Virgin Territory
Page 14
Fake lashes were out.
Foundation contouring? Negative.
Waxing? Please. She wasn’t a masochist.
These days the word pragmatic carried far more value for her than pretty, thanks very much. Flicking on the radio, she relaxed her shoulders as a familiar guitar riff filled her ’78 wood-paneled Jeep Wagoneer. She had an unabashed love for classic cars and classic rock, and Tom Cochrane was a guy who knew his stuff. Life was a highway, except forget the part about driving it “all night long.”
Or driving anywhere for that matter. Satan would ice-skate through hell before this insane gridlock budged.
A silver Prius inched forward until it practically dry-humped her bumper.
Meep! The driver leaned on a wimpy-sounding horn.
Honking under these conditions was a ballsy move, akin to sitting in the last row of an airplane and standing when the cabin crew disarmed the doors—a good way to tempt ordinary citizens to commit murder.
The driver beeped again.
“Use your eyes. There’s nowhere for me to go!” Neve glanced to the rearview mirror and gazed at the distinctive red cursive on the Prius’s license plate.
A California driver. Surprise, surprise. She’d bet the loose change in the bottom of her purse that this chick was a Bay Area transplant, relocating her traffic problems to Denver along with skyrocketing home prices. The whole West was getting Californicated, from Nevada to Montana, Texas to Colorado.
The horn beeped a third time. She fisted her insulated travel mug and then took a careful sip. Madam Prius better thank her astrological chart that Neve had hot coffee within arm’s reach because otherwise things could get ugly.
A minute passed.
Two.
Blessed silence reigned.
After blowing up her bangs, she pulled an everything bagel from the flimsy paper bag on the dashboard, cramming it into her mouth. In a parallel universe, Alter-Neve woke with ample time to prepare a nutritious breakfast, perhaps an acai bowl topped by sliced bananas and kiwi fruit or Greek yogurt and granola, Instagram-worthy concoctions bursting with enough omegas and fiber to make any Prius driver water their home herb garden with organic tears.
But in this world, Einstein Bros. and a dark roast had to do the job.
She brushed stray poppy seeds and flecks of dried garlic off her charcoal pants with a muffled sigh. Charcoal, i.e., dark grey . . . not black. Her somber closet palette might be as cheerful as a funeral home, but it never required expending mental energy at seven a.m. trying to coordinate funky colors or mix and match patterns.
From her roadside perch, the burlesque model appeared amused, as if she knew Neve ate the same humdrum breakfast day in, day out and dressed in the same humdrum wardrobe. Or that while she might have an impressive LinkedIn profile, that didn’t translate to a social life worth posting over.
Neve poked out her tongue at the model’s image. This low-maintenance duckling had grown up to be . . . if not a preening swan, a confident duck.
She had a good—scratch that, great—career as a sports columnist for the Denver Age covering the hockey beat, and her life was too consumed by deadlines to bother with extra fuss. Work was the priority, and as for her biological clock . . . well, it could keep right on ticking. She had another baby to grow, her side hustle, a podcast—Sports Heaven—that kept climbing iTunes rankings; she had even been featured in their New and Noteworthy section last month.
Rut-shmut. By any measure, Neve was doing great in her career and living her best life. Except her smirk faded as she glanced to the console clock. She’d risk missing the puck drop if traffic didn’t improve soon.
Hopefully, the Hellions would get a much-needed win tonight. After their recent back-to-back championships, it appeared the team’s days in the sun had fallen into one serious shadow. The roster had been shaken ever since the unexpected retirement of captain Jed West last summer. This season had started as a big disappointment for Denver fans, and worse, whispers of NHL labor disputes were gaining traction. For the past few weeks, trusted sources had even uttered the dreaded term lockout—a word that kept her up at night restless and fretting.
Fingers—and toes—crossed that the powers that be would navigate through the negotiations and get the league back on track. During the 04–05 lockout, the whole season was cancelled—the worst possible outcome. Stadiums sat empty. Fans grumbled. Refs and arena workers forwent paychecks.
She shuddered, mentally elbowing away the terrible idea. Hopefully this time around, cooler heads would prevail.
