Hooking Up
Helena Hunting
Releases November 7th
Blurb
Amalie Whitfield is the picture of a blushing bride during
her wedding reception–but for all the wrong reasons. Instead of proclaiming his
undying love, her husband can be heard, by Amalie and their guests, getting off
with someone else. She has every reason to freak out, and in a moment of
insanity, she throws herself at the first hot-blooded male she sees. But he’s
not interested in becoming her revenge screw.
Mortified and desperate to escape the post-wedding drama,
Amalie decides to go on her honeymoon alone, only to find the man who rejected
her also heading to the same tiny island for work. But this time he isn’t
holding back. She should know better than to sleep with someone she knows, but
she can’t seem to resist him.
They might agree that what happens on the island should stay on the island, but
neither one can deny that their attraction is more than just physical.
Filled with hilariously scandalous situations and enough
sexual chemistry to power an airplane from New York City to the South Pacific,
Hooking Up is a standalone, laugh-out-loud romantic comedy.
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Chapter Reveal
One
Wedding
Unbliss
Amie
This is the happiest day of my life. I allow that thought to roll
around in my head, trying to figure out why it doesn’t seem to resonate the way
it should. This should be the
happiest day of my life. So I’m not exactly certain why the uneasy feeling I
associate with cold feet is getting worse rather than dissipating. I’ve already
done the hard part; walked down the aisle and said “I do.”
My husband
excused himself to go to the bathroom several minutes ago and, based on
Armstrong’s itinerary for the day, speeches are supposed to begin promptly at
eight-thirty. According to my phone, that’s less than two minutes from now, and
he’s not here. The emcee for the evening is awaiting Armstrong’s return before
he begins. And then the real party can start. The one where we get to celebrate
our commitment to each other as partners for life. As in the rest of my
breathing days. Dear God, why does that make my stomach twist?
I sip my white
wine. Armstrong pointed out that red is not a good idea with my dress, even
though it’s my preference. Besides, I don’t want it to stain my teeth. That
would make for bad pictures.
I glance
around the hall and see my parents, who are probably celebrating the fact that
I didn’t walk down the aisle with a convicted felon. And frankly, so am I. My
dating history pre-Armstrong wasn’t fabulous.
The sheer
number of people in attendance spikes my anxiety. Speaking in front of all of
these people makes me want to drink more, which is a bad idea. Tipsy speeches
could lead to saying the wrong thing. I check my phone under the table again.
It’s after eight-thirty. The longer Armstrong takes to return, the further
behind we’ll get. The music playlist, devised by Armstrong with painstaking
efficiency, leaves no room for tardiness. If we don’t start on time I’ll have
to take out a song, or possibly two, to compensate for his delay and he’s
selected the order in such a way as to make that difficult and that will annoy
him. I just want today to be perfect. I want it to be reflective of my decision
to marry Armstrong. That I, Amalie Whitfield, can make good choices and am not
a disgrace to my family.
“Where the
hell is he?” I scan the room and take another small sip of my wine. I should
switch to water soon so I don’t end up drunk, especially later, when all of
this is over and we can celebrate our lifelong commitment to each other without
clothes on. I’m hopeful it will last more than five minutes.
Ruby, my
maid of honor and best friend for the past decade, puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Would you like Bancroft to find Armstrong?”
Bancroft,
or Bane for short, is Ruby’s boyfriend who she’s been living with for several
months. Recently I find myself getting a little jealous of how affectionate
they still are with each other, even after all this time. Cohabitation hasn’t
slowed them down on the sex or their PDA. I have hope that Armstrong and I will
be more like Bane and Ruby now that we’ll be sharing the same bed every night.
I’m about
to tell Ruby to give him another minute when a low buzz suddenly fills the
hall. It sounds like a school PA system. I start to panic—they can’t start the
speeches without Armstrong at my side. What’s the point of speeches if the
groom isn’t present?
I’m halfway
out of my seat, ready to tell the deejay, or whoever is behind the mic, he
needs to wait, when a very loud moan echoes through the room. The acoustics are
phenomenal in here, it’s why we chose this venue.
I glance at
Ruby to make sure I’m not hearing things. Her eyes are wide. The kind of wide
associated with shock. The same shock I’m feeling.
Another
moan reverberates through the sound system, followed by the words, “Oh,
fuuuck.”
A
collective gasp ripples through the now-silent crowd. While the words
themselves are scandalous among these guests, it’s the voice groaning them that
makes me sit up straighter, and simultaneously consider hiding under the table.
“Fuck yeah.
Ah, suck it. That’s it. Deep throat it like a good little slut. Fuuuuuccckkkkk.”
