by Pippa Grant
The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob
Pippa Grant
Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Sneak Peek at The Pilot and the Puck-Up
Pippa Grant Book List
About the Author
Copyright © 2021
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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.
Editing by Jessica Snyder.
Cover design by Cate Ashwood.
Cover art copyright © Rafa Catala.
Introduction
The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob
A Rock Star/Single Mom/Fairy Tale
Romantic Comedy
You don’t know me, but you do know me. I’m your neighborhood hot mess single mom, doing my best to keep my head above water while running my little slice of heaven and keeping my youngest from shoving marbles up his nose, which is exactly what he’s doing the first time Levi Wilson, pop star god, world’s sexiest man, and my all-time number one celebrity obsession, walks into my bookstore.
Related: I’m writing this from beyond the grave, because I’ve died of mortification and am now residing in an alternate universe.
I have to be.
Because Levi Wilson came back.
And we had a moment.
Like, a moment moment. The kind that makes me remember that adult pleasure isn’t all about hoping the lock holds in the bathroom so your kids don’t interrupt on the rare occasion you feel like taking an extra-long mommy-time shower.
So when he proposes a no-strings fling?
Count. Me. In.
Thrill of a lifetime, right?
Surely, nothing will go wrong…
The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob is a rockin’ fun, sexy romantic comedy featuring a celebrity panty-melter who doesn’t know what he’s been missing, a sassy single mom hanging on by a string, three adorable children who would never burst in on a woman when she’s on a toilet (ha!), and shameless ovary-busting moments between a guy who never thought he’d be a dad and a family who thought they got along just fine without him. It stands alone and comes complete with a happily-ever-after (though you’d never go wrong to read the other Bro Code series books first).
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The Bro Code Series and related books
Flirting with the Frenemy
America’s Geekheart
Liar, Liar, Hearts on Fire
The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob
Master Baker (Bro Code Spin-Off)
Jock Blocked (Bro Code Spin-Off, Fireballs #1)
Real Fake Love (Bro Code Spin-Off, Fireballs #2
One
Levi Wilson, aka an international pop sensation who thinks a steak lunch is about to be the best part of his day
For my thirteenth birthday, I talked my big brother into helping me sneak out of the house to take the bus downtown so we could see Seven Knobs perform. They were a local indie rock group with a wicked sound, and for that summer, they were my heroes.
Not that I had high standards for heroes. If a band had a good sound and I could see them locally, they qualified.
I had many, many heroes.
Tripp and I both knew I’d go with or without him there to watch over me, which is the only reason he agreed.
Older brothers.
They’re the pains in the ass you love to love.
After the show, we got turned around outside the arena on our way back to the bus stop and ended up with a police escort home at two in the morning, where our mother, who was raising us solo, had called every other mom in the neighborhood and was about to send out a search party.
Mom’s no dummy. She’d known where we were going. She knew when we were supposed to be home. And she knew something had happened.
I took ten years off her life that night.
That’s the last time I ever got lost sneaking around in downtown Copper Valley.
Until today.
At least this time, I’m lost in broad daylight where the worst thing that could go wrong is missing lunch.
Okay, second-worst thing.
It’s highly unlikely I’d have a repeat of that incident in San Francisco when I was taking the scenic route to a late breakfast and got spotted by a field trip from an all-girls’ school who got so excited that my security detail shoved me out of sight and into the nearest open door, which led directly into a full mani-pedi spa.
Let’s just say you shouldn’t startle people having their toes painted by other people holding full bottles of nail polish.
Especially not on a week when you’re on the cover of both People and Entertainment Weekly, which is basically when you’re most recognizable as a celebrity.
Related: Nail polish is weirdly difficult to get out of your eyebrows.
But I’m sure that won’t happen today. Especially since I’m only a pop-out picture on the cover of The National Enquirer.
Apparently I have six toes and one writes all my songs for me.
It’s a good sign the world’s forgotten me this week, so I can go anywhere without being recognized.
Or maybe not.
But optimism is important, right?
