Gettin' Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 1) Read online

  Gettin’ Hard

  Single Ladies’ Travel Agency

  Carina Wilder

  Contents

  Introduction

  1. Adriana

  2. Adriana

  3. Conlon

  4. Adriana

  5. Conlon

  6. Adriana

  7. Conlon

  8. Adriana

  9. Conlon

  10. Adriana

  11. Adriana

  12. Conlon

  13. Adriana

  14. Adriana

  15. Adriana

  16. Conlon

  17. Conlon

  18. Conlon

  19. Adriana

  20. Conlon

  21. Adriana

  22. Adriana

  23. Conlon

  24. Adriana

  25. Conlon

  26. Conlon

  27. Adriana

  28. Conlon

  29. Adriana

  30. Adriana

  31. Conlon

  32. Adriana

  Epilogue

  33. More from the Single Ladies’ Travel Agency!

  Also by Carina Wilder

  Introduction

  When Adriana decides to head to Paris on a trip to "get away from it all," little does she realize what she's in for. Before she's even crossed the Atlantic she meets Conlon Davies, the handsome billionaire with abs of steel and a sharp tongue to match. But he's just a distraction, or at least that's what she tells herself. Just a little hors d'oeuvre before the main course...

  Conlon is a self-proclaimed bastard with no interest in commitment. Women are a game for him; one-night conquests, disposable units of femininity. That is, until Adriana walks into his life. She's beautiful, clever and complicated. And she's supposed to head home soon. But he might just have to figure out how to persuade her to stay.

  This is the first in the Single Ladies' Travel Agency series, stand-alone Contemporary Romance novels to take you to a faraway place and get your mind racing.

  One

  Adriana

  “I’m going to Paris on Sunday night.”

  I bite my lip as soon as the sudden realization hits me: even though I’ve been planning this trip for weeks, this is the first time I’ve uttered the words out loud.

  Jen makes a strange, guttural sound as though her dinner’s coming back to haunt her. To the surprise of no one, my best friend is now assaulting me with an expression normally reserved for someone who’s just announced that she’s getting married to a greasy, psychotic one-eyed hunchback she met three hours ago.

  The You’re completely nuts, and I’m only slightly too polite to say it to your face look.

  “What the living fuck did you just say?” She all but yells the words, drawing annoyed stares from pretty much every diner who was foolish enough to venture into Smokey Joe’s tonight looking for a quiet meal. I slide my butt forward in my seat, trying in vain to hide my mortification under the table.

  Jen’s look of confused irritation only deepens when I greet her question with a half-assed shrug. She’s always hated my shrugging but I can’t help myself. It’s my best self-defence technique when I have no reasonable answer to give but I’m too stubborn to admit it.

  “You know I’m, ahem, between jobs at the moment.” This is my way of reminding her that I left my last job because my boss was a skeezy, handsy asshole who didn’t understand personal boundaries, to put it mildly. “Anyhow, I thought I should take advantage of my freedom. So, Paris,” I say, letting a coy smile make its way across my lips as I tease an ornamental pink straw through my margarita. “On my own. For three weeks.”

  Okay, I’m realizing how bat-poop crazy I must sound to her. I’m a total wuss when it comes to doing things on my own, and this is pretty much the equivalent of announcing that I plan to hop on a ship to Mars tomorrow and leave the oxygen at home. Maybe she’s right to look at me like I’ve just bought a one-way ticket to Crazyville.

  “Yeah, but why?” Her brow furrows so hard that her forehead creases like bedsheets after a night of sweaty humping. Not that I would remember what those look like; I haven’t been humped by anything in eons, unless you count the odd night spent in the dubious company of a vibrator and a glass of cheap merlot.

  “Because I need a change,” I blurt out, tucking strands of long blond hair behind my ears. “I need to get away. I need to find myself. I need…” I pause after realizing that I’m flailing my hands around like a lunatic, attracting bemused stares from every corner of the restaurant. Drunk woman alert, table four. “I need all the clichés that a single woman could want. I’ve got an itch and Paris is the place to go to scratch it, if you know what I mean.” I’m not even sure that I know what I mean, but it sounded really good in my head.

  Jen blows out a disgruntled pfft sound, like she’s venting toxic gas out of her face. “If your itch is that bad, I’d say you need a gynaecologist, not another fucking continent. At the very least you need your brain examined. I feel like someone’s removed part of it.”

  She’s not being bitchy, not really. This is her version of being protective. She’s been this way since we were kids, always looking out for me when I make bad decisions, trying to convince me to change my mind. But I don’t want protection from this decision.

  I shoot her a narrow-eyed look of death before taking a long sip of my drink. Oh, God. Brain freeze.

  When my tongue has regained feeling I say, “My brain is just fine, thank you very much. I do like your gyno idea, though. I could seriously use a pelvic exam. Preferably from an armless French doctor called Jacques with a huge schlong.”

  Jen can’t help but let out a laugh at the image. “I hear they have many armless doctors in France, so I guess you made the right call.” Yes. She’s coming around. I knew she would.

  “Sweet,” I exclaim. “Of course, knowing my luck, Jacques will turn out to have herpes and a dick the size of a golf pencil.”

  “You mean le golf pencil. If you’re heading to France, at least learn the language.” Yes! She’s speaking French, totally on board now. Good ol’ Jen. “But Adriana, I want to understand this. You’re not exactly Little Miss Adventurepants. This seems so unlike you.”

