Mine for tonight a two a.., p.1
Mine For Tonight: A Two A Day prequel,
p.1
Mine For Tonight
A Two A Day prequel
Lauren Blakely
Contents
Copyright
Also By Lauren Blakely
Mine For Tonight
Mine For Tonight
Prologue
1. The Hottie Goes Kersplat
2. Don’t Put the Parrot Before the Unicycle
3. All the Innuendo
4. The Thing Is…
5. Terms of Engagement
Also by Lauren Blakely
Contact
Copyright
Copyright © 2022 by Lauren Blakely
LaurenBlakely.com
Cover Design by © Kate Farlow
Photo:
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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold.
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Ballers And Babes
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The Virgin Rule Book
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Mine For Tonight
What a week. My boss sent me flowers after passing me over for a promotion.
That felt great.
So I escape to the beach with a book.
Now, under the sun, I’m politely drooling over a seriously sexy eye guy on a paddle board when…smack. The hottie gets whacked in the head by a rogue surfboard.
Time for me to play lifeguard to a man who turns out to be… California’s hottest professional quarterback.
And he wants to take me home tonight.
Mine For Tonight
A Two A Day Prequel
By Lauren Blakely
* * *
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Prologue
Drew
* * *
I’ve learned a thing or two from playing football most of my life. To be competitive, you need good hands and a fast mind. But nothing else matters if you don’t have great teamwork.
Football’s a little like good sex. No shade against solo sessions, but sex is best when you and your partner play well together. My best skill between the sheets? Listening to a woman in bed. I follow her cues, learn her likes, take care of all her needs.
I bring those talents to dating too.
And, fine, I’ll admit that as a quarterback I definitely have an advantage in the dating department—it’s literally my job to find chances and then to go for it.
So when I meet a beautifully brainy woman right before the season starts, I’m all in, making a helluva big play for her.
But then, out of nowhere, the universe sacks me.
Oof.
1
The Hottie Goes Kersplat
Brooke
* * *
Are you kidding me?
I stare at the email from my ex in disbelief.
This has got to be a prank. Or he’s doing it for upvotes on some Reddit post—Wildest things an ex has ever said, or something.
Or maybe I just haven’t had enough coffee.
The Los Angeles sun streams through my kitchen window as I cross the kitchen to pour another cup of ambrosia. I swallow a hearty gulp and let it work its magic on my brain cells.
There.
I’m fueled up after the worst week ever and ready to read this bizarre request again.
* * *
Hey, Brookey Babes!
So, you probably follow me online. If you don’t, you totally should. Started a new profile. I call it The Shirtless Esquire. You know, since I used to be a lawyer, and “esquire” just sounds so fucking cool.
Anyway, I’m doing a hot new series called “Conversation with my Ex” for The Shirtless Esquire OnlyFans page. Get this—I’ll be interviewing my exes about what went wrong. It’s gonna be insightful and healing, and it’ll give me a chance to tell both sides of the story. And I know it’s been a hot minute since we were a thing, when I think of exes, you’re one of my faves. How about it? Wanna help me break the Internet?
Love ya much and always,
Sailor
P.S.: Yeah, I’ll be shirtless for the convo. Feel free to do the same, but no pressure. Totally up to you.
* * *
And…I did read it right the first time.
Exasperated, I contemplate a reply. Something like: “Shockingly, Sailor, I do not want to be part of your interview series. Or to speak to you shirtless. We split because you went pants-less with other people. Maybe you should try keeping your clothes on for a change?”
Ugh.
I’d ignore the email and forget about it, but I know Sailor will call too.
And yup. My phone trills and his face flashes on the screen.
I grit my teeth, send the call to voicemail, then text a reply.
* * *
Brooke: Thanks for thinking of me. But feel free to lose my number.
* * *
Then, I block his. I down the rest
of my coffee, blow out an exhausted breath, and stare at the kitchen counter, littered with reminders of my hellish week. My bottle of migraine meds got a workout these last seven days. So did my wallet, thanks to the bill from the tire shop after I drove over a nail in the grocery store parking lot after I got rear-ended by a mom texting in her minivan. And over in the corner, a wilted bouquet of peonies dies miserably, fallen petals collecting around the vase in a stinky mess.
Who sends flowers to someone who didn’t get a promotion? My boss. Why can’t Stephen make it easier to be mad at him? But I guess I should be grateful. Flowers and no promotion are still better than redundancy and no job. It’s hard to get ahead in my industry, and I need the money, so I’ll just have to water the peonies, smile, and go to work tomorrow, ready to do it all again.
But there’s only one thing for me to do today as the weekend draws to a close.
Hit the beach and read a book.
Nothing cures a bad week like some sun and an escape into make-believe.
After a few hours spent basking on the beach, immersed in the latest escapades of Axel Huxley’s vigilante-for-hire, I’ve nearly forgotten my ex’s ridiculous request. The sea and stories have always settled me, ever since I was young. Today, the combo does its trick, washing away my week.
Normally, I wouldn’t let an ex bug me so much, but I can’t escape The Shirtless Esquire. He’s become a thing on social media. My co-workers update me about his online antics, more than one of them noting how hot Sailor is.