My mouth
drops and I look to Ruby to ensure I have not completely lost my mind. “Is
that—” I don’t finish the sentence. I already know the answer to the question,
so it’s pointless to ask. Besides, I’m cut off by yet another loud groan. I
clap a hand over my mouth because I’m not sure I’m able to close it, my
disbelief is as vast as the ocean.
Ruby’s
expression mirrors mine, except hers is incredibly animated since she’s an
actress. “Oh my God. Is that Armstrong?” Her words are no more than a whisper,
but they sound very much like a scream. Oh no, wait, that’s just Armstrong on
the verge of an orgasm. But these sounds are nothing like the ones he makes
when he’s in the throes of passion with me.
I clutch
Ruby’s hand. The next sound that comes from him is a hybrid between a hyena
laugh and a wolf baying at the moon. And every guest at our wedding is hearing
the same thing I am. Our wedding.
Someone other than me is blowing my husband at my own wedding. My mortification
knows no end.
I grab the
closest bottle of wine and dump the contents into my glass. Some of it sloshes
over the edge and onto the crisp white tablecloth. It doesn’t matter. There’s
plenty more where it came from. I chug the glass, then grab Ruby’s.
People lean
in and whisper to each other, eyes lift to the speakers. A few people, the ones
who are probably just here for the social-ladder-climbing potential, question
who it is.
“Is the
deejay watching porn?” That comment comes from a table full of mostly drunk
singles in their early twenties.
Several
eyes shift my way as I carelessly down Ruby’s wine and someone asks where the
groom has disappeared to.
The grunts
and groans grow terrifyingly louder. This is nothing like what I’m used to in bed with Armstrong. The dirty
words aren’t something he ever uses with me, mostly it’s just noises and
sometimes a “Right there” or “I’m close,” but that’s about it. He’s never
talked to me like he is to the woman currently providing oral pleasure. And I’m
very adept at oral. Although with Armstrong it’s very polite, neat oral, with
no sounds other than the occasional hum. Slurping is uncivilized and a definite
no-no.
I reach
past Ruby for the bottle of red since I don’t really give a flying fuck about
purple teeth right now. As I sink low in my seat I pour another glass of wine,
surveying the people in the ballroom from behind the cover of the centerpiece.
The centerpieces are huge and excessive and I don’t like them at all, but at
least provides a protective barrier between the guests and my disgust, which I’m
certain they must share. He sounds like a wild animal rutting. It is entirely
unsexy. I have no idea who he’s getting intimate with, but I’m suddenly very
glad it’s not me.
And doesn’t
that tell me more about our relationship than it should.
It’s only been
about thirty seconds—the most humiliating thirty seconds of my life—before
Armstrong comes. How do I know this? Because he says, very clearly, “Keep
sucking, baby, I’m coming.”
And “baby,”
whoever she is, makes these horrific gurgling noises. It sounds like some form
of alien communication. It’s way over the top, and apparently Armstrong is
loving it, based on the string of vile profanity that spews from his asshole
mouth.
“Holy crap.
Is this for real? That was really fast,” Ruby mutters.
I guzzle my
glass of wine. Then decide the glass is unnecessary and take a long swig from
the bottle before Ruby snatches it away. Wine dribbles down my chin and onto my
chest, staining the white satin purple. My dress is ruined. I should be
freaking out. But I really don’t care.
“Come on,”
Ruby tugs on my hand. “We need to get you out of here while people are still
distracted.”
My older
brother Pierce and the emcee are standing in the middle of the hall, gesturing
wildly to the speakers above us. My other brother, Lawson, is on his way toward
the podium in an attempt to do something. I don’t think there’s anything he can
do to stop this train wreck from there.
Ruby tugs
again, but I’m frozen, still trying to figure out what exactly just happened.
Well, I know what’s happened. I just can’t believe it.
The sound
of a zipper and the rustle of clothes follows. “Thanks for that, now I’ll be
able to last later tonight,” Armstrong says.
“What about
me?” A female asks. Her voice is nasally and whiny.
“What about
you?”
“Well I helped
you, aren’t you going to help me?”
“Didn’t you
come with a date?”
“Well, yes,
but—” God her voice is familiar. I just can’t figure out where I know it from.
“My cousin,
right? He loves my sloppy seconds. Speeches are starting. I gotta get back to
my ball and chain.”
Gasps of
horror ripple through the room, followed by a few giggles. These people really
are assholes.
I think I’m
going to throw up. I can’t believe he’s going to come out here and pretend
nothing just happened. Like some other woman didn’t just have her lips around
his cock. His distinctly average cock. Maybe even slightly below average in
length, if I’m being one hundred percent honest.
A door
opens and closes.
Lawson
turns on the mic behind the podium and taps it, sending screeching feedback
through the room, making people cringe. Too bad no one did that a minute ago.
