THE LINEUP by Meghan Quinn
Release Date: December 5th
Genre: Contemporary Romance
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Blurb:
Want
to know a secret?
It's about that girl over there.
Don’t look, but she’s the one in the power suit—with the long, black hair and
the serious expression, the one I’m about to go on a date with . . .
Yeah, according to her, she “accidentally” donated an obscene amount of money
to my charity — The Lineup — to win said date but I found out the truth. Miss.
Button Up Blouse has a secret, passionate crush on me.
I didn’t know her name until two days ago, despite the friends we have in
common.
Was I oblivious? Probably.
Was I blind to it? Definitely.
But I’m no fool, I see it now. The High Heel Harlot wants more than just a date
with Jason Orson, she wants to be able to claim the best butt in baseball as
hers.
Here's another secret . . . she has no idea I know.
EXCERPT:
**JASON**
It
isn’t in my nature to cry over burnt ham, but here I am, tearing up like a
jackass, because the meal I’ve been reluctantly slaving over for the past four
hours is two shades away from charred dust.
I
had it all planned out. The timing was right, the recipes perfected, the table
decorated with impeccably folded napkins that impersonated angelic swans, and
polished silver that I scrubbed for an hour until I could see my balls in the
reflection. Nothing says polished silverware like a spoon that gives you a
clear upside-down view of your gonads.
But
even with countless hours of preparing this feast, naked as the day I was born
with only an apron to cover my man-loins, I still ended up with a scorched ham
doused in fire extinguisher agent because somehow, the damn thing caught on
fire.
Imagine
this, a grown-ass man—no, not just a grown-ass man, but a man at the fresh age
of twenty-eight, built like a linebacker with buttocks you can bounce rocks off
. . . thanks to squatting for a living—dancing around the kitchen on his
twinkle toes, arms flailing with pink and white potholders attached to his
hands, screaming like a banshee, as flames light up the Jenn-Air double oven
where the brown sugar and pineapple ham resided.
Are
you seeing it?
Add
the imagery of said man naked, dick and balls harmoniously bouncing in panic
while the apron his “girlfriend” got him that says Eat my food, Lick my dick,
unravels in the fit to unleash the fire extinguisher.
That
was me . . . a minute ago.
Frantic,
screaming, and all in all losing any last shred of my man card I had left.
It’s
why I’m currently weeping like a nitwit into the flaps of my apron, wondering
where I went wrong.
If
we’re going to be honest with each other—and I would like to establish honesty
with you—I’ll admit, I’ve always leaned toward the sensitive side. You know,
the cuddly grizzly bear. Big and intimidating but a fucking gooey butterball
heart on the inside.
Tell
me a love story. I’ll listen the crap out of it.
The
Bachelor? Why yes, that’s one of my favorite
shows.
Do
I smile when sharing a candlelit dinner with myself, followed by a nice long
soak in a bubble bath while Enya—the fucking goddess of all voices—plays in the
background? I sure as shit do.
But
if some ignorant asswipe gets in my face on the ball field, stirring up
trouble, I’m the first to lay a fist across his jaw and the first to be thrown
out of a game.
And
I’m not even sorry about it.
People
are arriving in an hour. I’m vulnerable as fuck with my bare ass resting
against the cold white-oak floor of my girl’s apartment, while a lonely tear
streams down my freshly shaven cheek. I have no main dish, and the apartment
smells like burnt rabbit turd.
Why
am I in this hopeless predicament?
Because
of one person.
One
single person who flipped my life upside down.
A
bombshell in a suit, a ravenous sex-fiend in the sheets, a classy and
sophisticated tight-ass in the boardroom. She’s a knockout who’s always on my
mind. She’s the girl you do things for, that you never thought you’d ever do .
. .
Like
cook a fancy-as-fuck four-course meal for her and her business associates while
practicing interesting conversational starters to ensure the night flows
smoothly.
Back
in college, I might have been referred to as the mother hen of the boys. I
might have cooked at least two meals a week for the guys in the loft, and yeah,
I was the ironing wizard, the one everyone turned to, to get out the most
stubborn wrinkles. The title has carried on over the years, but my creativity
in the kitchen has dwindled with the lack of time, my ironing is now done by my
apartment keeper once a week, and the fresh flowers scattered around my place?
They’re more dead now than alive.
My
point—I’m not the lady of the house I used to be. But I’ve been getting back
into the swing of it.
So
when my girl asked me to perform the impossible feat of an intimate dinner for
four, I should have ordered in, tossed everything in serving dishes, and called
it a night.
But
nooooooooo, I had to attempt to be a goddamn hero and try to cook everything
myself.
And
all for what?
For
one girl?
No.
Not just one girl. The girl who owns my balls, who has a grip so tight
on them that if she asked me to bellow out my ABCs in soprano while swirling my
finger around my belly button . . . I would.
Who
is this girl that has brought me to the brink of boo-boo smush bear insanity
and caused me to weep like a schoolgirl in the corner of the apartment?
There’s
only one lady with more than enough ovaries to buckle the knees of the mighty
Jason Orson.
The
one and only Dorothy “Dottie” Domico.
About the Author:
USA Today Bestselling Author, wife, adoptive mother, and peanut butter lover. Author of romantic comedies and contemporary romance, Meghan Quinn brings readers the perfect combination of heart, humor, and heat in every book.
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