by Emma Hart
Kai winked at me, and I blushed.
“Maybe. Now we all know Tori’s against dating, but which one of you three is next?”
“Nope!” Holley shouted, echoed somewhere by Saylor.
“That leaves you, Kins,” Kai said.
“Oh, please.” She rearranged some books. “I’m not a big dater. I can’t stand the online stuff where nobody looks like their profile pictures. Besides, I am the worst at small talk, so unless one of you can find me a romance-loving, muscular man with a great smile, I’m shit out of luck.”
“Seems reasonable,” Kai assured her. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He said as if he had a catalog of men stashed away just to pull out for random dating purposes for my friends.
“Put those books on the counter when you’re done, Ives, I’ll put them away.”
“Thanks, Kins.” I watched as she disappeared.
Kai scooted his chair over to me. “So. Tegan Rose, huh?”
“Tegan Rose.” I smiled, letting him take my hands in his.
“That’s pretty perfect.”
“I agree.”
He grinned, then leaned forward and kissed me.
And it was.
Somehow, everything was perfect.
Who would have thought that the guy next door would turn out to be my happily ever after?
Certainly not me.
But I was sure as hell glad that he was.
THE END
Want to read more from the town of White Peak, Montana? Welcome to Bookworm’s Books, where three bookworms are about to trial the ups and downs of dating… And all the unexpected bumps in the road.
Read on for more information.
THE BOOKWORM’S GUIDE TO DATING
What I wanted for my birthday: Books.
What I got for my birthday: my brother’s best friend playing matchmaker.
Let it be known that I, Kinsley Lane, am one hundred percent against being set up with somebody.
And I’m one thousand percent sure that Josh Carter is not the man to find me a boyfriend.
I mean, if I’m so great, why isn’t he the one dating me? (For the record, I don’t know the answer. That’s just what the guy on the internet asked.)
Still, I’ll humor him. If I go on his little dates, he’ll teach my bookish, introverted self how not to be totally, completely, utterly, unforgivably awkward on every single one of them.
And all I have to do is fall in love with one of the lovely gentlemen he’s serving up for me on a silver platter—all of whom fit my very specific guidelines.
Simple, right?
It would be.
If only I could stop falling for Josh.
Coming October 6th! Available now for pre-order everywhere.
SNEAK PEEK: KISS ME NOT
CHAPTER ONE – HALLEY
Nobody Needs An Orange Jumpsuit
Sometimes, I just have to tell myself that it isn’t worth the jail time.
It’s something I’ve told myself a lot over the years, especially during high school. There was that time Lindsay Rinna paid her younger brother to put a snake in my locker just because she knew I was deathly afraid of them and she thought I had a crush on her boyfriend.
I totally did have a crush on him, but was it worth the panic attack I had after?
No. No, it was not. And, just like she wasn’t now, Lindsay was not worth any jail time, no matter how many times I imagined pushing her in front of a bus.
Look. We’ve all done it, okay?
There’s also the time when I was seventeen and having a bitch of a period, and my stepbrother had eaten my ice cream.
That was the closest I’d actually come to committing murder. It was a hormone-induced rage, for what it was worth, and my memory of the event was now somewhat blurry. That said, I do remember throwing a spoon at him. I might have cut open his forehead.
He ate my ice cream.
On my period.
Actually, that’s one situation that would have been worth the jail time.
Also, my stepbrother is an asshole, so he deserved that shit.
Now, I was standing in the middle of the park, looking at the kissing booth that would be my home for next week. As of Monday, between the hours of midday and seven p.m., my ass would be parked in this glorified tent, and my lips would be offered up as free game to anyone who was willing to put two dollars in my bucket.
I, Halley Dawson, was the Creek Falls Kissing Booth Champion. This year was my fifth year in the contest, and I had no intentions of losing my crown anytime soon.
I took my role as resident kisser very seriously. Seriously—I just about had stock in toothpaste companies at this point. My dentist was probably the best-paid dentist in town, and I had an ashamedly large collection of mints and gum in my apartment waiting for this moment.
As for being the reigning champion, well, it wasn’t like it had any kind of effect on my life in general. I was woefully single to the point that the only date I had was with the raccoons who lived in the woods behind my house.
Hey, they were reliable. They showed up every night on my back porch at ten p.m. sharp for their peanut butter sandwiches.
We had a bit of a deal. I left them sandwiches every night, and they’d leave my trash can alone.
Well, I think we had a deal. Since raccoons didn’t speak English, it was purely speculation on my part since they hadn’t knocked the trash can over for a few weeks.
Of course, this weird little relationship played into me being single. Thanks to my eccentric grandmother, I was now known as the Racoon Lady of Creek Falls. Not that anyone ever said anything about it to my face, given that my father was the mayor.
Yep. Between that and being the kissing booth champion, there was no way I was getting married anytime soon.
Or dated, for that matter.
It was fine. I liked being single. I had the entire king-size bed to myself, and nobody was going to eat my chocolate.
