"a delicious bite of Southern seduction with chemistry that sizzles."
- Rebecca Yarros
GOOD GIRL
a Love Unexpectedly novel
Lauren Layne
Released May 17th, 2016
Loveswept
New York Times BESTSELLER • Lauren Layne brings all the unpredictable heat
of Blurred Lines to
an all-new cast of characters! Country music’s favorite good girl is hiding
away from the world—only to find herself bunking with a guy who makes her want
to be a little bad.
Jenny Dawson moved to Nashville to write music,
not get famous. But when her latest record goes double platinum, Jenny’s
suddenly one of the town’s biggest stars—and the center of a tabloid scandal
connecting her with a pop star she’s barely even met. With paparazzi tracking
her every move, Jenny flees to a remote mansion in Louisiana to write her next
album. The only hiccup is the unexpected presence of a brooding young caretaker
named Noah, whose foul mouth and snap judgments lead to constant bickering—and
serious heat.
Noah really should tell Jenny that he’s Preston
Noah Maxwell Walcott, the owner of the estate where the feisty country singer
has made her spoiled self at home. But the charade gives Noah a much-needed
break from his own troubles, and before long, their verbal sparring is
indistinguishable from foreplay. But as sizzling nights give way to quiet
pillow talk, Noah begins to realize that Jenny’s almost as complicated as he
is. To fit into each other’s lives, they’ll need the courage to face their
problems together—before the outside world catches up to them.
ON SALE .99 CENTS
EXCERPT
Noah
Even in my shitty mood, I don’t fail to
miss the look Finn and Vaughn exchange, which means trouble. These two have
hated each other forever. If they’re joining forces, it means absolute shit for
me.
“Sorry,” Vaughn says slowly. “But when
my best friend tells me he’s headed out to a remote property he didn’t know he
owned to get it ready for a tenant he’s never met . . .
I’m going to tag along.”
“Never thought I’d say this,” Finn says,
reaching into his back pocket for the ever-present cigarettes. “But ditto to
what Country Club said. You really didn’t know this place was out here?”
“If I did, you think I’d’ve let it turn
into this?” I say, halfheartedly lifting a hand to indicate what must have once
been a rather impressive master bathroom but is now seriously run-down.
“Why not just tell this chick no? That
the place wasn’t available?”
I shrug. “Apparently she came here for
some musician’s retreat thing when she was a kid. She wants to come back now
that she has some money. Sentimental bullshit, sounded kind of desperate.”
Vaughn’s eyes narrow. “What’s her name?”
“Don’t remember,” I lie.
Every man knows the name of Jenny
Dawson. Every woman too. Even if you don’t like her music, you can’t escape the
fact that she’s a household name. She’s one of those nightmares that crosses
all genres. Whether you like country music or hate country music, you can’t
turn on your radio and not hear her.
And more recently, you can’t turn on the
TV and not see
her.
The spoiled little princess apparently
got caught in a married man’s bed and thought that Glory, Louisiana, would make
for a nice hideaway. She’s probably right. Glory had a population of 991 at
last count.
Any other day, I likely would have
ignored her email. I have zero interest in playing savior to a pampered
princess, and certainly have no need for her money. But, although she couldn’t
have known it, spoiled Jenny Dawson had impeccable timing.
Her email came on the exact day I
was desperate for a distraction from my real life. And getting a mansion I
didn’t even know I’d inherited ready for a tenant seemed as good a distraction
as any.
Still, as I look around at the fading
wallpaper and well-worn floorboards, I realize I might be a little out of my
depth. I sent out a cleaning crew yesterday, and they called to tell me that
they’d done what they could, but that their services don’t include fixing leaky
plumbing and broken windows.
At least the place will be sparkling
clean if it collapses.
Which it very well might.
“Somehow I can’t see Preston Walcott Sr.
hosting a bunch of kids at a musical retreat,” Finn says snidely as he pulls a
lighter out of his back pocket.
“Dude. Not in the house.”
He gives me an incredulous look as he
waves his lighter around. “Yeah, because cigarette smoke is really the problem
here. I nearly broke my neck on a half dozen missing stairs.”
“A pity about the nearly
part,” Vaughn mutters.
“Pretty sure a professional singer’s not
going to love her bedroom smelling like smoke,” I say as I make a mental note
to fix the stairs.
Finn swears under his breath and goes to
the window, wrestling it open before lighting up, keeping his arm out the
window as he idly blows the smoke outward.
“Classy,” Vaughn mutters. “Still, the
guy has a point. Does this girl know what she’s getting into?”
“I told her I didn’t know what kind of
condition the house was in. She said she didn’t care.”
“Huh. Fucking weird, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t ask you.”
“Yeah, well, how about you start?”
Vaughn says. “You know I’ve got your back no matter what, but I’ve gotta tell
you, it looks like you’re on a downward spiral here.”
“Just because he’s got better things to
do than play golf with you every morning doesn’t mean he’s in a downward
spiral,” Finn says.
“Shut up, Reed. You don’t like this any
more than I do,” Vaughn says.
I glance at Finn. “That true?”
Finn shrugs, his shoulders big and bulky
beneath the tight black T-shirt. “I’m not complaining about you ending things
with the ice princess, but you’ve been actin’ weird ever since.”
“At least tell us what’s up,” Vaughn
says as I bend down to pick up the toolbox. “Yvonne called, said she couldn’t
get ahold of you. You getting cold feet?”
“I don’t wanna fucking talk about it,” I
mutter.
My word choice always becomes less
precise when I’m around Finn.
The guy brings out the other side
of me. The one that doesn’t belong with Vaughn at the golf course, the one that
doesn’t marry women like Yvonne Damascus. The one who spent the first half of
his life living in a two-room trailer and the second half of his life trying to
balance weekends in that same trailer with weeknights in a sprawling mansion in
snobby Village St. George.
Finn represents one side of my life;
Vaughn represents the other. It’s a juggling act even on the best days to fit
into both worlds.
These are not the best of days. Lately I
haven’t been sure that I want to fit into either.
Lauren
Layne is the New York Times bestselling author
of more than a dozen romantic comedies. She lives in New York City with her
husband (who was her high school sweetheart--cute, right?!) and plus-sized
Pomeranian.
In
2011, she ditched her corporate career in Seattle to pursue a full-time writing
career in Manhattan, and never looked back.
In her
ideal world, every stiletto-wearing, Kate Spade wielding woman would carry a
Kindle stocked with Lauren Layne books.
For a
list of all her works, please be sure to check out her official website!
a Rafflecopter giveaway
