βTruly the perfect romantic comedyβthe banter made me grin, the sexual tension had me breathless, and the perfect happy ending left me smiling long after the book was doneβ
Eye Candy
Don't trust lust at first sight.
A βbubbly and sizzling rom-comβ (Apple Books Review) with a light love triangle and an absolutely swoon-worthy hero.
Every morning, a gorgeous mystery man jogs by Jacqueline Butlerβs office window, tempting her to break her βno datingβ rule. Sheβs good with ogling him from afar, but her best friend-slash-colleague Vince Carson suggests she do more than stareβhe wants her to ask the runner out.
Vince knows his best friend Jackie better than she knows herself, and the last thing she needs is a date with a pompous, swole jackass. But after being friend-zoned big-time, Vince canβt exactly ask her out himself. Encouraging her to pursue a guy who is all muscle and no substance will not only get Jackie off the bench, but will also open her eyes to the fact that Vince is the right man for her.
Vince takes Jackie on practice dates, promising to help her hone her skills, but canβt resist edging the fake romance into reality. After a ridiculously epic kiss, Jackie sees a sexier side of Vince, and suddenly anything is possibleβ¦
β...witty, sexy, and kept me wanting more with every page. I absolutely loved it.β
Awards
iBooks Best Book of the Month
NPR Recommended Title
Romance Reviews TOP PICK
Simply Love Book Reviews PUREST DELIGHT
βWhere do your ideas come from?β
Dear Reader,
Once upon a time . . . or, well, in June of 2016 . . . my husband and I were on a Tennessee vacation with a group of close friends. Weβd just bellied up to the bar and ordered drinks when a man jogged by the huge glass windows. My husband pointed him out, watching me as I watched the runnerβin his gorgeous, splendid, shirtless gloryβdash by outside and disappear out of sight. My beloved wore a smirk when my eyes came back to his. Then he said, βYouβre welcome,β because he knew heβd gifted me the mother of all plot bunnies.
I kept wondering what kind of heroine would be watching that golden god jog by. Who was she? Where did she work? At 4 AM that next morning, I jolted out of bed when I figured it out, and grabbed my laptop. The answer, as we now know, was Jacqueline Butler from her office window where she is Vice President of a marketing company. The even bigger surprise for me was when Vince, her coworker, uttered his first line mid-Chapter 1, and I realized that *he* was the hero, not the buff runner outside.
(Oh, and guess what else? I was only going to write *one* bookβ¦ until Vinceβs best friend Davis hit the page and then I decided I had to know more about him, too.) I hope this book sweeps you off your feet the way it did me while I was writing it. Itβs a lot of romantic fun, with a serious emotional punch youβve come to expect from a Jessica Lemmon book.
Enjoy!
Jessica
Excerpt
Jacqueline
My office phone to my left purrs and I smile at it before I lift the receiver. Itβs 11:41 a.m. on a Tuesday, and I know who it is without looking. Kayla does this at least three times a week.
The second I hold the handset to my ear, she says, βFour-minute warning.β
Weβre waiting for my mystery man to run by the window. Well, not mine, but she calls him mine and I let her, because nothing is safer than fiction.
βThanks,β I say. As if I donβt already have an alarm set. I tapped the screen of my phone to silence the musical reminder just before she called.
βNow we wait.β
As you can see, Iβm not the only one watching for him.
Three minutes.
Heβs one of those guys who shouldnβt be real. His upper half is shaped like an upside-down triangle: wide chest, broad shoulders, fantasy-grade muscle mass and physique. For a terminally single woman consciously stocking her fantasy bank, heβs a perfect candidate.
βWhat do you think he does for a living?β Kayla asks, her voice dreamy. Sheβs married to a nice guy named Kevin and has a six-year-old special-needs son who is the greatest kid on the planet. I havenβt met a lot of kids, but trust me when I say Kyle is amazing. And yes, they are one of those families. Kevin, Kayla, and Kyle. Kayla says that if she has a girl, her name will be Kendall.
Itβs all so sweet I could puke.
βMaybe heβs military.β Another smile crests my mouth. Mainly because I know more than she knows I know, but I refuse to tell her as much. I already feel like a stalker watching him jog by my office window. If she knew I also watched him leave our apartment complex every morning, and that we ended up in line at the same Tim Hortons once, sheβd do something horrible.
Like try to set me up with him.
βMilitary guys are punctual,β she agrees. βBut Iβm betting heβs a nerdy type. An IT guy or something.β
βYouβre a webmaster. Are you projecting because it gives you hope that an IT guy might look like him?β
She ignores the jab and replies, βIβve decided his name is Mark.β
βWhy Mark?β My email box dings. Itβs a message from the president of the Brookdale Group, Wayne Wilson. I twist my lips and refocus on the conversation at hand.
βBecause Mark is an approachable-sounding name,β Kayla says. βAnd you should approach him.β
Hell. No.
Not only is this dude an Adonis of the untouchable kind, but his name is not Mark. I donβt know what his name is, but with the initials j.t. on his apartment mailbox, Iβm sure neither of his names is Mark or has a Mark in it.
Plus, he doesnβt look like a Mark.
βI know you think itβs fun to live out my runner-guy fantasy with me, Kayla, but letβs not have this cross into reality.β Vince walks by my wide office window and I hold my breath, hoping he doesnβt stop in for a leisurely chat. I normally have my door open but lately Iβve requested that, if my door is closed, no one interrupt without a knock. That new rule may or may not have coincided with the appearance of J.T. jogging by my window three weeks ago.
Donβt judge me.
Vince is my friend and has been for the entirety of my time spent here at the Brookdale Group. When I started as a junior designer, he was married and completely unavailable. I was on the dating scene and totally would have upgraded to someone like Vince. Face it, the Internet matches I went out with were ones I grew to regret. As of one year ago, Vince was available, but I was no longer looking. Plus, heβs one of my best friends. Since heβs become a divorcΓ© of the bitter variety, he and I have shared a lot of nights and beers. I listen to him complain about Leslie, and he buys me pizza. I am firmly Team Vince.
He gives me a flat-mouthed grimace and rolls his eyes. I smile on the outside but flinch on the inside, hoping he doesnβt know Iβm waiting for my runner to jog by again today.
Then he points outside and taps the face of his watch, and I know he knows. Thankfully, he bypasses my door without knocking.
Whatever. He has his pastimes; I have mine.
βWhoever he is, I think you should talk to him,β Kayla continues in my ear. Funny, I almost forgot I was holding the phone.
I laugh, and it sounds fearful with a touch of desperation. βJust walk outside the building and strike up a conversation? About what? His average heart rate? How fast he can run a mile?β
βWhy not?β
Because Iβd die a thousand tiny deaths. Which makes me think of the way the French use a similar term for an orgasm. Which makes me remember how long itβs been since Iβve had one. Which in turn makes me think of having sex with the mysterious J.T., and that is not a bad thought at all.
Except for everything that would have to lead up to that point. Talking to him. Going on a date. The awkward first-date/front-door drop off. Me stripping off my clothes in my apartment or his and praying he isnβt into anything weird like bedroom acrobatics. I cringe.
Horrifying.
βVince is coming in here,β Kayla whispers.
βYeah, he bypassed me.β
βLucky,β she whispers, and then Iβm hung up on.
My smile fades and I drop my chin in my hand and sigh, watching out the window to see if the Runner makes his appearance today.
Just to clear a few things up: Iβm not afraid of men, or of good-looking men. Vince is great-looking and I canβt tell you how many evenings weβve spent sacked out on his couch or mine over the past ten months or so. Iβm also VP of a nice-sized marketing firm in downtown Columbus, Ohio, so Iβm adept at speaking to men of every age, creed, and body type. I donβt blush or get tongue-tied, and I can tell a dirty joke without embarrassing myself. But dating?
Yikes.
Ever since I reentered the dating scene after my divorce three years ago, I have been allergic to dating. And Iβve gone out enough to know exactly how it goes.
In between the awkward texts (or phone calls if heβs an older guy) are awkward get-to-know-you discussions followed by awkward kisses that donβt often send sparks into the air. The last guy I dated? Totally sparkless. Attractive, successful, nice suit. Not the worst kisser Iβve experienced, but definitely in the bottom ten. You know the sound a lit match makes when itβs dropped into a cup of water? That fizzle pretty much sums up every date I had with him. Breaking it off was a mercy killing. Trust me on that one.
Thereβs probably something wrong with J.T. the jogger, I think as I watch for him out the window. Why would such a beautiful specimen be single? I guess heβs single. Thereβs no ring on his finger glinting in the sun when he runs by, and when I noticed him at my complex after I saw him jogging on a Saturday, I also noticed there was no one else coming or going from his apartment, as far as I could tell.
Shut upβI am not stalking him. I happened to recognize the red shortsβthe ones that mold to his thighs of steel and make a woman think ribald thoughts. When I saw him in my complex, I was sure he was a mirage. My work-time fantasy following me home. But nope, it was him. His eyebrows closed in with effort, mouth open as he breathed, zero percent body fat, and all of him moving like a machine.
I donβt stare out my apartment window on the weekends or anything.
I do have some boundaries.
But here, heβs a guy who runs by a public building on a city sidewalk, and I have every right to turn my head at 11:45 a.m. to see if heβs going to jog by or have a skip day. He had a skip day yesterday and I was notably disappointed.
Which was why Kaylaβs suggestion of talking to him horrified me.
Then I see a flash of red and oh, God, oh, yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.
Captivated, I stare out the window at his perfect form. Slightly longish golden-blond hair bouncing with every stride. Calf muscles straining. Thighs testing the limits of those red shorts. Shirtless, his glistening pecs on display. Heβs truly beautiful. A modern-day statue of David. Heβs not wearing sunglasses today and squints as he runs by, and whatβs this? He turns his head as if heβs looking at me. Heβs not. The windows are reflective. But I imagine he is. I imagine that subtle glance, probably to check his form, is instead meant for me. A smile and a wink to me, his girlfriend, whom he pleasures fourβno waitβfive times a week...
I blink as he jogs out of sight. Then Iβm off my chair, cheek pressed to the window to watch as he vanishes around the corner.
