And for a bonus instalove story, grab your copy of Beauty & The Kingpin. I’m florist. He’s the king of the underworld.

Happy reading!

xxx

Teaser: Woke Up Wed

My mouth is full of sand. That’s what this is, right? That’s why my throat is so dry I can barely swallow; why my tongue feels thick and furry. I groan and tilt to one side, shifting my rotting carcass onto my shoulder, and after three slow breaths, I force open one eye.

Light.

Bright sunshine spilling through open drapes.

Colors. Pale pink walls and sparkling chrome.

I screw my eyes shut again with a groan, a headache pounding in my temples, but something’s not right. The room I just saw pieces itself together slowly in my brain, and… it loomed overhead, glittering with destruction, the furniture way too big. This isn’t a normal angle. I’m on the freaking floor.

“Ngh.” Can’t speak. Can’t work my tongue. Can only rub my head against the floor, slow and stiff, eyes still slammed shut, and… yep. Yeah, that’s carpet.

Oh, boy.

Am I dying? Did I tease Mr Coltrane so much he finally snapped, poisoning me instead of telling me I’m fired? But… no. This roiling stomach and rapid heartbeat, this clammy sweat and aching skull—it’s all shamefully familiar.

This is what a night of bad decisions feels like.

This is a hangover of epic proportions.

“Fucksaaake.” I sound pathetic to my own ears. My own muffled, ringing ears. And rolling onto my front, mashing my cheek into the scratchy carpet, takes more effort than any workout class I’ve ever done.

What. The hell. Happened.

And shit, what did I do? Because this isn’t my apartment. This isn’t even my city, because it’s coming back to me now. The unfamiliar room and the pale pink walls; the generic artwork and coffee station. This is a hotel suite. My hotel suite.

The business trip. The client meeting.

The argument with my boss.

Oh god. Oh god, oh god.

Did he see me last night? Okay, if that uptight asshole witnessed my messy night, I’ll jump into traffic. He’s judgy enough on a good day, damn it, and if he sees me like this, looking and feeling like roadkill, he’ll probably fire me on the spot. Right after he fixes me with that knowing glare, the one that says: Oh, Effie. So predictable, and such a disappointment.

Okay. Deep breaths.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

In… Out.

In. Out.

I slump into the suite floor, every bone in my body throbbing. Heartsore and numb with horror. And as I lie here, counting slow breaths, the sounds of the hotel filter through my muddled brain.

The honk and rumble of traffic in the street far below.

The blare of a neighboring room’s TV.

And the faint hiss of the shower in my en suite.

…No. I freeze, body rigid on the floor, then shove onto my back, heart racing. Someone’s here. I didn’t sleep alone last night. Forcing my bleary eyes open, I stare down my body, past the tangled bed sheet and sticky bare skin and—and layer of white feathers, what the hell—to my underwear. My panties, still securely on.