“This corner, G. This is the one,” I tell my lead protection agent as we hustle down the street, buffeted by the fall wind howling through the corridor between the fifteen- and twenty-story buildings on the outskirts of Copper Valley’s warehouse district. Rain’s on the agenda for today, and Mother Nature isn’t playing. She’s as serious as Giselle, who stays straight-faced, eyes perpetually scanning the random people passing us by who haven’t noticed me.
Ball cap, sunglasses, and someone else’s old letterman jacket for the win.
For the moment.
“You’re not issuing orders about parking garages next time,” Giselle informs me.
“I like that parking garage. Good memories.”
“You’re thinking of the garage on Seventeenth and Sunshine. And no one has good memories of that garage except you.”
She’s right.
No wonder she argued when I told her to park two blocks back and that we’d walk the rest of the way. I don’t know where I thought we were, but it’s not where we are. “Just because you didn’t want to wear a parking cone as a hat and be in my video—”
“Giselle, don’t let me shoot a video riding a contact high ever again,” she replies, completely falsetto and sounding nothing like me, even though I do vaguely recall saying something like that the day after the parking lot shoot.
“Still a fan-favorite collaboration.”
“And you still don’t know your parking lots here anymore.”
My stomach growls, and I swear she hears it. She’s five-six, dark-haired, about a decade older than me, which you wouldn’t know since age is terrified to touch her face. She’s built like a badass and has the skills of a ninja, thanks to being head cheerleader in high school and spending decades honing her skills ever since. At least, that’s her story.
“Let me know when you want me to steer you in the right direction.”
“I think I can find my favorite steak restaurant in my own hometown.”
“Clearly.”
“Just testing you to make sure you know where we’re going. And working up an appetite.”
“Mm-hm.”
Yeah.
I’m a little lost.
Must be what happens when you’ve lived away as long as you lived at home.
When did I get this old? I’m not old. Tripp’s old, but I’m not old.
I freeze. Am I?
I thought Tripp was old two years ago, and now I’m the same age he was then.
Realization smacks me with a one-two punch to the gut and the heart, and I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. “Shit. I’m old.”
“Dammit, Wilson,” Giselle mutters, and suddenly I’m being shoved into a shop. “You know the rules. Don’t stop.”
Rule number one: Don’t stop.
Rule number two: Don’t argue with your protection agent.
“I’m in disguise,” I mutter back.
Clearly, I’m a rule-follower.
Her flat expression doesn’t change. “You walk like you. First row of books. Squat. Now.”
The bells have barely finished jingling over the red wooden door, reminding me of dashing into the record store close to home every allowance day when I was growing up, before Giselle has me tucked out of sight. She still has her sunglasses on and could be looking at the endcap, but I know she’s studying the street outside the store window while I’m left staring at a row of books about pregnancy and raising tantrum-free toddlers.
The scents of paper and ink tickle my nose, stirring other memories of mandatory library time in the summers before we were old enough to be left on our own.
Yeah, I’m lost. But I don’t regret it. Not when ten seconds in this place has me on a trip down memory lane and not thinking about how many years ago that was.
Sometimes getting lost is the best thing a guy can do.
For the first time in weeks, I inhale deeply and let my senses take over, cataloguing everything about the feeling. The cozy temperature inside the building. The soft light, bright enough to illuminate the bookshelves, not so bright that I have to squint. The exposed bricks between the shelves on the side wall, and the low beam ceiling that reminds me we’re near the warehouse district. A mix of incense or a candle mingles with the library smell, along with something else.
Coffee? Or is it tea?
I rub my thumb over the rough light wood of the nearest shelf. There are voices drifting somewhere else in the store, but no one’s come to greet us.
Perfect.
I settle on the floor, head bent, knees up, close my eyes, and listen.
There’s a song in here.
I can feel it.
This isn’t lost. This is what I didn’t know I was looking for.
Inspiration.
“Only you could find a song in a bookstore,” Giselle murmurs.
“Told you I knew where I was going.”
“I’m calling for the car.”
“Shh. Five minutes.”
She grunts. “Do. Not. Move. Especially if you hear the door open. Afternoon bachelorette party, by the looks of it. Don’t you dare so much as hum out loud either. The vultures can hear you six blocks away when you do that. I’m checking out the storytime crowd. I’ll be back in twenty seconds.”