And as for the Hellions, there was another place where cooler heads needed to prevail. Maybe if their goalie would practice a little Zen meditation and quit getting players sent to the penalty box every damn ga—
Meep! Meeeeeeeeep! Madam Prius hit the horn as if she’d face-planted on the steering wheel and died.
Tension migrated from Neve’s neck, making the slow climb to her temples. The first throbs of a headache emerged. Between lockout worries and this racket, she might spontaneously combust. To release steam, she rolled down the window and flipped the Prius the bird before grabbing her phone off the passenger seat.
Ignoring the new—and so far unlistened-to—mindfulness podcast her friend Margot had recommended, she clicked on Byways, the popular navigation app that relied on community-sourced traffic updates to create the fastest routes. It needed to get her moving before she found herself arrested for disorderly conduct.
She plugged in the Hellions stadium address and an avatar of a pitchfork blinked from a quarter mile ahead. Her tummy performed a flawless triple-axel jump.
Rovhal30.
She took a deep breath and issued herself a stern reminder. There had never been any official confirmation that Rovhal30 was even male, but in her mind, he was six feet of strapping sexiness, lounging behind the wheel of a black Subaru Outback—a ginger-haired Ewan McGregor doppelgänger. Not Trainspotting Ewan either. Not even Moulin Rouge! Ewan. No . . . straight-up Obi-Wan Kenobi Attack of the Clones Ewan, with the shaggy hair and delicious beard.
One thing was for certain, the pitchfork avatar meant that Rovhal30 was a Hellions hockey fan.
Or a devil worshiper who lives in his mom’s basement hand-feeding his pet bull pythons.
The pitchfork didn’t budge. Rovhal30 was stuck in this traffic too. She sucked in her lower lip, debating: To message or not to message? That was the question.
No point glancing to Burlesque Blondie for advice. The model would just shimmy her tassels in a “you go, guuuurl” affirmation.
Eenie, meanie, miny . . . ugh. Fine. She was doing this.
NeverL8: Fancy seeing you here
She hit Send before she could second-guess her actions. Here was hoping that her tone came across more cheerful than creepy.
Rovhal30: (typing)
It always took Rovhal30 time to type back, credible evidence that he was a sixty-plus grandmother learning to operate her first smartphone, but why ruin the fantasy?
Neve drummed her thumbs on the steering wheel. She didn’t bother with online dating. The idea of some random dude swiping left on her profile while taking his morning dump left a lot to be desired. But this meant that her one meaningful online relationship was with a fellow commuter on a traffic app—someone who felt male and might be attractive.
The ugly truth was that she hadn’t gotten laid since the first Obama administration, even though her “office” was a locker room populated by sweaty men who rivaled Olympic gods. Every time someone heard about her job as a sports reporter, they’d gush, “Oh my God! Do you ever get to interview the players in their towels? Is it amazing?”
For the record, she had at one time or another glimpsed most of the Hellions team sans towels. As for the endless question “Is it amazing?” try asking the Louvre gallery attendant who guarded the Mona Lisa if they ever got used to the portrait’s iconic smile.
Sure, the players were sexy with their cut bods and muscular buns, but a glimpse of w
ang didn’t exactly send her heart racing. She was there in a professional capacity, not to be a pervert.
Rovhal30: Hello there
The Byways app made it impossible to text another driver unless the car was at a complete stop. Sadly, she too often found herself in this situation at the same time of day. A month ago, Rovhal30 had posted a community traffic update about a brush fire in the median. She’d asked a clarifying question and they’d struck up an odd friendship ever since.
Rovhal30: I’ve been saving a joke for you
Neve ordered the flutter in her stomach to stand down. “He probably looks like a cross between Homer Simpson and Steve Buscemi,” she muttered.
But still, he’d saved a joke for her . . . which meant he thought of her. At least a little.
NeverL8: Lay it on me
Perfectly casual response—Excellent. For all Rovhal30 knew, she was a Byways floozy, texting with dozens of users on a regular basis.
Rovhal30: What kind of computer sings?
NevrL8: I give up
Rovhal30: A Dell
She snickered. Good one.
NeverL8: Actual LOLZ
Rovhal30: LOLZ?
