Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 91079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Read Online Books/Novels: | That Guy |
|---|---|
Author/Writer of Book/Novel: | Kim Jones |
| Language: | English |
| Book Information: | |
He’s That Guy. You know, the hero in almost every romance novel. The super-rich, powerful CEO who is beyond sexy. Lives in a penthouse. Is wicked in bed. Has massive…feet. Is kind of a jerk, but really he’s not because he harbors some major secret that, once revealed, explains why he is the way he is—therefore completely redeeming himself and making all the readers who hated to love him swoon…. Yeah. That one. Well, I found him. I’m a writer who has spent years searching for the perfect muse. Now that I know he exists, I have a mission. To make him fall in love with me. This should be easy. I mean, I have issues, but above all, I’m a great catch. Problem is, I did a stupid thing. And now he hates me. Unfortunately for him, he’s my That Guy. And he’s going to love me…. Whether he wants to or not. | |
| Books by Author: | Kim Jones Books |
Chapter One
Never in a million years did I think I’d be running down a sidewalk, bag of steaming dog shit in my hand with one pissed off owner and one really fast Golden Retriever on my heels.
People in Chicago take shit way too seriously.
What kind of person decided it was a good idea for everyone to make a habit out of picking up a hot dog turd? The park here even provides these little complimentary bags in a dispenser that has a picture of a dog holding a plastic bag in his mouth filled with his own shit.
In my small hometown of Mt. Olive, Mississippi, nobody cares where your dog craps. If you happen to step in some, you just scrape your foot on the grass until you get most of it off. If you walk in a store and see people sniffing the air, saying, “I smell dog shit” it’s a natural reaction for everyone to check their shoes. Then it’s a courtesy for the victim to say, “It’s me.” And everyone else nods in acknowledgment and points to the nearest grassy spot around.
Right now, home feels like a million miles away.
I dodge a parking meter and nearly mow down a woman with a stroller. “Sorry!” I hold my hands up and jog backwards as I continue to apologize to the woman. She glares back at me as she squats down by the stroller and unzips the screen to check on her baby. I feel ten kinds of terrible. Until the little Chihuahua cranes it’s tiny, scarf swaddled neck toward me.
For fuck’s sake…
Stupid Chicago.
Stupid dog.
Stupid shit.
Stupid Luke Duchanan.
It’s been years since I acted a fool in Target and had to take an anger management course. But I can still hear the voice of my coach in my head every time I get pissed.
“Now Penelope, it’s not anyone’s fault but your own that you’re in this situation. Let’s reflect on your actions that got you here.”
Yeah. Let’s do that.
Luke Duchanan stole my best friend’s heart while she attended a summer internship program here in Chicago. Six months later he crushed it when she caught him with his dick in another woman’s asshole. She moved back to Mississippi. In with me. And I’ve had to hear her cry and sniffle and sob and watch her drink all of my damn wine for the past two weeks.
So when she told me Luke had a dog shit phobia, I knew what I had to do. I had to max out my credit card. Fly to Chicago on the eve of the biggest damn blizzard the state of Illinois has ever seen. Put some dog shit in a bag, set it on fire on Luke’s porch and video him stomping it out.
I upload the video. It goes viral. I ruin Luke’s life. Make my best friend, Emily, smile. We go to a bar. She retells the story to a guy who’s hotter than Luke. They bang in the parking lot. Emily gets over her broken heart. And then she moves the fuck out of my apartment.
Simple, right?
Wrong.
Why?
Because it’s a struggle to find dog shit in Chicago, Illinois.
When I closed in on the huge pile of crap, my arm rolling six complimentary plastic bags deep, the owner asked me what I was doing. So I told him.
“Look man, I just really need this dog shit, okay?” I didn’t think he would chase me through the city, yet here we are. And there’s no damn way any of that is my fault.
Stupid anger management.
The dog’s bark becomes louder. I chance a look over my shoulder and they’re close. Too close. I take a quick left at the corner onto an even busier street lined with cars. The direction of the wind hits me head on and I’m blasted with arctic gusts of air so damn cold I swear I can feel pneumonia in my lungs.
Out of breath, cold, legs burning, chest hurting, I make a bad decision. I yank open the back door of a black limo and dive onto the back seat. No sooner than the door closes behind me, the owner and dog pass the car. I breathe out a sigh of relief.
That lasts all of two seconds.
I’m in someone’s car.
It’s all rich black leather and soft seats. Clean carpet and blacked out windows. Fancy decanter filled with amber liquid. Tinted partition. Is the driver on the other side? Of course he is.
“Miss Sims?” The voice booms through the speakers and I freeze. “Mr. Swagger asks that I drive you back to his apartment once you’ve finished shopping. Would you like to go there now?”
Swagger? Mr. Swagger?
My eyes move to the intercom. To the door. Back. “Yes, please.”
Why did I say that? In that accent? I am not British. Or Australian. And I’m not sure which of the two I replied with. I always get them confused…