hookers.”
“I’m sure you don’t. Just keep that attitude in check and we’ll be just fine. Snarky is good—women like that—but keep the dickhead moves to yourself, okay?”
Slade stares at her, feeling slightly overwhelmed, and judging by the look in her eyes, she can tell. Her stern expression softens. “This is a great opportunity for you, Slade. I’d hate to see you blow it.”
Reaching into her purse, she grabs a twenty-pound note and tosses it on the counter. She spins on her heel and saunters back to the door, leaving Slade numb and speechless.
“Hey!”
When she looks back over her shoulder, he holds the business card up for her to see. “I’ve been trying for years to get my foot in the door, but I think we both know I had the least amount of experience in that room. I’m just a pub keep with a dream, not some glamorous model.”
Sophie smiles back at him. “That is exactly what we’re hoping for.”
As the bell over the door rings, he blows out a breath and runs his fingers through his hair. Did that really just happen?
He grabs the contract and riffles through the pages, seeing excessively big words. He stops on the final page and stares at the payment offer. It stands out in bold red ink. His mouth gapes open as he runs his finger over the multi-digit amount. He would have to work weekends at the White Horse for six months to make what he can earn in three weeks. Not to mention the publicity that will come from this.
Being on the cover of Tamsin’s new book could just be the big break he’s been waiting for. Maybe he really could move back out of his mum’s flat. Lord knows she hasn’t been overly thrilled with all of his stuff lying around since he was forced to move back in six months ago when his flat mate, Timothy up and kicked him out when he decided to shack up with a new girl.
That one ended badly for both of them.
Slade groans and hangs his head. What is he getting himself into?
A bulldog agent, a fiery author who could hardly keep her hands off him at the photo shoot, and a contract that seems to be offering him the world. There has to be a catch and he intends to find out exactly what it is.
Seven
Ashlyn taps her chin with her finger as she stares into the depths of her closet. She only brought three pairs of shoes with her to London and each is sitting neatly on the shelf at the bottom of the built-in organizer. Her long-sleeve cotton shirts are folded neatly in a pile on the bottom shelf. Her jeans are pressed and neatly hung. Two hoodies, worn and faded but utterly comfortable, and three tank tops dangle from hangers.
The six-foot space looks positively barren.
Her color palette is borderline boring, or at least that’s what Tamsin always says. Her friend has a flare for standing out in the crowd. From her black or white boned corsets, hip-hugging red leather pants, and wild mane of flaming hair, Tamsin Archer knows how to make an entrance.
Tamsin is perfectly suited for this lifestyle. A different city every few nights. Luxury suites and penguin-suited concierges that bend to her every whim, not to mention the flock of fans always at her beck and call.
She doesn’t know how Tamsin does it. There is no way Ashlyn could party all night long and pull off anything even remotely resembling beautiful in the morning.
Not that she would ever dream of going out. Ashlyn prefers peace and quiet, a good book, and a glass of milk before bed. She knows she’s already begun to develop some serious spinster attributes, but at least she doesn’t have a cat yet!
Skimming her hand along her tops, she scrunches up her nose, trying to decide if today is more of a black day or a gray. The BBC weather report drones on in the background about the likely chance of rain.
“Isn’t it always raining in London?” She selects a gray top, knowing that on a wet day like today, she shouldn’t have any trouble blending in.
Sinking down onto her bed, she wiggles into her pair of
“I’m sure you don’t. Just keep that attitude in check and we’ll be just fine. Snarky is good—women like that—but keep the dickhead moves to yourself, okay?”
Slade stares at her, feeling slightly overwhelmed, and judging by the look in her eyes, she can tell. Her stern expression softens. “This is a great opportunity for you, Slade. I’d hate to see you blow it.”
Reaching into her purse, she grabs a twenty-pound note and tosses it on the counter. She spins on her heel and saunters back to the door, leaving Slade numb and speechless.
“Hey!”
When she looks back over her shoulder, he holds the business card up for her to see. “I’ve been trying for years to get my foot in the door, but I think we both know I had the least amount of experience in that room. I’m just a pub keep with a dream, not some glamorous model.”
Sophie smiles back at him. “That is exactly what we’re hoping for.”
As the bell over the door rings, he blows out a breath and runs his fingers through his hair. Did that really just happen?
He grabs the contract and riffles through the pages, seeing excessively big words. He stops on the final page and stares at the payment offer. It stands out in bold red ink. His mouth gapes open as he runs his finger over the multi-digit amount. He would have to work weekends at the White Horse for six months to make what he can earn in three weeks. Not to mention the publicity that will come from this.
Being on the cover of Tamsin’s new book could just be the big break he’s been waiting for. Maybe he really could move back out of his mum’s flat. Lord knows she hasn’t been overly thrilled with all of his stuff lying around since he was forced to move back in six months ago when his flat mate, Timothy up and kicked him out when he decided to shack up with a new girl.
That one ended badly for both of them.
Slade groans and hangs his head. What is he getting himself into?
A bulldog agent, a fiery author who could hardly keep her hands off him at the photo shoot, and a contract that seems to be offering him the world. There has to be a catch and he intends to find out exactly what it is.
Seven
Ashlyn taps her chin with her finger as she stares into the depths of her closet. She only brought three pairs of shoes with her to London and each is sitting neatly on the shelf at the bottom of the built-in organizer. Her long-sleeve cotton shirts are folded neatly in a pile on the bottom shelf. Her jeans are pressed and neatly hung. Two hoodies, worn and faded but utterly comfortable, and three tank tops dangle from hangers.
The six-foot space looks positively barren.
Her color palette is borderline boring, or at least that’s what Tamsin always says. Her friend has a flare for standing out in the crowd. From her black or white boned corsets, hip-hugging red leather pants, and wild mane of flaming hair, Tamsin Archer knows how to make an entrance.
Tamsin is perfectly suited for this lifestyle. A different city every few nights. Luxury suites and penguin-suited concierges that bend to her every whim, not to mention the flock of fans always at her beck and call.
She doesn’t know how Tamsin does it. There is no way Ashlyn could party all night long and pull off anything even remotely resembling beautiful in the morning.
Not that she would ever dream of going out. Ashlyn prefers peace and quiet, a good book, and a glass of milk before bed. She knows she’s already begun to develop some serious spinster attributes, but at least she doesn’t have a cat yet!
Skimming her hand along her tops, she scrunches up her nose, trying to decide if today is more of a black day or a gray. The BBC weather report drones on in the background about the likely chance of rain.
“Isn’t it always raining in London?” She selects a gray top, knowing that on a wet day like today, she shouldn’t have any trouble blending in.
Sinking down onto her bed, she wiggles into her pair of
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