by Lola Darling
My readers — I’d be nothing without you. Thank you for picking up this book, for your sweet emails and messages and for your shared love of all things naughty. YOU ROCK my socks off.
xo
Want to find out what’s coming next? Sign up for my newsletter here and never miss an announcement, enter to win exclusive giveaways and get the first look at never before seen excerpts.
I’d love to hear what you thought about Harper and Jack’s story. If you have time to leave a review, I’d be eternally appreciative. Send me a link to [email protected] and I’ll say thanks with a note.
Connect with me on:
Facebook • Twitter • Goodreads
Listen to the Teach Me Play List on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/xololadarling/playlist/4QZ1KXgAjxnU7oEJxHndyD
The best sex is hotel sex! Check into the Rexford with Lola Darling – Available now!
THE HOTEL
Chapter One
“I look like a slut.” I stare at my reflection in horror – and a little awe.
“You’re the prettiest slut I’ve ever seen.” My cousin Callie gives a wink in the mirror, working a flat iron through my hair.
“I don’t know…” My stomach is already in knots thinking about the night ahead of me.
Callie squirts hair shine on her hands and rubs it between her palms. It smells like coconut and expensive salon. “Just trust me, Juliet,” she says, then coughs with enough force to produce a loud wheeze.
“Go lie down,” I order her, then give her a gentle nudge towards her bed. Our other roommate, Emily, enters with a steaming mug of something.
“Drink this,” she adds, handing Callie the mug.
Callie sniffs and wrinkles her nose. “What is it?”
“My grandmother’s recipe. It’ll make you feel better, I promise.”
Callie collapses with a groan – which quickly turns into another round of hacking coughs. Emily pulls me back, worried.
“Don’t get Juliet sick! She starts her internship tomorrow.”
Just the mention of it makes me even more nervous. How I landed an internship placement at the most prestigious historic hotel in Chicago is still surreal. I start tomorrow…
After I go play hooker tonight.
Not hooker, I correct myself quickly. Bait.
Nerves start a dance inside my stomach. My face must betray something because Emily claps her hands together. “You have nothing to worry about. You look amazing. Your hair… It’s so shiny!”
I touch it again, smoothing my fingers down the long strands and my mouth hangs open a little bit. Because, damn. My hair is never straight, or smooth, or anything but a hot mess. I blame my Irish ancestors. The women in my lineage weren’t the sleek, dark and sexy Celts you always see in movies, but rather, the ‘carry water and build stone walls’ kind that gifted me with a head of coarse, thick and unruly auburn hair. Usually, I could care less: I just pull it back in a braid or ponytail and forget about it.
But not tonight. Tonight, I’m full on shampoo-model, because-I’m-worth-it hot.
And I need to be, thanks to Miss Sick Day currently hacking her lungs up in bed. Callie works as a decoy for a private investigator. She gets people to talk, incriminate themselves or otherwise display some kind of asshole behavior that can be caught on tape and used in court. She loves the excitement of it, and she’s cut out for it with a svelte body and the sleek beauty that promises seduction. Small talk and flirting come naturally to her. And while she’s working her magic, a hidden photographer takes pictures or video of the whole thing.
I’m the woman who’s been so invested in earning her hospitality management degree, she forgets to put on deodorant some days. But with Callie laid up in bed, she needs someone to fill in on a job tonight. And since she’s been letting me stay here on a way reduced rent while I work my way through school, I couldn’t really turn her down.
I check my reflection again, nervous. Callie has turned me into a pretty slut, just like she said. Smoky makeup sets off the green in my hazel eyes, the shimmer pink on my cheeks accentuating my heart shaped face. My lips are glossy red and look plumper than usual.
“Now put on the dress,” Callie orders, still bossy even from bed.
“I told you, blue isn’t my color…” I hesitate.
“And I told you, it’s peacock, not blue.”
“Big difference.”
“Here.” Emily hold it up eagerly. “I picked out shoes and jewelry too.”
