Out Now—FEISTY
(Do-Over Series Book 3) by Julia Kent (@jkentauthor) #romance #romcom
#contemporary
Release date: January 28,
2020
Genre: Romantic Comedy, Contemporary Romance
Cover Designer: Hang Le
Editor: Elisa Reed
Audiobook narrator: Erin Mallon
Description:
AN ALL-NEW STANDALONE FROM NEW YORK TIMES
BESTSELLING AUTHOR JULIA KENT
I’m
not too 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.
—
More from New York Times bestselling author Julia Kent as Fiona “Feisty” Gaskill gets her chance at love - drop-kick included.
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.
—
More from New York Times bestselling author Julia Kent as Fiona “Feisty” Gaskill gets her chance at love - drop-kick included.
Other Standalone Books in the
Series:
Little Miss Perfect: https://www.prosaicpress.com/jkentauthor/free-ebooks/
Buy links:
Amazon
(all countries): https://geni.us/AMZFeistyJK
Google
Play: https://geni.us/FeistyGP
Kobo:
http://bit.ly/2K2d5pF
BN/Nook:
http://bit.ly/2Gqg769
Apple
Books: https://geni.us/AppFeisty
BookBub: http://bit.ly/2qrOULi
Goodreads: https://geni.us/feistygr
Goodreads: https://geni.us/feistygr
Audiobook narrated by Erin
Mallon:
Audible: https://geni.us/FeistyAud
Amazon Audio: https://geni.us/FeistyAMZAud
iTunes: Coming Soon
Excerpts (PLEASE
CHOOSE ONLY ONE TO USE WITH YOUR POST):
Excerpt 1:
“Fletch?” I gasp as
Perky smiles and walks away, abandoning me in my time of need.
“Hey, Fiona. What're you
doing here?” He looks down at my drink. “Nice penis.”
“Excuse me?”
He points to my chai
latte. “Perky did a good job. I was in here last week and she made some
beautiful flower patterns on my latte.” He frowns, then his eyebrows shoot up.
“Hold on. Those weren't flowers, were they?”
I laugh.
“Wow. And they seemed
so... detailed. And gorgeous.”
My sides are splitting.
“Please... stop...
flowers...” I gasp.
“That latte did give me
a sudden desire to go to a Georgia O'Keeffe show, though.”
I rush to take a sip of
my chai latte and make the penis go away. Fletch watches me, mouth spreading
into a wider grin, his green eyes shining as he crosses his arms over his
chest.
It's only then that I
realize he's wearing real clothes. A crisp, light purple dress shirt, open at
the neck, tucked into khahis. He has actual leather shoes – and not for weight lifting
or cross-training – on his feet. His hair is styled but not sticky, and he has
a close, clean shave.
His aftershave is
divine.
“You're not in workout
gear. Or a paramedic's uniform,” I say as I blot the foam on the tip of my
nose, wondering if it's ruined my makeup.
“And you look lovely
tonight. A little overdressed for a Beanerino latte with Perky,” he says,
waving to her from across the room as she swings a hand towel in the air like
she's a date-night air traffic controller.
“I have a date.”
“So do I.”
“You don't have a man
bun, do you?”
He looks down at his
crotch. “Is that like camel toe for guys?”
-----
Excerpt 2:
My lungs have decided
that the world is too dangerous to make a move, utter a sound, do anything. I'm
frozen, the pulse inside me growing stronger as time ticks away. My own shut-down
system is the barrier to oxygen. The disconnect between what my body needs and
what my tattered psyche can handle is causing my overload to leak out in a
really obvious way.
“Fiona?” Josh says,
shaking me gently, Michelle looking to him for certainty.
And then suddenly, Josh
is out of my sight, replaced by two clear, calm, green eyes, light brown hair,
and hands that feel like anchors.
“Feisty? Feis–Fiona?”
Fletch corrects. The sudden pivot to using my proper name is jarring, given the
fact that every atom in the world is buzzing inside my ears and nothing anyone
does will help me to breathe.
I make a strange sound.
I know it's strange because his eyebrows turn down in the middle, his facial muscles
pushing them low enough to show concern.
Concern for me.
“Breathe,” he says
slowly as he puts one hand on my diaphragm, fingers warm and firm.
I make a sound to
indicate that I am confused and the speech centers in my brain have shut down.
Empathy floods me as I realize this is exactly what my student with severe
apraxia, little Myles, must feel like when he loses his words under extreme
stress. For years, I've said “use your words” to four-year-olds having anxiety
fits.
Never again.
“Breathe, Fiona,” he
murmurs, taking a deep breath to demonstrate, his belly expanding in a comical
way, though I know his technique is strong. Hypnotic and commanding, his voice
and body tell me what to do, guide me back from being lost in the woods to a
cleared trail where I can find my footing, take a rest, and possibly feel safe
again, knowing I can find my way home.
