Have you met Fluffy, Perky, Feisty, and Hasty, the four friends (sorta) who each get a second chance at love and life in the Do-Over Series?
If you haven’t yet enjoyed Feisty’s story, you can get the ebook and audiobook and save a bundle.
I’m not to proud to admit that finding Mr. Right involves swiping right. Right? Welcome to dating in avocado toastland.
Here I am, on my first blind date, ever, courtesy of a smartphone app and my two annoying best friends.
So what is Chris “Fletch” Fletcher doing, walking across the room, looking at his phone like he’s pattern matching a picture to find a real person he’s never met before?
Oh.
Oh, no.
The guy I drop-kicked in seventh grade cannot be my blind date. The guy who earned me this infernal nickname.
That’s right.
Feisty.
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More from New York Times bestselling author Julia Kent as Fiona “Feisty” Gaskill gets her chance at love – drop-kick included.
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“Why are you suddenly meddling in my life like you know me? Because you don’t,” I inform him, moving closer, one hand rising up, my index finger pointing as I assume a power stance that seems otherworldly. Some self inside me is coming to the forefront.
And she has something to say.
Two of the people at his table turn and look at us, then start whispering. Fletch’s eyes cut over.
“Can we talk in private?” he asks.
“Why? Afraid of being called out in public?”
“No, but you’re about to get a bunch of cellphones pulled out. You really want more recordings of you floating around on the internet?”
I spin on my heel and move to the hallway in what I think is the direction of the bathrooms. Paleo2Clean is new to me, but before this incarnation, it was a soup restaurant, and before that, a froyo place.
Yep. Guessed right. High chairs and bathrooms.
“Look, Fletch,” I say, grabbing his arm hard. “Until our reunion last year, I hadn’t seen you in forever. And when Mal and Will chose us both to be in their wedding, I wasn’t happy, but I plastered on a fake smile because that’s what you do when your friends are getting married and you used to hate one of the groomsmen.”
“Hate?” A smile tickles his lips, his amusement infuriating me more than any other response he could possibly have. “You,” he says, looking at my hand on his skin, taking a step closer into my space, “hate me?”
“No. I said I used to hate you. Before I worked on evolving and being a better human being.”
“How, exactly, have you done that?”
“By increasing my vibration.”
“You are a better person because you use vibrators?”
“Who said anything about sex toys?”
“You did. Just now.”
“No, I didn’t! I said vibrations!”
“What’s the difference?”
“Enlightenment!”
“Pretty sure enlightenment comes from enough orgasms, too, Fiona.”
An espresso machine hisses in the distance, cutting through the sound of our matched breath. He’s inches from me, heat pulsing off his rock-hard body, the close-fitting black cloth of his shirt rippling only because of curved muscle. My hand on his arm feels like heat itself, our bodies some sort of element that conducts energy on a wavelength science hasn’t discovered yet.
And I’m wet, wanting, and so, so confused.
“Why are you turning this conversation into a sex talk?” I finally choke out, pulling back as he leans in.
“You started it,” he replies, the smile fading, replaced by something intensely seductive. He bites his lower lip for a moment, looking at me. Then, in a whisper that makes me lean in to hear, he adds, “Maybe you wouldn’t hate me so much if I helped you with those vibrations.”