I take them with a sigh. “I don’t know why you couldn’t do this instead of me.”
Emily’s eyes widen in horror. “Go flirt with some strange guy in a bar? No way!” She shudders. “Besides, they would never hit on me in the first place.”
“That’s a lie and you know it,” I tell her, but Emily shakes her head stubbornly. She’s the sweetest girl in the world, but not exactly giving Kanye a run for his money in the confidence game. She prefers to spend her nights working late at her jewelry studio, creating amazing designs.
But Emily isn’t the only one worried about attracting men tonight. I’ve got serious doubts about my ability as bait. I’m not anti-social. I’m just not good at flirting. Or handling myself around sleazy men without biting their heads off. In my mind, the guy I’m targeting tonight is just another grease ball, out to find the first hot, willing chick he can get his dick into. In order for the gig to work, that chick has to be me.
Only with no dick-sticking.
I shed my sweats and tee-shirt and reach for the dress. “Not so fast,” Callie stops me and points to the chair beneath the window. A brand new bra and panty set are laid out, both a pretty cream color, the bra with lacy cups and satin straps. The bra is push up, not that I need it. I’ve been blessed with a lot going on up top, but when I ditch my old bra for the new one, I’m immediately glad it has the little gel support pads inside.
Because, damn again.
“Don’t look at my ass,” I warn them as I change into the panties, and then step into the dress. Callie whistles behind me before I’ve finished smoothing the satiny fabric and I twirl because I can’t help it. The V-neck top is deep, showing off the inside swell of my breasts and creating a sexy valley of cleavage. The wrap top snugs my waist while the skirt shimmies over my full hips, the hem swishing mid-thigh. It’s perfect for an hourglass figure like mine.
Emily squeals. “You look hot.”
And with their help, I do. The dress is conforming and revealing and… well, the sexiest thing I’ve had on in forever. I wear jeans and baggy shirts to class. Pretty much the same on the weekends.
Except tonight.
Oh, God.
Callie’s phone buzzes. “Okay, Jules, you’re up. The target checked in at The Drake a half hour ago.” She throws off the covers and comes over, gripping my shoulders in her hands. I give her a dubious look, hoping she isn’t spreading her germs all over me. She eyes me like a coach about to give a pep talk.
“Listen, Juliet. It’ll be easy; I swear. Text Rob when you get there and he’ll tell you where to meet, and where to intercept the target. Make small talk. One look and he’ll be interested, I promise—you look so good—he’ll make a couple passes at you, Rob will snap a few pics and you’ll be done. Easy.”
Panic sets in. I’m a confident woman, sure. I’m smart. I read, a lot. Put me in a classroom and I can talk my way through a debate like no one’s business. But this?
“You’re doing me a huge favor,” Callie says, like she’s reading my mind – and the fact that I want to bolt. “I can’t lose this job, and I promise I’ll owe you forever.”
She coughs and I can’t tell if it’s real or if it’s a guilt-cough. Either way, her face is pale but her cheeks are flushed and her eyes have that glossy-fever glaze. I soften. She’s done enough favors for me in our time, the least I can do is help her out with this.
I tuck a limp lock of her hair behind her ear. “I’ve got it, Callie. No worries. Just get better.”
&
nbsp; Emily pushes me out the door with a final good luck hug, and then I’m on my own. Luckily The Drake isn’t far, and double luck it’s one of my favorite hotels in the city.
My dad always had a thing for Chicago’s early architecture, and when I was younger we’d spend countless hours touring remnants of the city’s past. From the time I could first appreciate Chicago School style and pick out the neo-classic revival scattered throughout the city, he and I bonded while poring over old photos and documents showcasing early buildings. Now that he’s gone, visiting some of our favorite cornices and columns helps me feel like a part of him is still here, watching over me.
It’s no wonder I followed my heart into hospitality management. Stepping through the doors of a luxurious hotel is like stepping into another time, another place, where you can be anyone and nothing is out of reach. I always wanted to be a part of creating that fantasy, and tomorrow morning, I finally get my chance. After months of class work and papers, I’ll be starting an internship at one of the best hotels in the city. It’s a competitive course, and I beat out dozens of applicants to make the grade. I know my dad would be proud.
