Stud in the Stacks (Girl Band #2)

by Pippa Grant

A grade-A, condescending asshat who thought just because he had a few million bucks in the bank, he could call people gay like that’s an insult and take a metaphorical shit on my favorite books.

A hundred grand. Holy fuck. Batman can blow me.

The jackass is lucky a broken nose is all he has—if my brothers had been there, he’d be missing a few fingers and viewing the world through the slit in his butt cheeks.

Eloise, who’s our drummer, is a pit bull in a toy poodle package, if the toy poodle had dyed its fur black, pierced its tongue, and humped everything that moved.

“I’m not choking, you nimwit,” Eloise says. “I’m getting my O on.” Willow grabs her virgin margarita again. “I really don’t want to know any more about your dating life.” I love these women. They make me feel normal.

I am smart. I am kind. I am strong. I am totally going to fuck this up. No, wait. That’s not right.

My awkward just leveled up out of this stratosphere.

“That wasn’t a blush. That was horror at knowing I could never unsee you two pretzeled like that. And thank you. Again. For the nightmares.”

Aside from being completely unable to handle my kids’ lives, I know how the corporate world works. I’ve seen it time and time again. You get pregnant, take six weeks off for maternity leave, then it’s a doctor appointment here, the baby’s sick and can’t stay at daycare there, and pretty soon, poof. You take five to seven years off to get the kids to school age, and by the time you go back, no one cares about your two master’s degrees and fifteen to twenty years of experience because the young kids fresh out of college have kept up better with the newest technological trends and hottest digital marketing tools and they’ll do your job for half the pay and none of the outside family commitments.

“What’s it look like?” Like the fashion fairy went on a bender and vomited up last season’s clearance rack while jungle animals watched from the walls. I just tripped over a bra hooked around one leg of my bed. I glance at my leopard-print comforter, the impressionist elephant prints I picked up at the Chelsea Flea Market, and the metal monkey table lamps on my nightstand and dresser. There’s no way in hell I’m telling Knox about any of it.

their little grumpapotamuses

That friggin’ cactus is sitting in the only spot in my office that isn’t visible to the camera. It’s a giant-ass prickly pear with like fourteen paddles and a bajillion prickles in a two-foot-wide pot, and I keep wondering if it’s ever going to die or if the night cleaning crew is watering it. I don’t know shit about cactuses, but I know that one’s a dick. A cock-blocking cactus dick.

It’s cutting into my reading time, and I’m getting annoyed.

Favorite sexy fake fiancée read? Lauren Blakely’s Big Rock. Favorite fake fiancée heroine? Kimmie in Jamie Farrell’s Sugared. Sweetest? Rachel Harris’s Seven Day Fiancé.

Jennifer Crusie’s Bet Me. One of my classic favorites.

“Is my grandson texting you pictures of his penis?” Nana demands. “Nana. Kid party.” Steph snaps a pair of tongs at her. “Zip it with the potty mouth or no tacos for you.” “She’s laughing. It’s a legit question.”

“That must keep you busy.” Her nose flares as she laughs. “Oh, you have no idea.” I shoot a glance up at the black-and-steel building I just exited. “I might.” She looks too, then nods. “You know what? I think you really might.”

Three of them and I had a nice midnight snack together after I left Parker’s house on Tuesday. And by snack, I mean they teamed up, got me in a headlock, tied me to lamppost, and held a lighter at my dick until they were convinced I was both normal and just as concerned about Parker’s well-being as they were.