Murmuring
grows louder and glances flicker to the head table and then away as Brittany
Thorton, a seriously skanky debutante, comes strutting through the doors, using
a compact to check her lipstick. She’s made it her mission to attempt to get
into the pants of half the eligible men in this room. She’s followed, not five
seconds later, by a very smug-looking Armstrong.
“I’m going
to kill him.” I grab the closest steak knife, but it appears my hasty, and
possibly felonious, plan is unnecessary. My brothers leave their respective
posts and stalk toward him. Across the room my mother is gripping my father’s
arm, whispering furiously in his ear. Great. Just what I need, additional
family drama.
“Oh shit,”
Ruby gasps.
I follow
her gaze to find Bane converging on Armstrong with my brothers. Bancroft is a
tank and he used to play professional rugby. I’ve seen him with his shirt off,
he’s built like a superhero and he’ll probably crush Armstrong, or at least
break something. Possibly multiple somethings.
For a
second I consider that Ruby should probably stop Bane from destroying
Armstrong’s pretty, regal face, but then I realize I don’t actually care. In
fact, the possibility that he might break Armstrong’s perfectly straight nose
fills me with glee. Armstrong’s wellbeing is no longer my concern, it’s more
about Bane ending up in prison for murder.
“I hope
Armstrong has a good plastic surgeon, he’s going to need it once Bane is done
with him.” Ruby echoes my internal hopes and her chair tips as she jumps up.
“Come on, let’s get you out of here.” She nods to the right.
I notice my
mother and father engaged in a heated discussion with Armstrong’s parents. I
really don’t need this right now. Not the drama. Not the humiliation. All I
wanted was a nice wedding. Instead I end up with a husband who gets a blow job
during our reception—and it’s broadcast to everyone attending.
Ruby urges
me into action. “Don’t worry about them. Get your stuff and we’ll get you the
hell out of here. I’ll have the limo meet you by the entrance near your bridal
suite as soon as I can.”
I nod and
stumble unsteadily to my feet, thanks to having consumed the better part of a
bottle of wine in the last minute and a half. It’s amazing how ninety seconds
can change a person’s entire life.
All hell
breaks loose as more men jump in to either pummel or extract Armstrong from the
pummeling. I grab my clutch and phone from the table, gather up my stupid, too
puffy gown, and head for the bridal suite, where I had prepared for what was
supposed to be the most amazing day of my life. And now it’s likely the worst,
at least I hope the mortification level I’m experiencing can’t exceed this. I
feel like the foulest version of Cinderella ever.
I rush down
the empty hall and grab the doorknob as I fumble around in my clutch for the
key. I’m surprised when it turns. I thought I’d locked it before we left for
the ceremony. Regardless, I need to get away from everyone before I either lose
it or commit a felony. Maybe both. Murder in the first. Armstrong will be my
victim. And maybe that horrible skank, Brittany.
I thrust
the door open and slam it closed behind me, locking it from the inside. Tears
threaten to spill over and ruin my makeup. Not that it matters since there’s no
way I’m going out there again. I can’t believe my forever lasted less than
twelve hours. I can’t believe the man I’m supposed to spend the rest of my life
loving couldn’t be faithful to me for even one day. What the hell is wrong with
me? With him? I’m as devastated as I am angry and embarrassed. Once I annul
this farce of a marriage I’ll become a spinster. I should probably go ahead and
adopt six or seven cats tonight.
“I need to
get out of this dress,” I say to myself. I reach behind me and pull the bow at
the base of my spine. Instead of unfurling, it knots and I only succeed in
pulling it tighter. Of course my dress has to be difficult. I growl my
annoyance and rush over to my dressing table where my makeup and perfume are
scattered from earlier today. Half a mimosa sits unconsumed beside the vase of
red roses Armstrong had delivered.
The card
read: I can’t wait to spend forever
loving you.
What a load
of bullshit. I drain the contents of the champagne flute, not caring that the
drink is warm and flat. Then I throw the glass, because it feels good and the
sound of shattering crystal is satisfying. Next I heave the vase of roses,
which explodes impressively against the wall, splattering water and shards of
glass across the floor.
I yank out
a couple of the drawers and find a pair of scissors. They actually look more
like gardening shears and seem rather out of place, but I don’t question it.
Instead I reach behind me with my back to the mirror and awkwardly try to cut
myself free. It’s not easy with the way I have to crane my neck.
“Goddammit!
I need to get out of this stupid dress!” I yell at my reflection. I think I
might actually be losing it just a touch now. I stop messing around with the
laces in the back and shove the scissors down the front. I nearly nick myself
with the blade—they’re a lot sharper than I realized—but that doesn’t slow me
down. I start hacking my way through the bodice; layers of satin, lace, and
intricate beading sliced apart with every vicious snip.
I just want
out of this nightmare.
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