The cab pulls up to the hotel. A valet greets me immediately, forcing my trepidation away as I get out and wrap my fingers around my gold clutch, and pray, pray, pray that I don’t trip and fall on my face or something equally ridiculous. My phone beeps with a message from Rob to meet just inside the lobby. I’ve met him once before, and he seems like a decent guy considering his sole job is to hang around taking incriminating photos.
I step beneath The Drake’s famous illuminated banner canopy and through the gleaming glass doors. People mill about the marble lobby, and I take a second to breathe the opulence in. Goosebumps prickle my forearms. I can’t help it. The rich blue carpet beneath my feet sets the stage for a room glittering with elegance.
“Juliet, darling.”
Someone touches my back. Rob smiles, his tanned skin highlighting the perfect white of his teeth. He leans close as if we’re well acquainted, part of the act, I suppose, and I follow along, leaning into him and putting a smile on my face.
“You look lovely. Just perfect. Here’s how we do this. The target is in Coq d’Or.” He leads me in the direction of the famous whiskey bar, and I’m so nervous I have to concentrate to hear Rob over the rush of my own pulse in my ears.
“Second stool to the last on the right. Gray Armani suit. Brown hair.” Rob continues, nodding across the room. “Get cozy. As cozy as you’re comfortable with. A kiss seals the deal, usually, so… Callie does her best to get him to attempt it, anyway.”
“A kiss?” I gulp. Callie never said anything about kissing.
“It never goes farther, hon,” Rob reassures me. “His hand on your knee, leaning in to whisper in your ear. Any of that. Look, just do your thing. I’ll text you as soon as I have what I need, and we’re out of here.”
I swallow and nod. Rob nudges me. “I’ve been hovering around that empty seat next to him, so hurry over there before some skank grabs it. I’ll be right back here.” He indicates an empty table in the back. It’s somewhat shadowed, perfect for him to snap his evidence.
Running a hand down my hair, I square my shoulders and take quick steps towards the bar. Nope, too quick. I’ll face plant at this rate, and that’s no way to make a first impression. With a breath, I slow my steps, focusing on the feel of the dress swirling around my bare legs, how my breasts bounce a little as I walk in the nude kitten heels. Sexy. Confident. It’s like playing a part, I decide. Acting in a play. I just have to pretend to be the kind of girl who picks up men in bars.
Easy.
I slide onto the stool beside the target and set my clutch on the bar. Then I glance over for the first time at the man I’m supposed to entice.
He’s hot.
Not just hot, but smoldering. Oh shit. My insides flip. I wasn’t prepared for hotness. He’s facing away from me and I can only see his profile: rich brown hair, a strong jaw, and the kind of sexy, arrogant expression that makes me think of one of those guys in a British costume drama: the kind with a massive country estate who looks great wading out of a lake.
Tonight, he’s all alone, sipping something that looks like whiskey. I look away, wanting to stay casual, but when I glance back, he’s looking straight at me.
My heart slams into my chest.
His blue eyes are cool, assessing. His suit is clearly tailor-made, or just expensive as hell, and the white button down molds to his muscular torso like threads of the gods.
I don’t dare look down to see how his pants fit.
He turns away and so do I, my cheeks burning as I grapple for something to say.
Not that it matters, really. Not with the way he looked at me just now, like I was uninteresting, mundane, plain, not worth a spark of interest. I reach for my clutch, wondering if I should give up and leave right now, when suddenly, fingers brush over the back of my hand.
“What’s your pleasure?”
My stomach clenches and my pulse quickens. Am I really going to do this?
*
What happens next? Discover the rest of the story in THE HOTEL.
Available now!
If you thought Jack was a sexy book boyfriend, turn the page and meet Jackson Ford from Roxy Sloane’s upcoming novel EXPLICIT!
