The Extra Myles
Melanie Munton
(A Southern Hearts Club Novella)
Publication date: December 21st 2021
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance
NOW HIRINGā¦ Fake boyfriend for 27-year-old desperate female. Must be able to deal with pretentious, New York City socialites. Attendance at family Christmas events required. Seasonal work only. Applicants not named Myles Colson need not apply.
The position has been filled. Granted, Myles is the only man in Blair McCauleyās life capable of looking her dragon mother in the eyes and not bursting into tears. Blair will need that steel whenever her mother helpfully reminds her over a glass of eggnog that a career is pointless when she could just marry rich. Thankfully, the barbecuing, beer swilling, football watching guyās guy doesnāt even sort of fit in with her flashy New York lifestyle.
Which is exactly the point.
Although Myles is a lot more than a former jock with a pension for frosted mugs and Sweatpants Sundays. He also happens to be a gifted artist, and Blair is helping him carve out his space in the art world. Lucky for her, sheās the only one who gets to see the man behind the pottery wheel. Sans shirt.
But when Blair and Myles both come to the realization that theyāve just been pretending at pretending, they never see whatās coming for them next.
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo
ā
EXCERPT:
Blair McCauley.
Every time sheās around, I get all antsy and excited for some reason. Like when my Clemson Tigers complete a sixty-three-yard pass and run it in for the touchdown to win the game.
I snicker.
Little Miss Blair here has probably never even watched a football game in her life.
The woman breezes into the back room with all the air of a European queen. And from what Iāve read, she practically is that up in NYC. Or at least, a princess. Either way, Blair McCauley is American royalty.
And I might as well be the guy who cleans horse shit out of her familyās stables.
āAre you ever going to fix that door?ā she asks in the exasperated tone I recognize.
She sounds that exact same level of annoyed every time she stumbles through my studio door that, even Iāll admit is a bitch to open.
Damn, but sheās beautiful.
Like, the breathtaking kind of beautiful. The kind of woman who deserves to have a sultry theme song play every time she enters a room. My favorite is when she gets all huffy like this. Blowing her Marilyn Monroe-styled blond hair off her forehead, planting her dainty hands and manicured nails on her slim hips, and cocking said hip out. The whole move pushes out her full, rounded breasts beneath her silk top, her tight skirt stretching across those svelte legs.
Stunning she may be, but the woman is also the prissiest, most high-maintenance, spoiled city girl Iāve ever met.
Expensive.
And I donāt do that type. Sure, Iāve fantasized about having this woman beneath meāa shameful number of timesābut I prefer my women to be a little more kickback. Someone whoās content to sit around with you on a Sunday afternoon in nothing but ratty sweatpants, watching football without complaint. A woman whoās okay with going out in public without makeup. Someone who doesnāt turn her nose up when I donāt wipe my mouth between each chicken wing and just wait until Iām done eating them altogether.
If Blair has never watched football, then sheās damn sure never eaten a chicken wing.
I donāt know jack shit about hair, makeup, or clothes, but I know that all of hers are top-of-the-line. The material of her blouse is high-quality. Every pair of shoes Iāve ever seen her in are high heels that you just know cost a small fortune. Her purses are all designer names Iāve at least heard ofāPrada, Burberry, Dolce & Gabbana. I even caught a glimpse of one of her lace bras one day when she bent over, a move that about gave me a fucking aneurysm, and I definitely know that item was high-priced.
No. Blair McCauley definitely isnāt my type.
I could never afford her. The best I could do is a hot night between the sheets because a manās bank account doesnāt matter then. When she saw my place in the daylight, thatās when she would surely saunter all the way back up to New York in her five-inch stiletto heels.
I lift an eyebrow. āWhy do you presume I know how to fix it?ā
She tilts her head to the side. āDonāt you work in a factory?ā
I would be pissed off by the question if I knew she didnāt mean it condescendingly. For all of Blairās quirks, sheās not a mean person. Perhaps a little naĆÆve at times, but not rude.
I lean back on my stool, crossing my arms over my chest. Her eyes briefly flick down to my biceps before quickly averting to stare at the wall.
Now thatās something.
