The first time I saw Will Munroe I had him pegged as a typical LA douchebag—a little too handsome, a little too rich, a little too into his probiotic kale smoothies. The next time I ran into him—at his daughter’s parent/teacher conference (me: teacher, he: parent)—I noticed his steel grey eyes, his hard chest under a crisp white button down, and his suggestively bare ring finger. I was hooked.



If life really imitated art, he’d have swept me off my feet and taken me right there on the principal's desk. Instead, we are stuck in our assigned roles. He’s the workaholic single dad of a precocious girl child, and I’m her fiery substitute teacher. Never the two shall meet. Enter one zany, yurt-dwelling ex-wife, a stock market that never sleeps, and some over-the-top, A-list fundraisers, and I've got plenty of drama ahead. Better to keep my hands to myself.



But when Will asks me out for a pancake breakfast, how can I resist? My heart (and my stomach) say yes, but am I willing to risk my job for a short stack and a romp in the hay? A slow, sensual, mind-blowing romp in the hay…



But where there’s a Will…



I’m asking for a tissue when he sweeps me up into his arms and kisses me. His mouth covers mine, nothing tentative about it. It’s a masterful kiss, him claiming my mouth over and over again. My arms twine around his neck, when what I should be doing is pushing him away with a Scarlett O’Hara “I do dee-clayah! Mr. Munroe!” But I don’t. Instead, I pull him closer, feeling the scrape of his stubble against my cheek. He tastes like breath mints from heaven, or something else celestial and minty fresh. When we finally pull apart—which body does not want, but brain insists on—I find I can finally exhale. Will lowers me back to the ground like I’m floating back out of a dream, back to my job and the school and…the fact that I’m still doing my job at the school.



While snogging a parent.



Snogging’s a great word.

Okay, brain. Let’s get back to it.



“That was…” Will’s voice trails off. The tone is deep, rugged, sexy.

I've spent seven nights cooped up in this five star hotel, sleeping on 1000 thread count sheets and working sixteen hours a day. At least room service is covered under my expense account. But all work and no play leaves a girl dateless for her brother's wedding.

Prospects aren't totally bleak, though. Four meals a day, I get to drool over this sexy room service guy: he's got a perfect body, easy smile, and a sense of humor that has me snorting over my personal pizza. He's all that and a bag of chips. Specifically, the jumbo bag of ranch barbecue chips that I ordered for breakfast out of desperation on Day Four.

I finally found the courage to 'accidentally' let my bathrobe slip, and ask him to be my plus one at my brother's wedding. So maybe I had to offer him a little money. So what? There's no way I can face my family, make my ex rue the day he left me, or screw off this work stress without his helping hand.

But what happens when I find myself falling for my fake, paid-for boyfriend? Judging by the comped mozzarella sticks he brought me for breakfast, maybe there's a chance he's falling for me too?


“Really? She’s never mentioned you before,” Mom purrs. But damn it, Ben’s ready for her.

“I wanted to tell everyone right away, but she waited. That’s one of the things I love about her—how wise she is. When you have something special, you take it slow.” Then he leans down and presses his lips to my cheek, just a whisper of a touch. Instantly, and startlingly, my insides kind of gel together. Thank god he’s holding me up. “That’s part of the reason I’m so excited to meet all of the family now. You should be so proud of your daughter.”

His confident smile is killing Mom right now. He’s throwing a bucket of water on her, and we’re watching as the witch melts down to a cream pair of Manolo Blahniks and a spilled cosmopolitan.

Her horror at being unable to mock me gives me life. It spurs me on. Move in for the kill, Alex. I grip Ben by his lapel.

“You always know just what to say,” I murmur, trying to sound kittenish. Then I get up on my tiptoes and kiss him.

It’s supposed to be a moment to make Mom uncomfortable and get out of our faces. But the second our lips connect, a hot spark shoots through my body. Instead of freezing or shoving me away—which Ben could do, because I’m borderline assaulting him right now—he pulls me closer. Our bodies melt together.

My head tips back and I inadvertently sigh into his mouth, my lips opening just a little, and that’s when I feel his tongue trace my lower lip, then stroke against mine just hard enough to make my pulse race. There’s nothing in our verbal contract that mentions making out, but I can’t stop myself from reaching up my arms to twine around his neck. As we kiss his hands slide down my back, a little possessive. I think I’m getting dizzy. Man, this guy is a good actor.

He trails his fingers just above the curve of my ass, too. Classy, but still enough to make an onlooker a little uncomfortable. Bullseye. We break apart, even though part of me would like to stay locked to his face. Mom’s gulped down her drink in one go, clearly desperate to get the hell away from her daughter’s happiness. It feels good.

“Well. You two have a pleasant evening.” She says it like we’re a pair of strangers whom she just walked in on to find screwing in a corner of the bathroom. “Go find Rollie before you…do whatever it is you do.” I want to say ‘have sex in the front hall,’ but think better of it. She walks away from us, stiff-kneed and red-faced. My mother tried to embarrass me and got it thrown right back in her face. It’s like Christmas in February.

Though watching her walk away like I just stripped in front of her is kind of like a stiletto to the heart. Since Todd and I broke up—hell, since I took myself out to California and basically flipped her kind of life the double bird—she’s been distant. At least, more distant than she used to be. I can’t help wishing she could just be happy for me and the man I paid to be my date. Is that so much to ask?

After ten years of hiding behind a bathroom door, Poppy Dunne has sent both children to school, emerged from the bathroom, and is excited to release Room Service, a romantic comedy plotted mostly on the toilet.

Poppy writes books with relatable heroines who speak their minds and whose riotous inner dialogue reflects their complex characters. Her goal is to deliver a story that has equal parts heart, romance and humor. Her heroes are swoon worthy, yet hold on to your suspension of disbelief, because they pick up their own socks and cook.

In her free time, she looks for hobbies other than Netflix and procrastinating to fill out this author bio. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and children.