Also, thanks to the invention of porn websites and sex toys, I could happily handle my own needs. Shoot, I didn’t even need the toy.
I had fingers.
Ahem.
Moving on.
Upkeep of the kissing booth was solely my responsibility—and that of my competitor’s when they showed up. It was our job to ensure that the money was kept safe so it could all be donated to a local charity at the end of the summer fair.
The winner would be the person who raised the most money—whoever kissed the most people.
Last year my competition had been easy. It was old Mr. Hawkins who owned the bait shop on the town square, and he’d gotten impetigo on his lower lip halfway through the week.
It had seriously damaged his ability to kiss anyone, but he’d made it work. He’d purchased a lip-shaped stamp and some ink and stamped everyone’s hand instead.
The kids had loved it.
I was almost a little sad he hadn’t won just because of that, but he’d stopped by the library last week and left the stamp with me.
Now, the kids could choose a kiss on the cheek or a stamp on the hand.
I just wished I could give the pensioners the same option. Most of those insisted on a genuine peck.
It was the worst thing about doing this.
I shuddered at the thought of it. I had some serious mental preparation to do, just in case Horace Peters decided he wanted to stop by on a daily basis again.
Last year, he’d almost been arrested for harassment.
I really had to call my dad and make sure there was someone stationed by the booth at all times…
I stepped forward and gripped the gaudy, purple curtains that were tied together by a huge, gold rope. If you didn’t know this was the booth, you’d think it was the home of a psychic or a palm reader. Tarot, maybe.
But, no. It was where the kissing happened.
I untied the heavy knot and let the rope fall to the sides. The thick ends hit the grass with a thud, and I only just got my foot ou
t of the way before one hit my toes. I’d made that mistake once before.
It’d sprained my toe.
It wasn’t an experience I was keen to repeat.
I pulled open the curtains and coughed. They were musty, and the inside of the tent smelled like mothballs. It was hard to believe that it was taken down at the end of each summer and put up just before—they had to be storing this stuff in a one-hundred-year-old clothing trunk and then putting the trunk in a deserted cellar or attic somewhere.
I batted at the air in front of my nose and looked around. The wooden stage toward the back of the tent was set up, but that was all that had been done. Setting chairs and everything else out would be my job, but the first thing that had to be done was to air out these horrible velvet curtains and clean everything up.
“Jesus Christ, this smells like my grandma’s house.”
Laughing, I turned at the sound of the voice of one of my best friends. Reagan’s face was scrunched up in disgust as she looked around.
“Yep,” I replied, adjusting my bright red glasses. “They still haven’t bothered to wash the fabric. Where’s Ava?”
“Looking for food. As always.” Reagan grinned and tucked her bright purple hair behind her ear. “I told her the stalls won’t be open yet, but she didn’t listen to me.”
I snorted. “You know she’s been seeing Butler Ferris on and off. His dad has the barbecue stall this year. She’ll just head over there twirling her hair, smile a little, and she’ll show up with half a brisket, three hamburgers, six hot dogs, and three pulled pork sandwiches. Plus coleslaw and salad.”
“Huh. You’re right. Ten bucks says she shows up with food.”
“Why do you get that bet? I called it. You’re just jumping in.”
“Fine. Ten bucks says she doesn’t.”
“You’re on.”
Reagan rolled her eyes. “Hey, the Ferris stall… They’ll be cooking for the volunteers, right?”
“Yep. We all got a note that they’re hosting for us at seven tonight. We can all bring a guest, so come along with me.” I pulled a hair tie from my wrist and pulled my short, shoulder-length blond hair back into a tiny ponytail. “Do you wanna give me a hand here?”
“Not really.”
“Please? I don’t know who my competitor is this year, so I’m stuck here alone. And I’m getting you barbecue for free tonight.”
Reagan sighed. “Fine, but I’m not painting that sign again. That was a nightmare.” She pointed at the broken sign from last year.
“Only because you have the artistic ability of a sack of potatoes.” I rolled my eyes and pulled my car keys from my pocket. “Here.” I tossed them to her. “There’s a bucket full of cleaning stuff in the trunk of my car, and another one with paint stuff for the sign. I’ll do it.”
She sighed, throwing my keys in the air and catching them again. “I don’t even work here. I don’t even volunteer. Yet every year I’m roped into it.”
“Volunteer, then.”
“One year, I’m going to be your competition.”
“I look forward to it.” I grinned, grabbing the brush that was standing in the corner. “But bitching at me this year isn’t going to make that happen any sooner.”
“Whatever. I’ll be back in a minute.” She ducked as she left the tent.
I stepped up onto the old wooden stage and paused. The wood creaked, but it felt as strong as it always did. That wasn’t saying a lot since it really wasn’t that sturdy, but hey, if a floorboard gave out, it wasn’t me that would be getting sued.
Not that I liked it, but I couldn’t do anything about it. I was neither a builder nor rich.
The stage was covered in dust and dirt despite the fact it’d only been erected last night, and I pulled the curtain that separated the two “booths” back so I could sweep right across it.