NeverL8: Uh . . . like laugh out loud?
Rovhal30: Why the Z?
NeverL8: It’s nonstandard spelling of the suffix “s” . . . i.e. just for fun.
Rovhal30: Remind me what i.e means again?
NeverL8: Latin for “id est”’ which translates roughly to “in other words.” I like it. Use it all the time.
She attached the nerdy-face emoticon for good measure and hit Send.
Pause. No response.
She chewed the inside of her cheek and waited. Still nothing.
Gah. Had she driven him away with an obscure-grammar geek out? She rocked her head back against the seat and groaned—she sucked at this. Her gaze connected with Burlesque Blondie. Fine, not only was she stuck in a rut, she won all the awards for awkward internet flirting.
It could be time to accept her spinster status, drive to the shelter and finally choose a kitten for that cat tower that she’d bought last summer at a garage sale.
Traffic crawled forward, Rovhal30’s pitchfork avatar ticked away on the upcoming off-ramp, her own exit. She gave a slow exhale and clicked out of the app.
A journalist’s first obligation was to tell the truth. Hers was that she was undersexed and overworked. She wasn’t living her best life. She didn’t even have a life, too busy to even be a crazy cat lady. Her rut had masqueraded as a comfortable routine for too long. It was high time to climb out and put herself into the world. Find her inner sex kitten and make it purr.
Faster than the speed of second guesses, she snapped a photo of the phone number for The Twirling Tassels, shifted out of first gear and hit the gas.
About the Author
LIA RILEY is a contemporary romance author. USA Today describes her as “refreshing” and RT Book Reviews calls her books “sizzling and heartfelt.” She loves her husband, three kids, wandering redwood forests and a perfect pour over coffee. She is 25% sarcastic, 54% optimistic, and 122% bad at math (good thing she writes happy endings for a living). She and her family live mostly in Northern California.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com
By Lia Riley
Hellions Angels Series
Mister Hockey
Head Coach
Virgin Territory
Brightwater Series
Last First Kiss
Right Wrong Guy
Best Worst Mistake
Hot Winter’s Night (novella)
A Letter from the Editor
Dear Reader,
I hope you liked the latest romance from Avon Impulse! If you’re looking for another steamy, fun, emotional read, be sure to check out some of our upcoming titles.
Love a little suspense in your contemporary romance? Be sure to check out Christi Barth’s second Bad Boys Gone Good novel, NEVER BEEN GOOD. An ex-mobster in Witness Protection is bored to death in small-town Oregon and his beautiful, mysterious coworker makes for the perfect distraction. But they both have secrets from their pasts that could catch up with them at any moment . . . Christi’s series about bad-boy brothers trying to be good will make you laugh and sigh!
We also have the next book in Mia Sosa’s critically acclaimed Love on Cue series for all you contemporary romance fans! PRETENDING HE’S MINE is delicious, trope-y goodness about an uptight Hollywood agent who can’t seem to keep his mind—or his hands—off his best friend’s little sister. Mia delivers another laugh-out-loud, sexy romantic comedy and you don’t want to miss it!
Historical romance fans will go wild for the new Cat Sebastian series launching in April! UNMASKED BY THE MARQUESS is the first in her new Regency Impostors series and it features a housemaid masquerading as a man and the notoriously stuffy marquess who can’t seem to stop thinking about the impertinent scamp. But when her true identity is revealed, can these two stubborn souls find their way to happy ever after? One-click this incredible, passionate romance ASAP!
You can purchase any of these titles by clicking the links above or by visiting our website, www.AvonRomance.com. Thank you for loving romance as much as we do . . . enjoy!
Sincerely,
Nicole Fischer
Editorial Director
Avon Impulse
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
virgin territory. Copyright © 2018 by Lia Riley. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
Digital Edition MARCH 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-266250-7
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-266251-4
Cover design by Nadine Badalaty
Cover photographs ©Pyrosky/iStock/Getty Images (man), © Pyrosky/iStock/Getty Images (eyes), ©BraunS/iStock/Getty Images (beard), ©El Nariz/Shutterstock (neck)
Avon Impulse and the Avon Impulse logo are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America.
Avon and HarperCollins are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America and other countries.
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