Talk British to Me, an all-new sexy STANDALONE romance from Robin Bielman is now LIVE!
Talk British to Me by Robin Bielman
Genre: Contemporary Romance
As the Dating Guy on L.A.’s top morning show, I give the single guy’s perspective on dating, love, and sex—and I give great advice. Everyone’s hooking up…well, except for me. Sure, I can get any woman I want, but I’ve got a “no relationship” clause in my contract and the only woman I want has “relationship” written all over her. Probably stamped on her ass, too. And wouldn’t I like to confirm that.
Unfortunately, she wants nothing to do with me. At all. Something about the next Ice Age might have even come up in her rebuttal. Adorable. Because she’s determined to ignore what one simple kiss proved: she wants me as badly as I want her.
Everything in me is screaming to go after her, but I’ve got a secret that I’m fairly certain will end up with her roasting my nuts over an open fire. So, job on the line? Check. Nuts on the line? Check. Can’t get her out of my head? Nail…meet coffin. But what a way to go…
My cell pings with an incoming text as I approach the garage elevator, so I’m not exactly paying attention when I hear the elevator arrive and sense someone step out. I think I walk around the person, but my shoulder bumps hers.
The delicate feel of her has me jerking my head up.
“Sorry,” we say at the same time.
She’s holding a box piled high with envelopes that partially block her face. I don’t know if it’s from our slight collision or a natural misstep, but the box wobbles in her hands. She sucks in a breath. I slip my arm under the box to help keep it from tipping over, but that seems to make it worse, because the next thing I know, the envelopes are spilling out onto the ground.
“Son of a biscuit!” she says, unable to stop the box from crashing down but keeping herself on both feet.
I burst out laughing.
Hear me out. The “son of a biscuit” is damn adorable. I’ve never heard anyone actually use it before. But better still, the beautiful creature spewing such foul language is none other than the girl who dumped chicken wings on me. Teague.
“I’m glad you find this so—”
She stalls, finally meeting my eyes. Recognition crosses her face as she scrunches up her cute little nose in annoyance.
“Amusing?” I finish for her.
She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. The two of us running into each other again is pretty unbelievable. She huffs out a breath that’s a mixture of contempt and surprise.
“I’m just as surprised as you, baby.”
This time the sound she makes from the back of her throat is pure disgust. She drops to all fours to gather the envelopes back into the box.
I bend down to help, reaching for envelopes while never taking my eyes off her. She’s pissed about more than the dropped cargo. “Bad day?” I say.
She glares at me.
“I’m sorry about bumping you. I was looking down at my phone and thought I had plenty of room.”
Picture a hot girl with blue eyes so kind she couldn’t look daggers no matter how hard she tried. That’s what I’m privileged enough to be staring at now. The corners of my mouth pull up involuntarily. Her mouth, while set in a tight line, is sexy as fuck, those generous lips of hers distracting. “Seriously, Teague, I’m sorry.”
Her expression goes from hard to soft instantly. She sits back on her haunches, puts her hands on her thighs. “You remember my name?”
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