Blurb
Amalie Whitfield is the picture of a blushing bride during her wedding reception–but for all the wrong reasons. Instead of proclaiming his undying love, her husband can be heard, by Amalie and their guests, getting off with someone else. She has every reason to freak out, and in a moment of insanity, she throws herself at the first hot-blooded male she sees. But he’s not interested in becoming her revenge screw.
Mortified and desperate to escape the post-wedding drama, Amalie decides to go on her honeymoon alone, only to find the man who rejected her also heading to the same tiny island for work. But this time he isn’t holding back. She should know better than to sleep with someone she knows, but she can’t seem to resist him.
They might agree that what happens on the island should stay on the island, but neither one can deny that their attraction is more than just physical.
Filled with hilariously scandalous situations and enough sexual chemistry to power an airplane from New York City to the South Pacific, Hooking Up is the next standalone, laugh-out-loud romantic comedy from Helena Hunting, the New York Times bestselling author of the Pucked series and Shacking Up.
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Amazon: http://amzn.to/2wkdeMu
CHAPTER ONE
One
Wedding Unbliss
Amie
This is
the happiest day of my life. I allow that thought to roll around in my head, trying to figure
out why it doesn’t seem to resonate the way it should. This should be the happiest day of my life.
So I’m not exactly certain why the uneasy feeling I associate with cold feet is
getting worse rather than dissipating. I’ve already done the hard part; walked
down the aisle and said “I do.”
My husband excused himself to go to the bathroom several minutes
ago and, based on Armstrong’s itinerary for the day, speeches are supposed to
begin promptly at eight-thirty. According to my phone, that’s less than two
minutes from now, and he’s not here. The emcee for the evening is awaiting
Armstrong’s return before he begins. And then the real party can start. The one
where we get to celebrate our commitment to each other as partners for life. As
in the rest of my breathing days. Dear God, why does that make my stomach
twist?
I sip my white wine. Armstrong pointed out that red is not a good
idea with my dress, even though it’s my preference. Besides, I don’t want it to
stain my teeth. That would make for bad pictures.
I glance around the hall and see my parents, who are probably
celebrating the fact that I didn’t walk down the aisle with a convicted felon.
And frankly, so am I. My dating history pre-Armstrong wasn’t fabulous.
The sheer number of people in attendance spikes my anxiety.
Speaking in front of all of these people makes me want to drink more, which is
a bad idea. Tipsy speeches could lead to saying the wrong thing. I check my
phone under the table again. It’s after eight-thirty. The longer Armstrong
takes to return, the further behind we’ll get. The music playlist, devised by Armstrong
with painstaking efficiency, leaves no room for tardiness. If we don’t start on
time I’ll have to take out a song, or possibly two, to compensate for his delay
and he’s selected the order in such a way as to make that difficult and that
will annoy him. I just want today to be perfect. I want it to be reflective of
my decision to marry Armstrong. That I, Amalie Whitfield, can make good choices
and am not a disgrace to my family.
“Where the hell is he?” I scan the room and take another small sip
of my wine. I should switch to water soon so I don’t end up drunk, especially
later, when all of this is over and we can celebrate our lifelong commitment to
each other without clothes on. I’m hopeful it will last more than five minutes.
Ruby, my maid of honor and best friend for the past decade, puts a
hand on my shoulder. “Would you like Bancroft to find Armstrong?”
Bancroft, or Bane for short, is Ruby’s boyfriend who she’s been
living with for several months. Recently I find myself getting a little jealous
of how affectionate they still are with each other, even after all this time.
Cohabitation hasn’t slowed them down on the sex or their PDA. I have hope that
Armstrong and I will be more like Bane and Ruby now that we’ll be sharing the
same bed every night.
I’m about to tell Ruby to give him another minute when a low buzz
suddenly fills the hall. It sounds like a school PA system. I start to
panic—they can’t start the speeches without Armstrong at my side. What’s the
point of speeches if the groom isn’t present?
I’m halfway out of my seat, ready to tell the deejay, or whoever
is behind the mic, he needs to wait, when a very loud moan echoes through the
room. The acoustics are phenomenal in here, it’s why we chose this venue.
I glance at Ruby to make sure I’m not hearing things. Her eyes are
wide. The kind of wide associated with shock. The same shock I’m feeling.
Another moan reverberates through the sound system, followed by
the words, “Oh, fuuuck.”
A collective gasp ripples through the now-silent crowd. While the
words themselves are scandalous among these guests, it’s the voice groaning
them that makes me sit up straighter, and simultaneously consider hiding under
the table.
“Fuck yeah. Ah, suck it. That’s it. Deep throat it like a good
little slut. Fuuuuuccckkkkk.”
