All About the D
Page 1
Table of Contents
Epilogue
Title
Copyright
About the Book
To Our Readers
Dedication
Epigraph
Evie
Josh
Shameless by Lex Martin
Shameless excerpt
Other Books By Lex Martin
The Sun and the Moon by Leslie McAdam
The Sun and the Moon excerpt
Other Books By Leslie McAdam
Acknowledgments
Contact
ALL ABOUT THE D
Lex Martin
Leslie McAdam
Contents
Title
Copyright
About the Book
To Our Readers
Dedication
Epigraph
1. Evie
2. Josh
3. Evie
4. Josh
5. Evie
6. Josh
7. Evie
8. Josh
9. Evie
10. Evie
11. Josh
12. Evie
13. Josh
14. Evie
15. Josh
16. Evie
17. Evie
18. Josh
19. Josh
20. Evie
21. Josh
22. Josh
23. Evie
24. Josh
25. Evie
26. Evie
27. Josh
28. Evie
29. Josh
30. Evie
31. Josh
32. Evie
33. Josh
34. Evie
35. Josh
36. Evie
37. Josh
Epilogue
To Our Readers
Shameless by Lex Martin
Shameless excerpt
Other Books By Lex Martin
The Sun and the Moon by Leslie McAdam
The Sun and the Moon excerpt
Other Books By Leslie McAdam
Acknowledgments
Contact
Copyright
All About the D © 2017 Lex Martin and Leslie McAdam
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced or transmitted in any capacity without written permission by the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This adult contemporary romance is recommended for readers 18+ due to mature content.
Copy editing by RJ Locksley
Proofreading by Amanda Maria and Jerica MacMillan
Cover by Najla Qamber Designs
Front Cover Photograph of Mitchell Wick by Wong Sim
Back Cover Photograph by Scott Hoover
Paperback formatting by Pink Ink Designs
May 2017 Edition
ISBN 978-0-9915534-9-5
About the Book
I'm known for being formal. Meticulous. Professional.
So you’d never suspect I spend my nights photographing my impressive junk for a NSFW blog. Don’t roll your eyes. I’m not bragging. I have millions of followers who’ll tell you they live for my posts.
I’m like a superhero, saving humanity one dick pic at a time.
Except leading a double life means I need someone to help me protect my anonymity, so that no one, especially my family, ever discovers my online celebrity.
When I call one of the most respected law firms in town, I expect quality legal advice and confidentiality. Not a sinfully sexy attorney whose dangerous curves and soul-piercing gray eyes make me want to personally demonstrate my particular skill set.
I shouldn’t be tempted.
Especially when she knows all of my best-kept secrets. But everyone has a breaking point. And I’ve met mine.
To Our Readers
We hope you enjoy All About the D! We had an insanely good time writing it! Keep flipping at the end for short excerpts from our other books.
xo,
Lex & Leslie
Dedication
To our husbands, for not letting us starve to death while we write
Forbid us something, and that thing we desire.
- Geoffrey Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales
1
Evie
I could look.
Take a peek.
God, I want to look.
All afternoon I’ve busied myself in case after case, meting out my life in the six-minute increments of the billable hour, but it’s nagging me like a bar exam question I need to answer.
On one hand, checking out this guy’s blog is technically work-related, so that NSFW warning in his email cancels itself out…doesn’t it?
Surely I need to know what I’m getting myself into before I consider representing him, and I could really use a huge client right now.
Huge. My word choice makes me blush, but I’m guessing he’s well-endowed given the reason he contacted me in the first place.
How will I look him in the eye if I see his Johnson all wild and woolly, swinging like the trunk of an elephant at the zoo?
Please, Jesus, I hope he trims his monster.
Despite my need to bring in some heavy-hitting clients, this project doesn’t exactly fit the upper-crust clientele we typically service.
Heh. Service.
I mean, we’re talking about full-frontal male nudity. I don’t need to read the novel-length employee handbook to know that viewing his blog on a computer at my law firm is a no-no.
Why did I have to forget my cell phone charger today of all days? I could be locked away in the women’s two-stall restroom right now, scoping out the most interesting client—well, potential client—who’s crossed my desk in the last three years, if my stupid phone worked.
I glance at the open door to my office. Should I close it? Or does that make me seem more suspicious? Does it scream, “I’M SURFING PORN”?
If it weren’t for that stupid memo from Bill Fleming, everyone’s least favorite partner, that “requested” we keep our doors open unless we’re on an important call or with a client, I wouldn’t be concerned.
Tired of debating what I should do, I gaze out the lone window that runs along the far side of my office. While the partners have grandiose views of Mount Hood, I’m just an associate, which means I overlook a three-story parking garage, two dumpsters, and the back alley of a dive bar.