The boards creaked beneath my feet, and one was a little too bouncy for my liking. It was right by the back of the booth, so it was easily covered by a plant or something like that.
Look at that.
I was making this place homey already.
God only knew I’d be spending enough time here over the next week.
“In the blue corner is Halley with a broom, and in the red corner is Ava with not one, not two, but three of Creek Falls’ finest pulled pork sammichs!”
I turned and shot my raven-haired best friend a withering look. “Sandwich. It’s called a sandwich. You’re not an internet meme.”
She widened her bright blue eyes, put on an over-exaggerated smile, and waved one of the sandwiches in my direction. “Sammiiiiicccchhhhh!”
I needed new friends.
I put the broom down and jumped down from the stage. “You flirted with Butler, didn’t you?”
She pursed hot-pink lips and blinked innocently from behind her yellow-framed glasses. “Just a little.”
“Reagan owes me ten bucks.” I took my sandwich from her. “If this carries on like this, I’m gonna be rich by the end of the fair.”
Ava put Reagan’s sandwich on one of the small tables that were dotted around. “Are you betting on me? I’m not a fan of that.”
“We always bet on you. I always win. I’m like five hundred bucks richer at this point.”
Ava rolled her eyes as she unpackaged her sandwich. “Who’s your competition this year? Do you know yet?”
I shook my head, sitting on the edge of the stage. “No. They were supposed to meet me here, but I doubt that’s going to happen now. Nobody likes to set this place up.”
“Do you think you’ll find out tonight at the cookout?”
“I hope so. I need to arrange a schedule for getting this booth set up. I’m not going to do it all.”
She snorted. “Come on, Hals. You know what will happen. You’ll set up a schedule, but nobody will organize it the way you want, so you’ll end up doing it anyway.”
I paused. “Shut up.”
“Umph!” Reagan dumped the stuff from my car down on the grass. “Shit me, that stuff is heavy.” She looked up at us. “Sandwiches?”
“Yep. And you owe me ten bucks.” I grinned.
Ava frowned as Reagan stuck her hand into the back pocket of her shorts. “Gotta stop making these bets,” she muttered, pulling apart some bills to find a ten.
“I agree,” Ava added. “You should stop!”
“Thank you.” I plucked the ten dollars from Reagan’s hand. “I’m not stopping. I keep winning.”
“Whatever. We’re putting a bet on you.” Reagan grabbed her sandwich. “I bet you’ll lose the kissing contest this year.”
“No way!” Ava shook her head. “Nuh-uh. The only way she’ll lose is if she retires.”
“I’m calling it. Halley is going to lose the title this year.”
“No. It’s all she has. Except for her raccoons, but they’re technically not even hers.”
“Hey!” I chimed in. “Leave the trash pandas out of this. And I’m with Ava—there’s no way I’m losing my crown this year. Unless a Hemsworth brother shows up. Or Nick Jonas. Then I’d willingly lose, to be honest. I’d be in their line myself.”
Reagan laughed, then looked to Ava. “Fifty bucks says she loses.”
“Fifty?” Ava squealed. “I don’t have fifty bucks!”
“Neither do I. Halley won all my money, and since all our bets are about you and your love life, you owe me.”
I rolled my eyes. “Ava, just make the bet. I’m not going to lose. I have never lost.”
She looked between us for a second. “Fine.” She shook Reagan’s hand. “But if you lose, you owe me fifty bucks.”
Snorting, I stood up and grabbed the bucket with the paint stuff for the sign. “Nice try. This isn’t my bet.”
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Emma Hart is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of over thirty novels and has been translated into several different languages.
She is a mother, wife, lover of wine, Pink Goddess, and valiant rescuer of wild baby hedgehogs.
Emma prides herself on her realistic, snarky smut, with comebacks that would make a PMS-ing teenage girl proud.
Yes, really. She’s that sarcastic.
You can find her online at:
www.emmahart.org
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Alternatively, you can join her reader group at http://bit.ly/EmmaHartsHartbreakers.
You can also get all things Emma to your email inbox by signing up for Emma Alerts*. www.emmahart.net/newsletter
*Emails sent for sales, new releases, pre-order availability, and cover reveals. Each cover reveal contains an exclusive excerpt.
BOOKS BY EMMA HART
Standalones:
Being Brooke
Catching Carly
Casanova
Mixed Up
Miss Fix-It
Miss Mechanic
The Upside to Being Single
The Hook-Up Experiment
The Dating Experiment
Four Day Fling
Best Served Cold
Tequila Tequila
Catastrophe Queen
The Roommate Agreement
The Accidental Girlfriend
Kiss Me Not
Kiss Me Tonight
Kiss Me Again
Frenemies
Number Neighbors
Hot Mess
The Girl Next Door:
The One-Night Stand Next Door
The Girl Next Door
The Vegas Nights series:
Sin
Lust
Stripped series:
Stripped Bare
Stripped Down
The Burke Brothers:
Dirty Secret
Dirty Past