My mouth drops and I look to Ruby to ensure I have not completely
lost my mind. “Is that—” I don’t finish the sentence. I already know the answer
to the question, so it’s pointless to ask. Besides, I’m cut off by yet another
loud groan. I clap a hand over my mouth because I’m not sure I’m able to close
it, my disbelief is as vast as the ocean.
Ruby’s expression mirrors mine, except hers is incredibly animated
since she’s an actress. “Oh my God. Is that Armstrong?” Her words are no more
than a whisper, but they sound very much like a scream. Oh no, wait, that’s
just Armstrong on the verge of an orgasm. But these sounds are nothing like the
ones he makes when he’s in the throes of passion with me.
I clutch Ruby’s hand. The next sound that comes from him is a
hybrid between a hyena laugh and a wolf baying at the moon. And every guest at
our wedding is hearing the same thing I am. Our
wedding. Someone other than me is blowing my husband at my own wedding. My
mortification knows no end.
I grab the closest bottle of wine and dump the contents into my
glass. Some of it sloshes over the edge and onto the crisp white tablecloth. It
doesn’t matter. There’s plenty more where it came from. I chug the glass, then
grab Ruby’s.
People lean in and whisper to each other, eyes lift to the
speakers. A few people, the ones who are probably just here for the
social-ladder-climbing potential, question who it is.
“Is the deejay watching porn?” That comment comes from a table
full of mostly drunk singles in their early twenties.
Several eyes shift my way as I carelessly down Ruby’s wine and
someone asks where the groom has disappeared to.
The grunts and groans grow terrifyingly louder. This is nothing like what I’m used to in bed
with Armstrong. The dirty words aren’t something he ever uses with me, mostly
it’s just noises and sometimes a “Right there” or “I’m close,” but that’s about
it. He’s never talked to me like he is to the woman currently providing oral
pleasure. And I’m very adept at oral. Although with Armstrong it’s very polite,
neat oral, with no sounds other than the occasional hum. Slurping is
uncivilized and a definite no-no.
I reach past Ruby for the bottle of red since I don’t really give
a flying fuck about purple teeth right now. As I sink low in my seat I pour another
glass of wine, surveying the people in the ballroom from behind the cover of
the centerpiece. The centerpieces are huge and excessive and I don’t like them
at all, but at least provides a protective barrier between the guests and my
disgust, which I’m certain they must share. He sounds like a wild animal
rutting. It is entirely unsexy. I have no idea who he’s getting intimate with,
but I’m suddenly very glad it’s not me.
And doesn’t that tell me more about our relationship than it
should.
It’s only been about thirty seconds—the most humiliating thirty
seconds of my life—before Armstrong comes. How do I know this? Because he says,
very clearly, “Keep sucking, baby, I’m coming.”
And “baby,” whoever she is, makes these horrific gurgling noises.
It sounds like some form of alien communication. It’s way over the top, and
apparently Armstrong is loving it, based on the string of vile profanity that
spews from his asshole mouth.
“Holy crap. Is this for real? That was really fast,” Ruby mutters.
I guzzle my glass of wine. Then decide the glass is unnecessary
and take a long swig from the bottle before Ruby snatches it away. Wine
dribbles down my chin and onto my chest, staining the white satin purple. My
dress is ruined. I should be freaking out. But I really don’t care.
“Come on,” Ruby tugs on my hand. “We need to get you out of here
while people are still distracted.”
My older brother Pierce and the emcee are standing in the middle
of the hall, gesturing wildly to the speakers above us. My other brother, Lawson,
is on his way toward the podium in an attempt to do something. I don’t think
there’s anything he can do to stop this train wreck from there.
Ruby tugs again, but I’m frozen, still trying to figure out what
exactly just happened. Well, I know what’s happened. I just can’t believe it.
The sound of a zipper and the rustle of clothes follows. “Thanks
for that, now I’ll be able to last later tonight,” Armstrong says.
“What about me?” A female asks. Her voice is nasally and whiny.
“What about you?”
“Well I helped you, aren’t you going to help me?”
“Didn’t you come with a date?”
“Well, yes, but—” God her voice is familiar. I just can’t figure
out where I know it from.
“My cousin, right? He loves my sloppy seconds. Speeches are
starting. I gotta get back to my ball and chain.”
Gasps of horror ripple through the room, followed by a few
giggles. These people really are assholes.
I think I’m going to throw up. I can’t believe he’s going to come
out here and pretend nothing just happened. Like some other woman didn’t just
have her lips around his cock. His distinctly average cock. Maybe even slightly
below average in length, if I’m being one hundred percent honest.
A door opens and closes.
Lawson turns on the mic behind the podium and taps it, sending
screeching feedback through the room, making people cringe. Too bad no one did
that a minute ago.
Murmuring grows louder and glances flicker to the head table and
then away as Brittany Thorton, a seriously skanky debutante, comes strutting
through the doors, using a compact to check her lipstick. She’s made it her
mission to attempt to get into the pants of half the eligible men in this room.