Storytime. Good song title. I like it.
Not sure it’s on brand for a pop god known for dance tunes and love ballads, but I can work with this.
Even if it’s not on brand for me, it’ll be on brand for someone. A written song is never wasted, even if it never goes anywhere beyond scribbled on a piece of paper.
I pull out my phone and open my notes app. I should find the bathroom. It’s probably a single-seater, which means I can lock myself in and hum all I want without making a scene.
Instead, I’m typing out notes about the sound in my head.
Not ideal, but I’ve worked with worse.
My thumbs are flying, my head nodding to the beat bouncing between my ears, when my entire body is jarred sideways.
My phone flies out of my hand.
A voice shrieks.
Something heavy thumps to the wide-plank pine floor. Several somethings.
I’m shoved to my side, and something heavy and human-ish lands sprawled across me from hip to shoulder.
“Oh my god,” a woman gasps.
She twists, flailing like a fish out of water.
I take an elbow to the chin and grunt again.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” she stutters.
I’m trying to crawl out from under her. She’s trying to squirm off me.
My ass connects with something hard, and three books topple over onto us.
“Ow!”
“Sorry,” I gasp.
“No, no, my bad.” She twists again, then eeps.
I know that eep.
Explains why I’m now sprawled on the ground by myself with a bunch of books scattered around me, the person previously lying on top of me gone.
My bodyguard has arrived.
“Apologies, ma’am.” Giselle sets the woman on her feet, grabs me by the arm and hauls me up too, then pushes me back to a squat. “He’s a danger to society. You okay?”
“Yes! Yes. Sorry. Didn’t realize anyone had come in. Good audiobook. I—oh, crap. My earbud.”
She spins, and when she turns back around, smiles, and squats to grab her missing wireless earbud, my heart screeches to a halt.
My mouth goes dry.
My knees wobble.
She has thick, shoulder-length, honey-brown hair with a widow’s peak over a round face, cheeks like a cherub, lips a soft spring rose, and golden-brown eyes that flicker with shades of green. Her dark gray T-shirt clings to full breasts with a design that my brain is too jumbled to read, and when her gaze connects with mine, there’s a current in the air that makes me lose my balance and drop back against the shelf, sending two more books tumbling to the ground.
It’s her.
Her eyes widen and her lips pucker in a perfect o. She lifts her hands and starts to make some kind of motion, then clasps her fingers together instead.
Giselle’s saying something. Probably apologizing for me again as more books topple off the shelf, or telling me we need to go, as I process exactly how irrational I’m being.
There are seven and a half billion people on this earth.
There’s no way this woman is her.
I’m a dreamer. A songwriter. A performer. A lover.
I’m not logic. I’m not math. I’m not statistics.
But even I know the odds are basically zero that this woman is the woman my entire being wants to believe she is.
Which doesn’t change my conviction that it’s her.
Dreamer, right?
“I need a present,” I blurt.
I can’t tear my ey
es away from the woman squatting opposite me, and I can’t decide if they’re playing tricks on me or not.
They have to be playing tricks on me.
Doesn’t matter how many times I play that night over in my head, logically, I know time and experience have altered my memory. It’s been so long, I can’t even remember the last time I consciously thought about it.
How long has it been? Six years? Eight?
I don’t know, but it’s her.
I feel it in my bones.
This is the woman I haven’t been able to forget.
She licks her lips, and blood surges somewhere it shouldn’t. Not while I’m in public.
“Okay. What kind of present?”
The kind money can’t buy, and I think I just found it. I look around wildly, trying to find an excuse to stay here.
I need answers to a million questions swirling in my head.
“Yodeling pickle.” Words are half my life, and a display of yodeling pickles on the checkout counter is the first thing I see that I can identify with words.
The woman winces and once again stops herself as her hands start to move.
Giselle clears her throat. “Lunch…”
Lunch. Right. I’m supposed to be meeting my buddy Beck for a steak lunch. If anyone could eat their way through a kitchen, it’s him. If we don’t leave soon, I won’t get lunch.