The office manager assigned me a simple oak desk and credenza, and my decorations consist of a ficus tree, a few photos, and a framed diploma from Georgetown Law. At more than $165,000, it’s my most expensive possession. Well, that and my new house, a dilapidating Craftsman bungalow, where I sink any money I can spare after my exorbitant student loan payments.
So hell, yes, I could use the origination credit for a new client. My firm pays a bounty on bringing in business, which could mean the difference between getting new bathroom plumbing now or waiting five years. And I don’t think I can hold it that long.
My attention returns to my computer. I’ll admit that guy’s call this morning intrigued me. At least he isn’t the typical corporate client out to crush the competition, leaving all human resources laws in shambles.
Slowly, my hand moves to the mouse.
It’s not every day I’m told I probably shouldn’t check out a work-related blog from an office computer.
Admittedly, I’m not totally up to date on porn these days. I wouldn’t call myself a prude, but orgasms require time and preferably
someone else to lend a hand, and I haven’t had much of either in a while.
Unable to resist, I pull up the email that’s been making me crazy and scan the message again. It’s fairly formal considering the topic of discussion. He writes, “Ms. Mills, per our conversation this morning, I’ve forwarded the link to my blog. Please review so you may ascertain whether or not you can represent me in this negotiation. Best, Josh.”
Josh. No last name. No hint at who he is based on the random Gmail account.
I study the link to his blog, which looks like it’s been truncated. It’s innocuous. Just a short series of numbers and letters that don’t give me any indication of what I’m about to see. Well, except for the “not suitable for work” warning Josh typed above it.
He didn’t sound like a pervo-lunatic on the phone. He said things like, “Acquiring an attorney seems prudent,” and “Given my other ventures, I need a wall of separation to protect my assets.”
In fact, he sounded like a businessman. A really freaking sexy businessman with a deep voice that made me shiver.
Are his photos sexy too? Or would I be grossed out by his junk? Because dicks can be gross, like little hairless moles poking their pale heads out of the ground. Not that anyone ever sends me dick pics. I don’t say this with any sort of judgment. I mean, guys don’t think of me and send me nudes.
Truthfully, I’m probably too girl-next-door to get the interest of some dude who waves a massive wand. So what if I like to wear overalls and grungy T-shirts on the weekend? I don’t need guys to send me cock shots anyway.
My hand twitches to click the link.
Oh, shit. I’m about to surf porn at work. Miss I-Wear-Sensible-Shoes because they’re cost-effective and comfortable is going to surf porn at Waller, Goldman & Associates.
I’m seriously considering having my head examined when my ex’s words worm their way into my mind. “You’re so practical, Evelyn. That’s not a bad thing, but I need to be with someone who has more imagination. Someone who’s exciting and spontaneous.”
I cringe at the memory even though it’s been two years since Elliot and I broke up.
What did he mean, spontaneous? In how I lived my life generally? In what I wore? Or… shudder… in bed?
His answer: All of the above.
I’d barely contained my tears as I laughed it off and scuttled out of Elliot’s Ikea-clad apartment before I broke down into full-blown sobs. Because being with him had made me feel like I wasn’t hopeless when it came to romance. But apparently I was wrong.
Jutting out my chin, I take a deep breath. I can be spontaneous, damn it.
Just last week, I got the quiche when I always order the French dip sandwich.
I wait for a sense of satisfaction to settle over me. Except it doesn’t. One, because we’re talking about a stupid sandwich, and two, that day my BFF Kendall coerced me over the phone into ordering something different. And three, if I’m determining my level of spontaneity by what I got for lunch, I’m probably a lost cause.
Damn you, Elliot.
Three minutes. I’ll review Josh’s website for three minutes.
I reach over to set my timer before I click the link in his email.
And I immediately regret it.
I try to close the page. Try to hit the back button. Try to quit the browser. But the hourglass icon pops up.
Christ on a cracker, the hourglass won’t stop turning. Our traditional law firm hasn’t caught up with the times and upgraded our internet. Perpetually slow bandwidth has now gone from a daily annoyance to makes-me-want-to-tear-out-my-nails. Yes, a decade after the iPhone, some law firms still use dictation machines. At least we have email.
My three minutes are up and the damn thing is still frozen.
I blow my bangs out of my face and pray I don’t need someone from the tech department to fix this.
Finally, Josh’s blog starts to load even though I’ve done everything I can to get it to stop. Sweat builds on my neck and under my boobs as the page fills at a snail’s pace.
Deep breaths, Evie. The ground won’t open up and swallow you. What’s the worst thing that can happen besides boob sweat?
I could get fired and lose my job, my 401k, and my health insurance. Maybe I’d have to sell my house because no respectable law firm will hire someone who was laid off for being a deviant at three o’clock on a Friday afternoon. My dad will be humiliated and wonder why he bothered working all that overtime at the fire station to help send me to good schools. No big deal.