She’s followed, not five seconds later, by a very smug-looking Armstrong.
“I’m going to kill him.” I grab the closest steak knife, but it
appears my hasty, and possibly felonious, plan is unnecessary. My brothers
leave their respective posts and stalk toward him. Across the room my mother is
gripping my father’s arm, whispering furiously in his ear. Great. Just what I
need, additional family drama.
“Oh shit,” Ruby gasps.
I follow her gaze to find Bane converging on Armstrong with my
brothers. Bancroft is a tank and he used to play professional rugby. I’ve seen
him with his shirt off, he’s built like a superhero and he’ll probably crush
Armstrong, or at least break something. Possibly multiple somethings.
For a second I consider that Ruby should probably stop Bane from
destroying Armstrong’s pretty, regal face, but then I realize I don’t actually
care. In fact, the possibility that he might break Armstrong’s perfectly
straight nose fills me with glee. Armstrong’s wellbeing is no longer my
concern, it’s more about Bane ending up in prison for murder.
“I hope Armstrong has a good plastic surgeon, he’s going to need
it once Bane is done with him.” Ruby echoes my internal hopes and her chair
tips as she jumps up. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.” She nods to the
right.
I notice my mother and father engaged in a heated discussion with
Armstrong’s parents. I really don’t need this right now. Not the drama. Not the
humiliation. All I wanted was a nice wedding. Instead I end up with a husband
who gets a blow job during our reception—and it’s broadcast to everyone
attending.
Ruby urges me into action. “Don’t worry about them. Get your stuff
and we’ll get you the hell out of here. I’ll have the limo meet you by the
entrance near your bridal suite as soon as I can.”
I nod and stumble unsteadily to my feet, thanks to having consumed
the better part of a bottle of wine in the last minute and a half. It’s amazing
how ninety seconds can change a person’s entire life.
All hell breaks loose as more men jump in to either pummel or
extract Armstrong from the pummeling. I grab my clutch and phone from the
table, gather up my stupid, too puffy gown, and head for the bridal suite,
where I had prepared for what was supposed to be the most amazing day of my
life. And now it’s likely the worst, at least I hope the mortification level
I’m experiencing can’t exceed this. I feel like the foulest version of Cinderella
ever.
I rush down the empty hall and grab the doorknob as I fumble
around in my clutch for the key. I’m surprised when it turns. I thought I’d
locked it before we left for the ceremony. Regardless, I need to get away from
everyone before I either lose it or commit a felony. Maybe both. Murder in the
first. Armstrong will be my victim. And maybe that horrible skank, Brittany.
I thrust the door open and slam it closed behind me, locking it
from the inside. Tears threaten to spill over and ruin my makeup. Not that it
matters since there’s no way I’m going out there again. I can’t believe my
forever lasted less than twelve hours. I can’t believe the man I’m supposed to
spend the rest of my life loving couldn’t be faithful to me for even one day.
What the hell is wrong with me? With him? I’m as devastated as I am angry and
embarrassed. Once I annul this farce of a marriage I’ll become a spinster. I
should probably go ahead and adopt six or seven cats tonight.
“I need to get out of this dress,” I say to myself. I reach behind
me and pull the bow at the base of my spine. Instead of unfurling, it knots and
I only succeed in pulling it tighter. Of course my dress has to be difficult. I
growl my annoyance and rush over to my dressing table where my makeup and
perfume are scattered from earlier today. Half a mimosa sits unconsumed beside
the vase of red roses Armstrong had delivered.
The card read: I can’t wait
to spend forever loving you.
What a load of bullshit. I drain the contents of the champagne
flute, not caring that the drink is warm and flat. Then I throw the glass,
because it feels good and the sound of shattering crystal is satisfying. Next I
heave the vase of roses, which explodes impressively against the wall,
splattering water and shards of glass across the floor.
I yank out a couple of the drawers and find a pair of scissors.
They actually look more like gardening shears and seem rather out of place, but
I don’t question it. Instead I reach behind me with my back to the mirror and
awkwardly try to cut myself free. It’s not easy with the way I have to crane my
neck.
“Goddammit! I need to get out of this stupid dress!” I yell at my
reflection. I think I might actually be losing it just a touch now. I stop
messing around with the laces in the back and shove the scissors down the
front. I nearly nick myself with the blade—they’re a lot sharper than I
realized—but that doesn’t slow me down. I start hacking my way through the
bodice; layers of satin, lace, and intricate beading sliced apart with every
vicious snip.
I just want out of this nightmare.
About the Author
Helena Hunting is the author of The USA Today and NYT bestselling PUCKED Series. She lives on the outskirts of Toronto with her incredibly tolerant family and two moderately intolerant cats. She writes everything from romantic sports comedy to new adult angst.
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