Release Date: January 17, 2019
Cover Design: MadHat Books
Everything in life was going perfectly, but then my luck expired.
It all started when I got a new job, which came with a new guy. That’s when I managed to cause an unforeseeable disaster, which took down an entire company in less than a week.
The new job, the new guy and a big mouth led to another giant mistake. Then, one more for good measure.
Flash forward a couple of weeks, and ... I’ve got milk ... because I’m dating the milkman, and yes, milk did his body good.
Not only do milkmen still exist, but I’ve come to learn that some women hire a milkman to deliver more than just milk.
I’m not the sharing type, but I also don’t like to cry over spilled—you get my point. So, I can either have a cow or search for greener pastures.
Depending on my decision, though, I need to ask myself if I’m prepared to tell my future children that their father is, in fact, the milkman.
I make it through the front doors and hop into the elevator, thankful I escaped the madness, unscathed, even if it’s just for today. These kinds of days that feel like forty-eight hours long will eventually give me premature gray hairs, and I didn’t sign up for that deal.
With my phone in hand, I type out a quick message to Layla.
Me: Vino? Is there any in the kitchen and is there enough to cure a bad day?
Layla: Hold, please.
Cue the Jeopardy music as she stops to taste test whatever we have.
Layla: Three bottles—should be enough, but that depends on how bad your day was.
As much as I like the idea of forgetting about my day while guzzling wine, I can’t get blitzed on a work night. Unlike Layla, I can only handle a few glasses, or I’ll wake up with a horrendous hangover. Layla just stays awake all night, and the hangover never hits her. I’m beginning to wonder if that’s key to drinking responsibly.
I would respond to Layla’s text, but my phone is about to end up on the pavement as a hand grabs my elbow from behind.
Not tonight of all nights; I can’t take any more today. “Stop, asshole! I have pepper spray!” Does yelling this phrase really work? From what I can see, none of the other pedestrians bother to look over.
The problem is, I do not own pepper spray, but I’m hoping whoever has a hold of me will let go in fear of getting sprayed by my invisible weapon.
“Is the pepper spray inside your phone or your empty water bottle?” he asks. That voice—I recognize his damn voice, so I drop my arms and release my nut-kicking stance that wouldn’t have done much to the assumed perpetrator behind my back. I’m slow to turn around, feeling not-so-eager to face the idiot who thought it would be smart to grab my arm while I’m alone on a city street.
“You,” I growl.
“What do you want? Oh, and you’re welcome for not attacking you. Don’t grab people from behind.”
“I didn’t mean to scare you. I was yelling your name, but I guess you didn’t hear me.”
“Nope, no I didn’t.”
“Okay, well now that I have your attention, can I ask you for some help?” He has my attention for multiple reasons at the moment, and I’m not sure which one requires help.
“It’s tempting, but I’m pretty sure I can’t help you,” I tell him while scratching the skin beneath my nose.
“Look, I’m in a lot of trouble with this campaign, and if it leaks anywhere, my career is over.”
“I’m sure someone will overlook your troubles to drool at your beautiful features,” I tell him, unfazed by his plea and reason.
Wesley rolls his eyes and stares up toward the darkening sky. The silence lasts longer than a natural pause, so I consider walking away, but one stupid part of me is itching to find out what he will say next. I’d also like to tell him he looks like an idiot, but I’ll hang onto that confession for a bit longer.
“My attorney is working on a retraction, but that guy you work for seems like a real dick,” he says.
“I wouldn’t go with the word ‘real,’ but he is a dick, yeah.”
“When did you start working—” A bus speeds by, drowning his words in the rumble. “How long—” Another bus.
I check my watch, for no real reason other than to be a jerk to the jerk who was a jerk to me earlier. A stereotype might dictate that certain types of models appear like they never have time for anything, but I don’t like to assume anyone is part of a type, so I will try not to judge at this moment. Although, I imagine when Wesley Moon needs something, he probably thinks everyone should stop what they are doing and help. He had a confident strut when he walked in this morning, and then he was snippy, but I wasn’t helping much.
“I didn’t hear what you said,” I tell him.
“Can I buy you a quick drink so we can go somewhere quieter?”
I glance at my watch again. I’m a busy woman, and there are bottles of wine waiting for me at home. Pursing my lips to the side, I look back up, finding distress in his eyes and stress lines parting his forehead—that can’t be good for a pretty face. My God. Why do I become soft around needy men? It’s like I have a gift for attracting this type of man. Except, these men seem to need attention when in reality they only want to gain full control, which then causes me to feel needy. “I don’t know. I should get home.”
