Walk of Shame
Love Unexpectedly, #4
by Lauren Layne
Releasing April 18th 2017
Loveswept
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.
Exclusive
Georgie
Tuesday
morning
Let’s talk about five a.m. for a second.
Also known as the worst hour of the day, am I right?
Here’s why:
If you’re awake to see five in the freaking morning, it means one of a few things, all of
them heinous.
Scenario one: You’re on your way to the
airport for an early morning flight. Heinous.
Scenario two: You’ve been out all night,
and now your vodka buzz is fading, and you’re just sober enough to realize that
the rest of your day will likely involve Excedrin, carbs, and indoor voices. Heinous.
Scenario three: You’ve got a crap-ton on
your mind, and you’re lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, hating your
life. Maybe hating yourself a little bit, I dunno, who am I to judge? Heinous.
Now brace yourself, because scenario four
is the most heinous of them all: You’re awake at five a.m. because you’re an uptight prick whose
schedule is even more rigid than your posture, and your life is an endless
string of working out, the corner office, repeat. You’re also likely the type of person
who subsists on protein shakes and kale smoothies, and you have been known to
utter the phrase the body is a temple, thus solidifying what we already knew
about you.
You have no friends.
But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself.
See, it’s five a.m., and I, Georgie Watkins, am . .
. kind of excited about it.
I know. I know. Four months ago I’d have bet my
favorite vintage Chanel bag that there was exactly zero chance
I’d actually look forward to the ghoulish hour of five in the morning.
And yet here we are.
I guess you could say there’s a scenario
five on reasons to be up this early.
“Good morning, Ramon,” I sing, pushing
through the revolving doors of the luxury high-rise on 56th and Park, the place
I call home.
The concierge/security guard/all-around
good guy glances up and gives me a friendly smile. “Ms. Watkins. Good morning.”
Usually the massive front desk is a
bustling, busy affair. Starting at around seven, an army of well-dressed
concierges will be smoothly facilitating the needs of impatient residents, as
tiny dogs let out sharp, high-pitched barks of greeting from their Louis
Vuitton carriers.
But that’s later.
Right now, the luxurious lobby is mostly
silent, with just the lone overnight guy working the front desk, holding down
the fort until the day guys arrive to handle the morning crush.
My new Tory Burch clutch tucked into my
armpit, I hold up the box in my hands and waggle my eyebrows. “Brought you
something.”
Ramon’s smile grows wider, brown eyes
lighting. “My wife says you’re going to make me fat.”
“Tell Marta that the dad bod is totally in style right now,” I say, setting
the box of donuts on the counter and lifting the lid. “Unless, of course, you
don’t want a maple bacon donut?”
Ramon is already reaching inside the box,
shaking his head in reverence as he lifts the sugary treat. “Still warm.”
“Well, technically the shop doesn’t open until five, but
I’m such a loyal customer, they let me in a bit early,” I say, surveying the
array of donuts and trying to decide if I’m in a chocolate kind of mood or if I
want to risk the powdered sugar one.
Since my Alexander McQueen minidress is
black (the archnemesis of powdered sugar), I reach for the chocolate as I set
my clutch on the counter and fish out my phone: 4:58 a.m.
Two
more minutes.
“How’s Marta dealing with the pregnancy of
baby number three?” I ask, taking a bite of the donut and shifting attention
back to Ramon, who’s already polished off his donut and is contemplating a
second. I nudge the box toward him.
“She’s good,” he says. “Excited that we’re
finally having a girl.”
“A girl!” I say, reaching across the
counter and squeezing his massive forearm. “Congratulations, I hadn’t heard!”
“Just found out yesterday,” he says with a
happy smile, apparently deciding that the occasion calls for another donut.
“Oh my gosh, I have the perfect baby gift,” I say, nibbling at a piece
of my donut. “I saw this adorable Burberry onesie in Bergdorf’s the other day,
with this precious little red bow—”
“Yes, because that’s what every infant
needs,” a low voice interrupts. “A four-hundred-dollar piece of fabric that
needs to be dry-cleaned. Don’t be ridiculous, Georgiana.”
I don’t have to look at my clock to know what
time it is.
Five o’clock.
On the dot.
Not even bothering to turn around, I roll
my eyes as my red nails tear off another piece of donut and pop it into my
mouth. “Ramon, do you think you could talk to maintenance about adjusting the
temp? It just got a little cold in here.”
Ramon’s been working here long enough to
know my request isn’t for real. He’s not even paying attention to me. He’s
already set his donut aside and has straightened up, practically saluting the
newcomer.
“Mr. Mulroney. Good morning, sir.”
“Mr. Ramirez.” The voice is low and
serious, a touch impatient, although not quite rude.
You know that adage that you catch more
flies with honey? I’m not so sure it’s true. I bring donuts to the front desk
guys just about every morning, and they adore me. I know they do.
But they respect him.
Giving in to the inevitable, I finally let
my eyes flick to the side, my gaze colliding with a stern brown scowl.
I put on my widest, sparkliest smile, only
because I know it drives him crazy.
As always, I see a muscle in his jaw twitch
as I flutter my eyelashes.
“Good morning, Andrew,” I say sweetly.
“Georgiana.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Only my
late grandmother has ever called me that, and I’m pretty sure that’s because I
was her namesake. Everyone else calls me Georgie. Well, okay, not everyone. Ramon and the other guys
still insist on calling me Ms. Watkins, but I’m working on it. See: daily
donuts.
I smile wider and push the box in Andrew’s
direction. “Donut?”
His lip curls. In case you haven’t already
gotten a read on this guy, he’s the type that sneers at donuts.
He lifts a boring black travel mug.
“Already have my breakfast.”
“Blended-up quinoa sprinkled with a few
bits of spinach and pretension?” I ask.
“Whey powder protein shake.”
“Sounds immensely satisfying.”
He takes a sip of the nastiness and watches
me with cold brown eyes. “The body is a temple, Georgiana.”
There
it is.
Full circle to my above commentary about
what sort of people are up and about at five a.m.
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.
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Author Info
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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