Chapter 1
The manuscript was delivered to Denton Rifkin that morning by messenger. To the annoyance of my assistant Carolyn I’d been asked to sign for it personally, so I rode the gleaming steel and glass elevator down eleven floors to the lobby as the rain tapped against the glass, blurring my view of bustling New York City below. Immediately I opened the envelope, withdrew the manuscript, and read the title page: Untitled by Jackson Ford.
Yes, that Jackson Ford. Creator of “Garrett Addison,” arguably the best spy character since Jack Reacher, and author of my all-time favorite spy thriller, Lions and Lambs. The man behind a dozen novels, four movie adaptations, and a hundred “Page Six” listings. That Jackson Ford. My newest author.
Believe me, I was as shocked as anyone when Louise Hayden called me into her office to announce that Jackson’s former editor, Sol Braunstein, was retiring and I’d be editing Ford. My mouth dropped open. This was either an opportunity to join the literary big leagues, or to fuck-up royally.
“Thank you, Louise,” I’d said when I regained language. “But, why me? There’s six other editors who’ve been here longer, who are better suited --”
“Ellie,” she’d interrupted, “there’s no one better suited to Jackson Ford than you.”
Yet that morning, as I paged through the first three chapters of Ford’s latest, still-untitled work, I wasn’t so sure. It had none of the meaningful storylines, memorable action sequences and stunning dialogue that had launched Jackson Ford into the literary stratosphere a decade before. It was more of the same formulaic, overblown “super-villains and sex kittens” crap that Louise and Solly had allowed him to produce for the past few years.
“Oh God,” I sighed as Carolyn entered with my Earl Grey. “This is not even physically possible! At one point he has Addison jumping from a private jet onto a speeding train!”
“Does his shirt get ripped off?” Carolyn quipped.
“By an astrophysicist. With double D’s.”
“I’m sorry, Ellie,” she said when we stopped laughing. “Too bad you can’t do anything about it.”
For a moment we were silent, as the rain drummed gently on my office window.
“Why can’t I?” I challenged.
“Come on, El, get real. Ford is the cash cow. No one wants to mess with that.”
“But his numbers are declining,” I reminded her.
“Yeah, but even his declining numbers pay for half our staff.”
“I’m thinking just an email, to suss him out. This man is capable of brilliant work,” I said. “We can’t let him become a parody of himself. This is a chance to create something great.”
“Listen Elli
e,” said Carolyn. “He was with Sol Braunstein for ten years. You’ve been his editor for, like, two minutes. You haven’t even had a proper sit-down. He’s probably pretty skittish. And need I remind you, there are plenty of other publishers who would love to have Jackson Ford on their list. I’m just saying, tread lightly.”
I value Carolyn’s advice. I do. So the day went by and I didn’t send the email. But that evening, once she had gone and the halls were quiet, I gave it a second thought. And I wrote him:
Evening Jackson. I’m so excited to be working with you. I had a chance to look at the first three chapters of your manuscript this morning. It’s a good beginning, though I think it could benefit from some of the nuance and depth of Lions and Lambs. So far, the action sequences strain believability. Also, the women are underdeveloped. This is most evident in the sexual encounters – they don’t reflect reality. In general, the balance between fantasy and reality needs a rethink. I look forward to working with you to reinvigorate the brand.
Warm regards, Ellie
And I hesitated. I understood Carolyn’s caution, but this was my first interaction with him about his work, and I wanted him to know I wasn’t going to settle. I wanted his best. It was a risk, but the editors with the enviable lists didn’t get there by playing it safe. I hit “send”.
A half-hour later, after skimming a pile of agent submissions and getting ready to leave, my computer pinged.
Congratulations Ellie! You work fast. You’ve been my editor for less than a month, and you’re already qualified to tell me how to write a novel. But what do I know? I’ve only sold 400 million books over the past ten years while you were learning how to operate the Nespresso machine. But I know I’m in good hands because now I have an editor who speaks for all women. What a bonus!
