Sweet Disaster by Ceri Grenelle
Title: Sweet Disaster
Series: Stupid Awesome Love #1
Series: Stupid Awesome Love #1
Author: Ceri Grenelle
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release Date: June 7, 2018
Release Date: June 7, 2018
Blurb
Sophie…has stupid awesome sex with a stranger.
New York City
summers are hot and sticky, which only makes what I’m feeling for the asshole
in my new building even messier. Usually, I quietly reserve my opinions for my
news articles, but when Tony argues with me, he tempts me to give in to my
crazy. I yell back. He smiles. Something in me melts.
It was only supposed
to be one time, but we can’t get enough.
With Tony I’m a new
person, brave and unashamed. But anything between us can only be a fling. He’s
offered a job in Rome. That’s good, right? With a long history of unreliable
relationships, messy emotions are a complication I don’t need.
Tony…has a sexy new neighbor.
I’ve worked my ass
off to climb the ladder at my company, even threw away my passion to prove I’m
worth something. When they offer me a high position, I should be focused on my
work. But no one’s ever spoken to me the way Sophie does. She pushes buttons I
don't know I have. Forces me to confront a dream I gave up long ago.
In two months, we go our separate ways. No hurt feelings. No misunderstandings. That’s the deal. She doesn’t need to know I’ll be playing for keeps.
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Excerpt
Chapter One
Sophie moves into a new building. There are sexy assholes.
The first
time we argue, I feel alive. I’m sweating, my blood’s pumping, and my hair is
sticking to my face in the stinking New York City humidity. I don’t know what
life really is until some asshole starts screaming at me to move my van from his spot, because it feels so damn good
to yell right back at him.
“Get your
U-Haul out of my parking spot!”
This guy’s
hollering at me from across the street.
“Excuse
me?” I call back, convinced he isn’t speaking to me. No one ever yells at me.
I’m unassuming and introverted. I’m a wallpaper ninja, blending so well people
can’t even find me to yell at me.
But the guy
across the street sees me, clear as day.
“Are you
deaf?” he yells with slow and exaggerated articulation. “Get your damn moving
van out of my spot.”
I’m not the
type of person to engage in a verbal fight. I’m quiet-even when someone pisses me off. I
roll with the chaotic nature of my beautifully harsh city: a strand of seaweed
in the ocean, riding the tides. But after surviving the day from hell, only to
be accosted by this bear of a man? I fight back, like I never have before.
“Last time I checked there are no spots
assigned to people on this block, or anywhere else in Brooklyn.”
“It’s an
unwritten rule.”
I mimic his
earlier tone, hitting every consonant and unleashing my New York accent to
embellish the attitude. “If you couldn’t tell, I’m moving into the building and
there’s an actual written rule that
if I double-park the U-Haul, I’ll get a ticket.”
“That’s not
my problem, baby.” He steps into the street, waiting for a break in traffic to
cross. “Find a new spot.”
I nearly
drop the moving box in outrage before remembering it has wine glasses mom sent
from Napa. Breaking them would be a crime. I’ll need them before this shit day
is over, especially after getting a look at the man charging at me like a bull
chasing red.
As he
crosses the street I expect to see a guido with a beer gut, and while I imagine
he’s got a decent percentage of Italian heritage, there sure as hell ain’t no
beer gut. Instead I’m greeted by a fit
and trim physique, tanned skin, and biceps I could drool over. The muscles in
his arms tense and roll with every word, every wild gesticulation. He levels
with me on the sidewalk and removes his sunglasses, revealing dark eyes flecked
with gold. He’s shockingly handsome—like runway model handsome— combined with
the grittiness of a rock star and the best parts of a native New Yorker. I’m
wearing the tank top I slept in last night, a ratty old sports bra, and shorts
I haven’t washed for two weeks.
This day is
the pits.
“Because of
your stupid van, I had to circle the surrounding blocks for twenty minutes to
find a spot for my pickup truck. A paid, limited-parking, spot.”
“How is
your poor car choice my fault? Who in their right mind has a pickup truck and
lives in Brooklyn? You’re just asking for endless nights searching for parking.
What do you do when it snows?”
The
challenge in his eyes is like a book I have to devour. One flexed bicep, an
arched eyebrow, and I’m hooked.
He shoots a
disparaging glance at my van before asking, “You’re moving into this building?”
He points at my new place.
I’ve
propped the outer foyer door open and there are boxes preloaded onto a dolly at
the top of the stoop.
“No.” I lay
the sarcasm on thick. “I’ve come here to unload this van with the sole purpose
of pissing you off. I thought, ‘who in all of New York can I make the most
miserable today?’ ” I raise one arm in a fist pump. “I won!”
His eyes
widen like he can’t believe I’m not backing down, and I might be hallucinating
from the heat, but I swear I catch a smile before he starts laying into me
again, our voices getting louder and louder.
“I don’t
care what you’re doing; I need this spot for my truck, and you need to move.”
“I will
move my truck when I’m good and ready.”
“You’ll
move now.”
“No.”
“No? That’s
it?”
“That’s
it?” I repeat, dumbfounded. As if the world revolves around this asshole’s
giant ego. “I’ll tell you what’s it. It’s
ninety-eight degrees outside. I had to take a day off work to move because the
management company of this stupid new building insists I move one week after
signing the lease, much to the dismay of my boss, who was kinda pissed I didn’t
come in today.”
He opens
his mouth to speak and I cover it with my hand, unwilling to break my stride. I
haven’t unloaded like this in years.
“And then
the rental company loses my reservation for the van, and proceeds to send me to
two consecutive branches 'till I found one that has the size I reserved. Two branches.”
His eyes
narrow as he crosses his arms, but he doesn’t stop me. I’m on a damn roll,
releasing pressure built by an awful day, and years of containing my opinion to
the written word. I keep my hand on his lips, not because it feels nice or
anything, but because I need to get this off my chest and he’s the unlucky
bastard who’s gonna hear it.
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