“Sure, yeah, I understand,” he says. “Thanks for the heads up today. I’ll be more careful when the next job comes up.” He’s giving me puppy dog eyes—he can’t be serious. Did his pupils just get bigger too, or is that my imagination?
No, I don’t need this in my life.
I am happy without drama.
I am happy with nothing but my career.
No, no, I’m not. I’m bored, and I’m lonely, and my roommate is my only friend, and she’s not the greatest.
“Wow, you’re really milking this situation for sympathy, huh? Fine, one drink, then I have to get home to my couch—the poor thing has been alone and waiting for me all day. I need to feed and warm it up.”
“First, I’m not ‘milking’ anything, but thanks for the jab. Second, I don’t want to keep you from your—ah—couch, which is why I simply said, ‘I understand.’” Wesley raises a brow as if he needs to appear confused by my statements, but I know better. I’m familiar with the game.
“Yeah, that’s all you said out loud, but it’s apparent you are well versed in talking with your expressions too. Let’s go, pretty boy.” The poor guy has no clue how much worse his day can get.
He sighs but doesn’t argue as he places his hand on the small of my back to lead the way toward wherever he has in mind.
“The place over there,” he points to the corner of the next block, “is quiet until the later hours, and it’s close by so I won’t need to keep you from your couch for too long.”
“Good. I like quiet. I can rest knowing the staff will hear you scream if I need to use my pepper spray.”
He doesn’t respond, but I’m sure he “fears” me like most men do when I use my threats.
We enter a small, modern looking bar with empty booths and plenty of free stools at the bar-top.
“Sit wherever you’d like,” the man behind the bar says.
I take the lead and sit in front of the bartender, and Wesley takes the seat beside me. “What can I get you to drink?” Wesley asks.
If he’s buying, I’ll skip the wine. “Captain and Coke,” I tell him. “Oh, and with a cherry, please.”
“Two Captain and Cokes, hers with a cherry,” Wesley tells the bartender, who stares at us curiously for a long second before walking away.
“What did you need to ask me?” I cut to the chase while helping myself to two cardboard coasters from behind the bar. I slide one over to Wesley and place the other in front of me.
“How long have you worked at Virtual Generation?” he asks.
I sigh and look up at the ceiling, using my fingers to count. “Three full days.”
“Shit,” he says. “I didn’t realize you were that new.”
“Yup, and so far it’s the most amazing job I’ve ever had.”
Wesley shakes his head runs his hand down the side of his face. “If that’s the case, you may want to consider a career change.”
“Already on it,” I tell him.
A couple minutes of silence isn’t awkward like I would have expected, and Wesley seems more down to earth than I gave him credit for earlier even if my speculation is due on his apparent interest in the game on TV.
The bartender places our drinks down and drops a cocktail straw in each of our glasses, giving Wesley a sidelong glance.
“Why wouldn’t you read the fine print on the contract?” I ask Wesley, pulling his attention away from the TV.
“The milk thing has gotten so old, I figured it was a boilerplate type of contract for another milk distributor. It never crossed my mind that someone would want to use me of all people for a breast milk ad.” I don’t know why, but I find it attractive that he’s speaking about the subject maturely after witnessing the behavior from the other men in the office.
“Do you think it’s because you have a nice set of man boobs?” I lift my glass and push the straw to the side to take a quick sip. My question might need a moment to soak in, anyway.
“Wow, you’re not quitting today, are you?”
“I’m just saying ... when you’re a model, you do things you don’t always agree with, right?”
“How does that relate to man boobs?”
“It doesn't. I was just stating a fact.”
“You’re a funny one,” he groans before downing half his glass.
“Yeah, but I’m not the one walking around with a permanent looking milk mustache.”
Wesley drops his glass and covers his mouth, realizing he never cleaned that crap off his face, which has probably dried like cement over the last few hours. I’ve been trying my best not to laugh or make a face at him for the past twenty minutes, but it was my way of paying him back for scaring the shit out of me on the street. However it occurs to me, he must be so self-centered that he probably figured people were staring at him because of his good looks, rather than the fact that he’s sporting a sweet milk mustache. That’s cute and sad. “I’ll be right back,” he says.
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One of Five ARC's for Milkman
About the Author
Hi Everyone! I'm an indie writer of Romantic Comedy, Contemporary Romance, and Romantic Thrillers. Throughout the last six years of my writing journey, I've hit Amazon's Top 100, Barnes & Noble's Top 10, and iBooks at #1. Hiding in suburbia with my hubby and two wild little boys, my active imagination allows me to live life as adult with many imaginary friends.
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