A throaty voice in my doorway makes me jump.
“Evelyn, you need a vacation.”
Angela picks this moment to saunter into my office. Yes, she saunters, swinging her ass like she’s bouncing to some silent beat—the ones her perfect, buoyant boobs keep as they struggle to stay contained in that expensive silk blouse. I’d kill to have her bra size instead of my DDs.
She pauses in front of my desk, and I’m almost at eye level with her knees. The woman is tall, built like a Victoria’s Secret model, the kind you want to hold down and force-feed some deep dish pepperoni pizza. Beautiful black hair tumbles down her shoulders, emphasizing her porcelain skin and sky-blue eyes. Her burgundy Chanel suit molds to her body and screams Confident Bitch from here to the Pacific.
Side note: the only reason I know she’s wearing Chanel is because she told everyone about it this morning. She doesn’t have student loans and isn’t crazy enough to renovate a house. Must be nice to have disposable income.
With irritation, I realize I could never pull off that outfit even if I had her body, but I guess that’s what I get for having my head buried in work and school my whole life.
Where exactly does one learn how to be sexy and wear clothes like her? My dad never gave me the 411 on that.
“Hey, Angela. What’s up?” I ask as calmly as possible even though the blog is still loading. Fortunately, she can’t see the screen from this angle. But I can. So far, it’s just a skyline of New York. Maybe I misunderstood what’s on his website.
My attention is diverted to Angela as she runs her hands over her slender hips and sighs dramatically, tossing her glossy hair over her shoulder. With irritation, I realize she’s eyeing the mess on my desk. Why is she always up in my business?
The skyline keeps loading in my peripheral vision, and it takes every bit of control I have to not fidget when Malcolm Waller walks in behind her, but fortunately, there are no dicks in sight.
Angela taps one perfectly manicured talon on a stack of my files. “Mac wants to know if Penny has dropped another one of your calls.”
I can’t tell if my eye twitches because she’s calling our boss Mac, something no one does—not even his wife—or because she’s angling to get our secretary Penny fired.
Malcolm lets out a weary breath and runs his hand through his white hair. “I hate to say this, but if I hear one more complaint, I’m letting her go.”
Inside, I shake my fist at both of them. Penny is a single mom with three kids, and while she does drop or misdirect our calls on occasion, she’s also the sweetest person I know. She puts up with everyone’s shit and never complains about her endless workload.
Folding my hands on my desk, I tilt my head like I’m thinking. “Honestly, I can’t recall the last time she did that.” This morning. “But she did a fantastic job photocopying that enormous presentation you gave last week, Angela.”
I refrain from giving her a dirty look, but only barely. How quickly we forget when someone saves your ass because you put it off until the last minute.
She rolls her eyes and grabs Malcolm’s forearm. “Let’s go ask Nathan. I’m certain he has something to say on the subject.”
Does she have to practically purr when she says his name? God, I hope she hasn’t slept with Nate. He’s been my work crush since he joined the firm last year, and Angela always acts like she could have a spontaneous orgasm when he’s around.
As she walks out the door, Malcolm motions toward me. �
�You’re going to bring us a great case this week, right, kiddo?”
Still with the kiddo. I paste a smile on my face and nod, hating that he saw me running around in diapers when I was a toddler.
My mother, while lacking every maternal instinct known to humanity, did me one favor prior to divorcing my father and moving to the East Coast. Before they split and my dad went back to his blue-collar roots, my mother dragged him along to every society function in greater Portland, where he met people like my boss.
So even though I’ve worked my ass off to get good grades and graduated at the top of my class in college and law school, I’m not naïve enough to think that’s what got me this job, a fact that has me even more eager to prove my worth beyond my family’s modest connections.
Malcolm makes that face, the one that says, Tell me what I want to hear.
“Yes, sir. In fact, I’m working on something big—” I do a double-take at my computer screen that has finally loaded. I swallow. “Something huge, actually.”
A nervous laugh escapes me and my cheeks burn. Dear baby Jesus in the manger. Blogger guy is packing some serious heat.
Dragging my gaze from the computer screen, I return my attention to my boss, nodding enthusiastically and praying he stays on the other side of my cluttered desk.
Malcolm rubs his chin and offers me a patronizing wink. “Good to hear it, kiddo. Bring me something meaty.”
I almost snort. Size isn’t a problem.
It takes me a full minute of staring at Josh-the-naughty-blogger’s crotch for me to come to my senses.
Penny’s about to get fired. Stop staring at porn and move your ass.
I minimize the browser—thankfully, it works this time—jog down the hall and sneak into Nathan’s doorway. He’s at his desk, looking gorgeous as always with that tousled blond hair that falls just over his right eye when he laughs.