slow perusal and isn’t fazed in the least.
“You went shopping, Dorothy!” I
say happily.
He stares at me. “I don’t shop.”
Of course not. Far too frivolous.
“No, that makes sense,” I say,
pointing at his feet. “Glinda would have given these to you.”
Andrew looks down at his Rolex
watch. “I’ve got to go. Have a good day, Mr. Ramirez.”
“You too, Mr. Mulroney,” Ramon
says with a deferential nod. “Enjoy your workout.”
“Yes, do,” I say, turning and
watching as Andrew moves toward the front door of our building. “What’s on the
schedule today? Treadmill, or just skipping down the Yellow Brick Road?”
Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, doesn’t respond.
He doesn’t even turn before pushing through the revolving doors and stepping
out into the still-dark autumn morning.
Now come on. Tell me that wasn’t
at least a little
bit fun, despite the ungodly hour.
Lauren
Layne is the New York Times bestselling author of over a dozen
romantic comedies.
A former
e-commerce and web marketing manager from Seattle, Lauren relocated to New York
City in 2011 to pursue a full-time writing career.
She lives
in midtown Manhattan with her high-school sweetheart, where she writes smart
romantic comedies with just enough sexy-times to make your mother blush. In
LL's ideal world, every stiletto-wearing, Kate Spade wielding woman would carry
a Kindle stocked with Lauren Layne books.
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