About the Author
Lauren Layne is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than two dozen romantic comedies. Her books have sold over a million copies in nine languages. Lauren's work has been featured in Publishers Weekly, Glamour, the Wall Street Journal, and Inside Edition. She is based in New York City.
Maxine Mitchell is passionate about animals, traveling, coffee, a good bottle of wine, and great stories. Raised an Army brat, she had a mobile childhood (affording her the opportunity to meet people from many different backgrounds) that she would not trade for anything. She currently lives in Los Angeles.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
“I mean, what is wrong with the men of New York City?”
Hunter Cross adjusted his glasses, the ones he wore as seldom as possible but needed more often than he liked to admit. He pointedly kept his attention on his iPad and ignored the question altogether.
Hunter flipped between the two advertising proofs. Black watch on red background? Navy watch on gold background . . .
The iPad was snatched out of his hand.
“Are you listening?”
Hunter sighed and finally gave in to the inevitable, pulling his glasses off and fixing his gaze on the semi-irate blonde who’d been pacing around his office for the better part of the last half hour.
As far as employees went, Brit Robbins was one of Hunter’s best. His senior product manager was low-maintenance, efficient, and innovative in her proposed solutions. An excellent skill set, considering they were on the digital-operations team at Oxford, the country’s most popular men’s magazine.
As his best friend, however, she was spirited, fiercely loyal, and currently . . . demanding all of his attention.
“Sorry, what?” Hunter leaned back in his chair, knowing there was little chance of him getting back to work until she’d solved her problem. Which, best he could tell, was her irritation with the entire male population of New York City.
Brit sighed and plopped into his guest chair. “So, you weren’t listening.”
“Ahhh—” No good answer to that question, especially when it came from a woman.
“Never mind,” she said, setting the iPad she’d confiscated on the corner of his desk. “I should know better than to talk at you when you’re in the zone.”
He watched as she used the hairband around her wrist to pile her blond hair into a messy knot atop her head.
He’d known her long enough to know that she always started the day with her long hair down and perfectly styled, only to have it pulled back and out of her face by noon or so. Hunter didn’t know why she didn’t just start the day with her hair pulled back, but he’d asked once and gotten a disgusted eye roll. He chalked it up to one of the hazards of being best friends with a female.
“Sorry, but in my defense, it is two p.m. on a Friday,” he said, trying to reach for his iPad. “Speaking of which, aren’t you supposed to be in a meeting with the design team?”
“Rescheduled,” she said, her voice distracted and a little bit . . . sad.
Damn. Friendship duty called. He leaned back. “Okay. Bring me up to speed. What’s the deal? Short version,” he added quickly.
She lifted a finger and waved it. “Nope. Do I ever short version you when you want to fill me in on every excruciating detail of the Yankees game?”
“You like the Yankees.”
“Um, no. Not really. I like the junk food and beer that usually come hand in hand with watching the Yankees. Crucial difference.”
“Do you want to tell me what’s making you pissy or not?”
“Lenny and I broke up.”
Ah. “Well, I did warn you about the hazards of dating someone named Lenny. . . .”
Her withering look silenced him. “Right. Too soon for that. What happened?”
“He dumped me,” she said. “Can you believe it? I mean, the guy lives next door to his mother, and she still makes him breakfast. And yet somehow I end up on the sad side of the breakup equation.”
“Oh, come on. You’re not actually brokenhearted over that dude. You guys dated for, what, a week?”
“A month. And, no, I didn’t think he was the one, it’s just . . . what is wrong with me?”
“Wait, I thought the question we were addressing was what was wrong with the men of New York?”
“Aha!” She pointed at him accusingly. “You were listening earlier.”
Hunter dragged his hands down his face and prayed for patience. “Brit. You know I’ve got your back. But if we’re going to talk in circles, can we do it after work when I can have a mammoth-sized beer in my hand?”
“Yeah, that’s fair,” she said with only a slight sigh. “God knows I’ve put you through enough of these talks the past few months.”
“Do what I do,” he said with a grin. “Don’t date unless you feel like it, and keep it casual.”
“Yeah, well, I do feel like it,” she said moodily. “But I don’t get to just snap my fingers like you when I’m in the mood. I’m not a six-foot dude with a six-figure bank account who can get anyone I want just by smiling.”
“You can too,” Hunter said emphatically.
And he meant it.
His feelings toward Brit had always been entirely platonic, but he wasn’t an idiot. This woman was one of the good ones, the type that any guy would be lucky to have. For starters, she was attractive. Very. Average height, but with curves in all the right places, blond hair, big old blue eyes. And a great smile. Which sounded clichéd only if you hadn’t seen Brit Robbins’s smile. The woman seemed to glow.
So yeah, any guy who didn’t get that, didn’t get her, was a moron. At least as far as Hunter was concerned.