I inhale, the insides of
my nostrils cold, the air hitting my nasal passages a welcome assault,
diaphragm spasming and sputtering back to life.
“That's my girl,” he
whispers against the curl of my ear, his breath like coffee, his hard forearm
muscles all I can see, the ripped cord of his strong lines drawing my gaze.
“You just breathe. It's over now. You did it. You saved them. It's okay to
breathe.” He inhales, then slowly exhales. “Let's do this together now.”
----
Excerpt 3:
“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.”
---
Excerpt 4:
I charge Fletch,
channeling it all, giving him what he's asking for.
He moves as I plow into
the bag, my body still unable to attack him directly, his hands on my waist as
I spin. Dropping to the ground, I use my lower position to twist out of his
grasp, leg cocked and ready, but he's fast.
So fast.
Sweat sprouts all over
my body like someone's misting me, the sudden crush of hormones, heat, and the
pounding physicality of what we're doing making me wet.
In more ways than one.
I'm a mixture of
revulsion and arousal, hating myself for feeling this way as his arms encircle
me, my mind split between re-igniting the terror of the preschool attack and
the very real, visceral feel of Fletch's skin against mine, welcoming the
rutting, animal-like push of his slick thigh muscles against my arm as I fight
him, working to pin him.
Failing miserably.
By the time we're done,
this scrimmage is a joke, his body pressing me into the ground, arms immovable,
my breath heating his nose as he looks down on me with a grin.
And then that fades.
Replaced by the unfiltered
expression of a man who is falling. Falling, falling, falling into me.
Like time itself has
collapsed.
And the sheer force of
attraction is how we propel ourselves forward.
“This is great!” Michael
shouts from the sidelines, the click click click of his shutter breaking the
silence, Fletch's hips digging into mine, his hardness making it clear how he
feels about me.
He doesn't move. My
wrists are pressed into the mat, my hair tugging at the roots, caught under my
shoulder blades.
“See?” he whispers in
the space between us. “Not happening again. You kicked my ass in seventh grade.
But we're not tweens now, are we?”
As he says the words, my
nipples harden, a yearning in the form of flesh centering between my legs. All
I want to do right now is wrap my ankles around his waist and be screwed four
ways to Sunday.
If that's even really a
thing.
“No,” I gasp, fighting
and failing to be freed. “We're not. And if we're not, then what are we?”
“You tell me, Fiona.
What are we?”
All the oxygen in the
room rushes out. I'm left in space, floating, aimless and without anchor.
Jolene was wrong.
So wrong.
Space isn't my friend.
It's my enemy. It's where everything safe becomes dangerous.
Where Fletch becomes the
good guy.
The hot guy.
The I-need-him-in-me
guy.
And where it's all
caught on camera.
Because this journey
started there, with Rico and cameras and people watching me because they can.
As Michael shoots photos
and dictates angles, all I feel is Fletch's rum-THUM-rum-THUM beat, his heart
against mine, telling me stories that go back seventeen years.
Before my heart wall had
turrets. Before my heart wall had defenses and gun mounts and cannons.
Before I had a wall
around my heart at all.
The kiss comes,
unexpected but oh, so right. Fletch's mouth is inevitable, lips on mine like
fate herself stepped into the frame and ordered us to do this. Logically, it
makes no sense, but emotionally, it’s what the universe dictates, the kiss
aligning so many layers of my being that it's almost painful how perfect this
is.
His hands loosen at my
wrists, one threading its way through my hair, tugging just enough to break the
sensuality of this moment, but also brutal enough to make my hips rise up and
beg for more. His tongue is exploring me like no good guy should, nothing but
bad and filthy and raunchy and a promise of slick, hot, no-holds-barred sex if
I just let him in, just let him try, just let him–
Just plain old let him.
But first, I have to let
myself.
Author Bio:
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Julia Kent
writes romantic comedy with an edge. Since 2013, she has sold more than 2 million
books, with 4 New York Times bestsellers and more than 19 appearances on the
USA Today bestseller list. Her books have been translated into French and
German, with more titles releasing in 2020 and beyond.
From billionaires to BBWs to new adult rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every contemporary romance she writes. Unlike Shannon from Shopping for a Billionaire, she did not meet her husband after dropping her phone in a men's room toilet (and he isn't a billionaire she met in a romantic comedy).
She lives in New England with her husband and three children where she is the only person in the household with the gene required to change empty toilet paper rolls.
From billionaires to BBWs to new adult rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every contemporary romance she writes. Unlike Shannon from Shopping for a Billionaire, she did not meet her husband after dropping her phone in a men's room toilet (and he isn't a billionaire she met in a romantic comedy).
She lives in New England with her husband and three children where she is the only person in the household with the gene required to change empty toilet paper rolls.
Social Media Links:
Website: http://jkentauthor.com/
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Amazon
Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/Julia-Kent/e/B00A99V268/
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