The Date Game
Kate Canterbary, Carly Phillips
Kate Canterbary, Carly Phillips
My Worst Date - Carly Phillips
This isn’t my worst date … but then again I don’t have all that many. I wasn’t exactly your serial dater.
I met a guy in college back in 1984, my sophomore year in college. I wore flash dance off the shoulder tops, had big hair (okay that hasn’t changed too much), and I had finally agreed to date him despite his reputation (he and his friends could scare any good girl off – and I was a good girl. Make that GOOD girl.) Date day? February 14th …
The weekend before I flew to Florida to visit my parents. My bright idea? Get tan before the big date. The end result? I looked awesome. Until that tan started to peel. Then crack. And I do mean crack since it was hard to actually talk. I kept moisturizing and praying … it wasn’t pretty (although he never said a word) … and in the end we were going out as a real couple.
End result? I married him. 25 years this past July. He’s my best friend and my rock so I guess things work out the way they were meant to be!
About Carly Phillips:
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Carly Phillips N.Y. Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Carly Phillips has written over 40 sexy contemporary romance novels that today's readers identify with and enjoy. After a successful 15 year career with various New York publishing houses, Carly is making the leap to Indie author, with the goal of giving her readers more books at a faster pace at a better price. Her Serendipity books will still finish up in January/February 2014 via Berkley as planned. Carly lives in Purchase, NY with her family, two nearly adult daughters and two crazy dogs who star on her Facebook Fan Page and website. She's a writer, a knitter of sorts, a wife, and a mom. In addition, she's a Twitter and Internet junkie and is always around to interact with her readers. You can find all information about Carly at her website and other social media sites:
My Worst Date…from Shannon Walsh – The Walsh Series by Kate Canterbary
My worst date? Ha. That's a good one. These days, it seems like each date is orders of magnitude worse than the one before it.
There was the guy who arrived with scrambled egg all over his shirt and tie. He claimed he'd been running late that morning, and couldn't change. It didn't bother him that he looked like he'd lived through a food fight. I walked away from that harbinger of horrors after one drink.
There was the married guy who failed to mention his nuptial situation until his phone vibrated across the table and the name on his screen read 'WIFE.' I stared at the pretty brunette's photo for a moment before wishing him luck with spineless infidelity.
There was the urban farmer who was definitely growing and selling weed to keep his baby kale business going. I gave him my defense attorney friend's business card, and told him to call when he was arrested.
There was the little boy who added at least ten years to the age on his online dating profile and didn't appear capable of sprouting facial hair if his life depended on it. He was dressed for a frat party, and smelled like he'd bathed in Axe body spray and then rolled around the subway platform after a Red Sox game. He ordered a green apple martini, and I silently prayed for the apocalypse when he was carded but couldn't locate his ID.
There was the rich homeless dude. Apparently, he determined that he spent the vast majority of his time traveling for work as a venture capitalist, and didn't like wasting money on an apartment. When he hasn't on the road, he hopped between his friends' apartments. Oh, and the beds of women he casually screwed. Once I determined he didn't have a place to stay that weekend, I asked him to delete my number.
But I keep at it. One Manolo in front of the other.
Kate Canterbary doesn't have it all figured out, but this is what she knows for sure: spicy-ass salsa and tequila solve most problems, living on the ocean--Pacific or Atlantic--is the closest place to perfection, and writing smart, smutty stories is a better than any amount of chocolate. She started out reporting for an indie arts and entertainment newspaper back when people still read newspapers, and she has been writing and surreptitiously interviewing people--be careful sitting down next to her on an airplane--ever since. Kate lives on the water in New England with Mr. Canterbary and the Little Baby Canterbary, and when she isn't writing sexy architects, she's scheduling her days around the region's best food trucks.
Underneath It All
Underneath It All - The Walsh Series #1
If I had known I'd have a hot architect balls deep inside of me before the end of the weekend, I'd have made time for a pedicure. Also, a little chat about not losing my shit at all the wrong moments.
Hindsight was a bitch, and karma…well, I didn't know her story yet.
Meet Lauren Halsted.
It's all the little things—the action plans, the long-kept promises—that started falling apart when my life slipped into controlled chaos.
After I fell ass-over-elbow into Matthew Walsh's arms.
I couldn't decide whether I wanted to run screaming or rip his pants off, and most days I wanted a little of both. If I was being honest with myself, it was rip his pants off, ride him like a workhorse, and then run screaming.
Meet Matthew Walsh.
A rebellious streak ran through Lauren Halsted. It was fierce and unrelentingly beautiful, and woven through too many good girl layers to count, and she wasn't letting anyone tell her what to do.
Unless, of course, she was naked.
She wasn't looking for me and I sure as shit wasn't looking for her, but we found each other anyway and now we were locked in a battle of wills, waiting for the other to blink.
Sometimes the universe conspires to bring people together. Other times, it throws them down a flight of stairs and leaves them in a bruised and bloodied heap.
The Space Between
The Space Between - The Walsh Series #2
Some lines are meant to be crossed.
That fucking hair.
It was everywhere, always, and I wanted to tangle my fingers in those dark curls and pull.
And that would be fine if she wasn't my apprentice.
Andy Asani was nothing like I expected. She was exotic and scary-brilliant, and the slightest murmur from those lips sent hot, hungry lust swirling through my veins. Outside my siblings, she was the only person I could name who shared my obsession with preserving Boston's crumbling buildings.
My wants were few: good eats, tall boots, sweaty yoga, interesting work. One incredibly hot architect with the most expressive hazel eyes I ever encountered and entirely too much talent in and out of the bedroom wasn't part of the original plan. Apparently he was part of the package.
Wine was my rabbi and vodka was my therapist, and I needed plenty of both to survive my apprenticeship. Especially with Patrick Walsh leaving love notes in the form of bite marks all over my body.
*This is the second book in The Walshes Series, though it reads as a stand-alone novel.