In all the months Iāve known this woman, in all the phone calls made and trips from New York to Charleston sheās taken, I havenāt seen much in the way ofā¦awarenessā¦from her. At least, not in the sexual sense. God knows I think sheās hot as hell, in the not-so-much-as-a-hair-out-of-place kind of way. But if she felt any attraction toward me whatsoever, youād never know it.
āWe donāt produce doors at a steel manufacturing plant.ā
Her apple-shaped cheeks tinge pink. āI realize that. I just pegged you as a jack-of-all-trades type.ā
āBecause of the uniform? The dirt under the nails?ā
She frowns and somehow looks cuter like that. āNo. Because you donāt seem like the useless type.ā
My ears perk up at something in her voice. Something almostā¦self-deprecating. Has someone actually told her that sheās useless?
Why does that piss me the fuck off?
She bites her lip in uncertainty, as if afraid she said something wrong. āOr maybe, you know, you can just buy a new door or something? They have those at Home Depot stores, right? Iāve personally never been inside one, but I hear theyāve got them around here.ā
I chuckle because I think sheās being funny on purpose, but I canāt always tell with her. Itās almost as if she doesnāt recognize her own sense of humor and doesnāt understand why people might laugh at one of her jokes. Or sardonic quips. Either way, I aim to wipe that look of uncertainty off her face.
āNo, youāre right. I can fix the door. I just havenāt had the time lately.ā
Truthfully, I havenāt messed with the door because I like how it announces her entrance. And how it makes her angrily curse under her breath. And how sheās slightly out of sorts by the time she reaches me in the back room. I like seeing her hair falling across her forehead before she shoves it back into place. Like seeing the flush on her cheeks, rather than the porcelain doll look they usually have. In those brief seconds, I think Iām seeing the real Blair, rather than the polished, prim illusion she projects.
āI see.ā She smooths her hands down her skirt, pushing her shoulders back. āSo, how are the final pieces coming along?ā
I take another swig of my beer to avoid staring at her legs in those tights that I know have that fucking seam up the back. āFiring up now. Should have them done by tomorrow afternoon.ā
She excitedly starts tapping around on her phone. āExcellent. I can have them shipped up to New York before my flight back, and everything will still be on schedule for the exhibition on the twenty-ninth.ā
āYou donāt even want to look them over for approval before you ship them off?ā I question. āYouāre so sure these final pieces will be good?ā
She peeks up at me through long, lowered lashes. āNot necessary. Thereās no way I wonāt like them.ā
Scoutās honor, my dick turns to a full-blown erection at her compliment.
She actually likes my work.
Her eyes widen as her words finally sink in. āI-I mean, the others are all so fantastic, I doubt these will pale in comparison.ā
If sheās trying to backtrack her apparent admiration for my work, sheās doing a piss-poor job, at least from my perspective.
And now my dick is hard as a fucking icicle.
Granted, if you stuck an icicle in my pants right now, it would melt in about two and half seconds. Even in December, itās a scorcher down here in the South.
āThank you,ā I rasp, fighting to get all my bodily functions under control. āI hope they meet your expectations, then.ā
Her eyes stay on me for silent moments, baffling me. She never holds eye contact with me for this long. Itās like she makes a point not to.
āTrust me.ā Her voice is barely above a whisper. āTheyāll exceed them.ā
Author Bio:
Melanie grew up in the Midwest, but she loves living in the Southeast (where the beaches are!) now with her husband and daughter.
Melanie's other passion is traveling and seeing the world. With anthropology degrees under their belts, she and her husband have made it their goal in life to see as many archaeological sites around the world as possible.
She has a horrible food addiction to pasta and candy (not together...ew). And she gets sad when her wine rack is empty.
At the end of the day, she is a true romantic at heart. She loves writing the cheesy and corny of romantic comedies, and the sassy and sexy of suspense. She aims to make her readers swoon, laugh out loud, maybe sweat a little, and above all, fall in love.
Go visit Melanie's website and sign up for her newsletter to stay updated on release dates, teasers, and other details for all of her projects!
Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Twitter / Bookbub / Instagram
GIVEAWAY!
Hosted by:
