β€œTruly the perfect romantic comedyβ€”the banter made me grin, the sexual tension had me breathless, and the perfect happy ending left me smiling long after the book was done”
— New York Times bestselling author, Lauren Layne

Eye Candy

Don't trust lust at first sight. 

A β€œbubbly and sizzling rom-com” (Apple Books Review) with a light love triangle and an absolutely swoon-worthy hero.

Every morning, a gorgeous mystery man jogs by Jacqueline Butler’s office window, tempting her to break her β€œno dating” rule. She’s good with ogling him from afar, but her best friend-slash-colleague Vince Carson suggests she do more than stareβ€”he 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 can’t 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 can’t resist edging the fake romance into reality. After a ridiculously epic kiss, Jackie sees a sexier side of Vince, and suddenly anything is possible…

β€œ...witty, sexy, and kept me wanting more with every page. I absolutely loved it.”
— USA TodayΒ bestselling author, Sidney Halston

Awards

  • iBooks Best Book of the Month

  • NPR Recommended Title

  • Romance Reviews TOP PICK

  • Simply Love Book Reviews PUREST DELIGHT

β€œWhere do your ideas come from?”

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. We’d 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 runnerβ€”in his gorgeous, splendid, shirtless gloryβ€”dash by outside and disappear out of sight. My beloved wore a smirk when my eyes came back to his. Then he said, β€œYou’re welcome,” because he knew he’d 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* book… until Vince’s 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. It’s a lot of romantic fun, with a serious emotional punch you’ve 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. It’s 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, β€œFour-minute warning.”

We’re 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.

β€œThanks,” I say. As if I don’t already have an alarm set. I tapped the screen of my phone to silence the musical reminder just before she called.

β€œNow we wait.”

As you can see, I’m not the only one watching for him.

Three minutes.

He’s one of those guys who shouldn’t 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, he’s a perfect candidate.

β€œWhat do you think he does for a living?” Kayla asks, her voice dreamy. She’s 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 haven’t 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.

It’s all so sweet I could puke.

β€œMaybe he’s military.” 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, she’d do something horrible.

Like try to set me up with him.

β€œMilitary guys are punctual,” she agrees. β€œBut I’m betting he’s a nerdy type. An IT guy or something.”

β€œYou’re a webmaster. Are you projecting because it gives you hope that an IT guy might look like him?”

She ignores the jab and replies, β€œI’ve decided his name is Mark.”

β€œWhy Mark?” My email box dings. It’s a message from the president of the Brookdale Group, Wayne Wilson. I twist my lips and refocus on the conversation at hand.

β€œBecause Mark is an approachable-sounding name,” Kayla says. β€œAnd you should approach him.”

Hell. No.

Not only is this dude an Adonis of the untouchable kind, but his name is not Mark. I don’t know what his name is, but with the initials j.t. on his apartment mailbox, I’m sure neither of his names is Mark or has a Mark in it.

Plus, he doesn’t look like a Mark.

β€œI know you think it’s fun to live out my runner-guy fantasy with me, Kayla, but let’s not have this cross into reality.” Vince walks by my wide office window and I hold my breath, hoping he doesn’t stop in for a leisurely chat. I normally have my door open but lately I’ve 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.

Don’t 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, he’s one of my best friends. Since he’s 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 doesn’t know I’m 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.

β€œWhoever he is, I think you should talk to him,” 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. β€œJust walk outside the building and strike up a conversation? About what? His average heart rate? How fast he can run a mile?”

β€œWhy not?”

Because I’d 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 it’s been since I’ve 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 isn’t into anything weird like bedroom acrobatics. I cringe.

Horrifying.

β€œVince is coming in here,” Kayla whispers.

β€œYeah, he bypassed me.”

β€œLucky,” she whispers, and then I’m 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: I’m not afraid of men, or of good-looking men. Vince is great-looking and I can’t tell you how many evenings we’ve spent sacked out on his couch or mine over the past ten months or so. I’m also VP of a nice-sized marketing firm in downtown Columbus, Ohio, so I’m adept at speaking to men of every age, creed, and body type. I don’t 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 I’ve gone out enough to know exactly how it goes.

In between the awkward texts (or phone calls if he’s an older guy) are awkward get-to-know-you discussions followed by awkward kisses that don’t often send sparks into the air. The last guy I dated? Totally sparkless. Attractive, successful, nice suit. Not the worst kisser I’ve experienced, but definitely in the bottom ten. You know the sound a lit match makes when it’s 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.

There’s 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 he’s single. There’s 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 upβ€”I am not stalking him. I happened to recognize the red shortsβ€”the 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 don’t stare out my apartment window on the weekends or anything.

I do have some boundaries.

But here, he’s 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 he’s going to jog by or have a skip day. He had a skip day yesterday and I was notably disappointed.

Which was why Kayla’s 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. He’s truly beautiful. A modern-day statue of David. He’s not wearing sunglasses today and squints as he runs by, and what’s this? He turns his head as if he’s looking at me. He’s 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 fourβ€”no waitβ€”five times a week...

I blink as he jogs out of sight. Then I’m off my chair, cheek pressed to the window to watch as he vanishes around the corner.

He’s gone.

It’s always over way too fast.

β€œTruly pathetic, Butler,” I hear behind me. It’s Vince, using my last name, as per his usual.

I swirl around and fix him with a look of pure fury. He’s 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.

β€œWhat does the sign say?” I bark, pointing at my ajar office door.

Vince frowns, looks at it, then reads, knock if this is closed.

β€œAnd did you? Knock?” I fold my arms.

β€œYes, actually.” 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 I’ll 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.

β€œYou were too busy admiring Golden Boy to hear me.”

β€œI don’t know what you’re talking about.” I crane my chin, because nothing says β€œI’m not lying through my teeth” like a jutted chin.

Vince walks over to the window and points at a cheek-shaped smudge on the otherwise perfect glass. β€œWhat’s this?”

β€œI...fell asleep. Long night.”

He grins and a rare blush steals across my cheeks. Not because he’s attractiveβ€”though he is. In a scamplike, puckish way. Since he was always off limits, it’s easy to forget he might be someone I’d look at twice if circumstances were different. If he hadn’t 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. It’s 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.

β€œYou fell asleep,” Vince repeats flatly, giving me the slowest blink ever. β€œWhen are you going to admit you have a schoolgirl crush on that muscle-bound jerk?”

β€œMark is not a jerk,” I blurt.

β€œHis name is Mark?” Vince winces. I backtrack.

β€œNo. That’s what Kayla calls him. His name is J.T.”

β€œDo you know why guys use initials as their names?” He smirks, cocky.

I prop my hands on my hips and wait.

β€œOne of two reasons.” Vince holds up a finger. β€œOne, he’s either too lazy or stupid to spell it, or two, both names are embarrassing. Like”—he pauses, both fingers out like a peace sign as he studies the ceiling before finishingβ€”β€œJudson Taylor.”

I drop my arms. β€œYou think his name is Judson Taylor?”

β€œOr”—another dramatic pause, only one finger elevated this timeβ€”β€œJaundice Toe...jam.”

I can’t 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 we’re friends. He pulls me out of my why-so-serious, and I make him talk about his feelings. We’re good for each other.

β€œLeave J.T. alone,” I say, swiping the moisture from my eyes.

β€œJaundice.”

β€œHis name could be Jerry.”

β€œOr it could be Jeremiah. The Bullfrog.”

β€œVince!” I laugh his name this time and he gives me a reprieve.

β€œOkay, 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.” He gestures to the walls of my office, decorated with clichΓ© motivational posters.

β€œHey, shut up. They work.”

β€œYou like that guy,” he says, serious now. β€œYou should talk to him.”

β€œNot you too.” 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, β€œWhat would Mel Gibson do?”

β€œModern-day-drunkard Gibson or Lethal Weapon Gibson?”

He gives me a look that tells me that after our Lethal Weapon marathon last weekend I should know the answer to that question.

β€œHe’d drink liquor and cry over his dead wife,” I answer.

β€œButler.” Vince’s voice takes on a gentle quality. β€œYou can do anything. The only reason you and I share VP is because Wayne Wilson is a chauvinist ass. I’m doing my best to get fired.” He gestures to his casual work clothes. β€œWant me to roll my sleeves so my tattoo shows at the meeting?”

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. I’m 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. We’re friends, and I refuse to allow a rogue wave of female hormones to wash that away. I like being his friend.

β€œDon’t get fired on my account,” I say, standing and grimacing at the shape of my cheek smearing the window. β€œI’d have to do all your monthly reports.”

I turn back to see him wink and smile. I can’t deny he’s attractive when he does his β€œaw, shucks” routine.

β€œRats,” he says, his voice more gentle than before. β€œFoiled again.”

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Real Love - the complete series