Heβs gone.
Itβs always over way too fast.
βTruly pathetic, Butler,β I hear behind me. Itβs Vince, using my last name, as per his usual.
I swirl around and fix him with a look of pure fury. Heβs a VP too, by the way. Did I mention that? Last year when the vice president quit, two of us were promoted to handle the workload in tandem. I guess that was better than one of us leaving the other behind.
βWhat does the sign say?β I bark, pointing at my ajar office door.
Vince frowns, looks at it, then reads, knock if this is closed.
βAnd did you? Knock?β I fold my arms.
βYes, actually.β He sticks his fingers into the front pockets of his snug, well-fitting pair of jeans. He always wears dark jeans, a black belt, and a pair of leather shoes. Button-down and tie. He gets away with denim because our company president encourages free spirits and creativity...in the men who work here. Meanwhile, the women are expected to look the part of the professional, so Iβll be over here in my silk shirt and pencil skirt and stilettos if you need me. Such is life as a human with XX chromosomes.
βYou were too busy admiring Golden Boy to hear me.β
βI donβt know what youβre talking about.β I crane my chin, because nothing says βIβm not lying through my teethβ like a jutted chin.
Vince walks over to the window and points at a cheek-shaped smudge on the otherwise perfect glass. βWhatβs this?β
βI...fell asleep. Long night.β
He grins and a rare blush steals across my cheeks. Not because heβs attractiveβthough he is. In a scamplike, puckish way. Since he was always off limits, itβs easy to forget he might be someone Iβd look at twice if circumstances were different. If he hadnβt been so completely gone for his wife when I met him. A dart of pain shoots through the center of my chest at the thought. Leslie leaving shattered him. Whenever I think about those first six months, and how angry and hurt Vince was, I want to mail her an envelope full of glitter.
No, seriously. Itβs a thing. Have you ever tried to get glitter out of carpet? I have. I used to host craft night at my place. You find shiny little specks for months. Months.
βYou fell asleep,β Vince repeats flatly, giving me the slowest blink ever. βWhen are you going to admit you have a schoolgirl crush on that muscle-bound jerk?β
βMark is not a jerk,β I blurt.
βHis name is Mark?β Vince winces. I backtrack.
βNo. Thatβs what Kayla calls him. His name is J.T.β
βDo you know why guys use initials as their names?β He smirks, cocky.
I prop my hands on my hips and wait.
βOne of two reasons.β Vince holds up a finger. βOne, heβs either too lazy or stupid to spell it, or two, both names are embarrassing. Likeββhe pauses, both fingers out like a peace sign as he studies the ceiling before finishingββJudson Taylor.β
I drop my arms. βYou think his name is Judson Taylor?β
βOrββanother dramatic pause, only one finger elevated this timeββJaundice Toe...jam.β
I canβt help it. I burst out laughing, holding my stomach with one arm as I double over. When I recover and push my hair behind my ears, Vince is smiling, pleased with himself. This is why weβre friends. He pulls me out of my why-so-serious, and I make him talk about his feelings. Weβre good for each other.
βLeave J.T. alone,β I say, swiping the moisture from my eyes.
βJaundice.β
βHis name could be Jerry.β
βOr it could be Jeremiah. The Bullfrog.β
βVince!β I laugh his name this time and he gives me a reprieve.
βOkay, fine. But seeing you like this is killing me, Butler. You should be out there, living life to the fullest! Carpe diem and all that bullshit.β He gestures to the walls of my office, decorated with clichΓ© motivational posters.
βHey, shut up. They work.β
βYou like that guy,β he says, serious now. βYou should talk to him.β
βNot you too.β I deflate, sinking into my ergonomic office chair with the grace of a melting popsicle on a July day.
Vince comes to me, leans over my desk with one hand flat on the surface, and says, βWhat would Mel Gibson do?β
βModern-day-drunkard Gibson or Lethal Weapon Gibson?β
He gives me a look that tells me that after our Lethal Weapon marathon last weekend I should know the answer to that question.
βHeβd drink liquor and cry over his dead wife,β I answer.
βButler.β Vinceβs voice takes on a gentle quality. βYou can do anything. The only reason you and I share VP is because Wayne Wilson is a chauvinist ass. Iβm doing my best to get fired.β He gestures to his casual work clothes. βWant me to roll my sleeves so my tattoo shows at the meeting?β
He cuffs his shirt and starts rolling, revealing the ink on his forearm. I reach up and tug his shirtsleeve down. His tattoos are sexy in a disturbing way. Iβm not allowed to find Vince sexy. Not the ink on his arms or the tumble of his dark hair over his forehead or the way his long-lashed eyelids shield his blue eyes when he smirks. Weβre friends, and I refuse to allow a rogue wave of female hormones to wash that away. I like being his friend.
βDonβt get fired on my account,β I say, standing and grimacing at the shape of my cheek smearing the window. βIβd have to do all your monthly reports.β
I turn back to see him wink and smile. I canβt deny heβs attractive when he does his βaw, shucksβ routine.
βRats,β he says, his voice more gentle than before. βFoiled again.β