I wish I could whatever him away with a pure give-no-fucks attitude, but hearing from him reminds me that in the year since we split, my dating life has been a desert.
My social calendar is the Sahara.
That’s Los Angeles—a good guy who doesn’t mansplain is as rare as a clear lane during rush hour on the freeway.
I set down my paperback on my Los Angeles Bandits towel, then stare at the Pacific, willing the scene to calm my rattled nerves.
In the distance, a boat bobs along. Closer to the shore, a couple of towheaded toddlers cart buckets of sand for sandcastles. Off to the side, guys play volleyball, spiking like they’re trying out for the next Top Gun.
And all along the water, surfers and paddle boarders ride waves and paddle through them. Venice Beach is home for all sorts of board sports thanks to its mostly mellow crests. Neither are things I’ll ever do, but I like to watch and to wade.
I stand and stretch. Watch out, world. A top-notch toe-dipper is on her way into the Pacific.
Leisurely, I make my way to the shoreline, letting the cool water kiss my feet. The early afternoon sun beats down on my shoulders as I wade in until the water reaches my waist. I freestyle for a few relaxing lengths, then my gaze catches on a paddle boarder two board lengths away, close enough for me to see the water bead on his carved abs.
Oh hello, eye candy.
I float on my back and indulge in the primo view.
That body will take a mind off a week of headaches, flat tires, and annoying exes—broad shoulders, carved abs, and a killer smile have that effect. Yup. Happy place, I am in you at last.
The hottie pushes his oar through the water, gliding along a rolling crest of a wave, nice and smooth. Strong legs, big, delish arms, totally lickable abs—all his muscles rippling and glistening with ocean water.
I sigh. This is the kind of shirtlessness I can enjoy. Boarders should be shirtless.
But as I’m enjoying the scenery, another paddle boarder comes out of nowhere, dropping into Eye Candy’s wave, and breaking a basic rule of the ocean road—don’t jump in someone else’s lane.
I pop upright, tensing, picturing dangerous scenarios unfolding. Ones that involve boards, and oars, and heads, and whacks.
The lanky guy loses his footing and tumbles backward off the board in a blur of limbs, hitting the water with a loud slap. The oar shoots from his hand on a fast track for Eye Candy. The former lifeguard in me shouts, “Heads-up!”
But not quickly enough.
Smack!
The oar connects with the back of the paddle boarder’s noggin, and the hottie goes kersplat, face-first into the water. I cringe in sympathy as he’s knocked under the sea.
I move as fast as I can, and as I reach the scene, the skinny guy surfaces and shakes his wet hair out of his eyes. Spotting his paddle board a few feet away, he swims off for it.
“You should be more careful,” I chide.
All of twenty-nine, and I sound like a schoolmarm. Next, I’ll be shouting get off my lawn at the neighborhood kids. But the guy doesn’t even acknowledge me as he chases his board and, presumably, his oar.
A second later, the hottie pops up, brushing a hand along his face and over his wet hair. “Oof,” he mutters and shakes his head like it’s ringing.
“You okay?” I ask over the sound of the sea.
Blinking, he rubs the back of his head. His disoriented gaze is a little worrisome. I’ve got to get him out of the ocean. His board bobs near him, so I kick closer to it, then push it over to him. “Grab your board,” I tell him, then I grab the oar.
He obeys, his strong arms resting on it. His are an homage to arm porn memes everywhere, but I shove aside my gawking to check in. “How are you doing?”
“I think I’ll live,” he says, his tone is a little dry. “Do you do this a lot?”
“Help out when a guy’s been dropped in on?” I ask, and he gives a small nod. “I used to be a lifeguard. If I can help, I will.”
“You’re off-duty and you’re checking on me,” he says with a dreamy smile. “You’re like the patron saint of paddle boarders.”
And you have a body I’d like to worship, I want to say, but I don’t, because manners. Besides, the man’s clearly dizzy, and dizzy people don’t belong in the water.
“I’m glad you’re not feeling too bad,” I say, gently but firmly as I tip my head in the direction of the sand. “But maybe consider life on the shore for a few minutes.”
“Not a bad idea. I hear there are fewer flying objects over there,” he says, his lips twitching in a tiny grin as he paddles toward the shore.
“I don’t know about that,” I say as I swim alongside him, dragging the oar with me. “There are drones, frisbees, helicopters. Airplanes.”
“Fewer flying oars,” he corrects, with a bigger smile.
I smile too, since he seems no worse for wear. “That’s one of its many selling points.”
“I’m sold then.” When the water is waist deep, he stands, picks up his board, and carries it as he wades out of the surf.
And…wow. That’s a helluva backside.
I cannot stop staring. But in my defense…his ass.
He drops his board into the sugary sand, then sinks down next to it. There goes my butt view.
But the face view is fine too.
Swiping away dirty thoughts, I follow him out of the water and plop down beside him, setting the oar next to us. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him. But it’s Los Angeles. There’s a ninety percent chance he’s been in a commercial or is a background character in a movie.