  “Okay, fine.” I sit up and lean in, ready to open my soul to her. “After my breakup with Roger, I realized that he’d done a serious number on my ego, made me feel like I’d be useless without him. I spent a few months just wallowing in a depressed stupor, wondering if maybe he was right—maybe I really was just a useless lump.”

  “I had no idea…” Jen begins, but she shuts her mouth to listen again.

  “It’s taken me forever to get to the point where I feel strong enough to do something like this. I want to prove to the world—to myself, most of all—that I’m perfectly comfortable on my own. I was stuck in a stifling relationship for far too long, and it sucked my soul away. I want it back. I want to be Independent Adriana, at least for a little. It’s finally time to embrace my singleness.”

  She pulls back and stares at me, her brown eyes sizing me up to make sure I haven’t been replaced by a pod person. “You’ve been single for over a year. You’re telling me you’re only embracing it now?” She looks dismayed as it hits her just how hard the last twelve months have been for me. That’s what happens with happy people; sometimes they don’t notice the ones suffering around them. But I can’t exactly hold it against her. She has her own life to think about and besides, it’s not like I reached out for help. I’m a silent sufferer, damn it.

  “A year in which I’m fairly sure I reached the second coming of my virginity,” I reply. “But I’ve come to accept my aloneness, an
d I feel pretty good about it, actually. I’m really, truly content. Happy, even.”

  “Well, good. I’m pissed off that Roger made you feel shitty for that long, though. That jerkass wasn’t worth suffering over. He was a selfish donkey dick.”

  “Roger didn’t make me feel shitty. I made myself feel shitty by staying in that relationship way too long. I failed at the one long-term relationship I’ve ever had. It was a punch to my self esteem.”

  “You didn’t fail. He failed you by being such a twat-waffle. But back to the one year thing—has it really been that long since you got laid?” She looks like she’s trying to sort through one of the great mysteries of the universe. How the hell can a woman survive without sex for more than ten days in a row?

  I nod, not sure whether to be ashamed or proud of my involuntary abstinence. “More than a year, actually. Roger and I didn’t exactly play hide le golf pencil for the last bit.”

  “Well, your vagina has probably shrivelled into something that looks like a piece of dried fruit by now. Maybe a dirty romp with a French sausage is what you need.”

  “My vagina is just fine, thank you.” I give her my best attempt at a snarl. “But this isn’t really about my naughty bits. It’s about me. I want to do something purely for myself. It’s been a long time since I’ve had that luxury.”

  For a moment Jen’s face actually exhibits trace amounts of sympathy. This is what friends do—give you hell for your crazy decisions, then remember that they love you too much to be snarky for long.

  “Fair enough,” she says. “Go to Paris and have a blast. You deserve it.”

  I sit back in my seat and beam with satisfaction. She’s right.

  I do.

  “But there’s one thing I’m confused about,” she adds. Here it comes. “I thought you were looking for a new job? What happened to that plan?”

  I bite my lip again. I do that when I’m nervous. “The search can wait a little while. Besides, I have another plan, one that I intend to set in motion while I’m in Paris.”

  “Uh-huh.” Jen’s nodding, but her expression says What the hell are you up to?

  Here it comes. The moment of truth. The greatest test our friendship has ever faced. Please, Jen, don’t snort-laugh at me. I muster every ounce of confidence that I have and look her in the eye. “I’ve been thinking, and I’ve decided I want to write a novel.”

  “What?” The word shoots out of her like a bullet, her mouth dropping open for the hundredth time tonight. Everything I say is a shock to her system, poor woman. Well, at least she’s not snorting. Or laughing, for that matter.

  “I have a degree in journalism and English Lit. I should be writing,” I tell her, determined to make her understand why I’d venture into a career that’s a massive financial risk, to put it mildly. “It’s what I’ve always wanted to do.”

  “Okay,” she says, placing her palms flat on the table. “Cool.”

  I brace myself, ready to go on a tirade about how she should be more supportive, how this is my dream, how I want to be inspired by the romance of Paris, how…

  Wait—was that it?

  “Nothing?” I ask, dumbfounded. “No reaction?”

  To my massive relief, her face lights up in the warmest smile I’ve ever seen. “Here’s my reaction: I want you to be happy. If writing makes you happy, you should do it. If going to Paris without your best friend makes you happy…”

  “Ah ha! There’s the real issue at last,” I laugh. “You’re jealous as fuck.

  “Of course I am. So jealous I could kill you.”

  “That’s perfectly understandable. Just…do me one favour.”

  “What?”

  “Wait until after I get back to murder me, would you?”

  Two

  Adriana

  On the afternoon of my departure I sort through my luggage at least fourteen times before finally zipping my suitcase shut. I’ve got almost every item of summer clothing that I own crammed in there, not to mention every pair of ugly panties in existence. Well, besides the pair that I’m wearing right now, which was apparently designed for someone with an ass the size of Mount Kilimanjaro. Speaking of which, have I mentioned that I loathe the word “panties?” Like, with the searing hot passion of ten thousand jalapeños covered in scorpions. I can’t think of a word in the English language that’s more repugnant. I’d sooner call the damn things snatch covers or bearded clam containment systems. Even pussy wrappers would be an improvement.

  Note to self: buy new pussy wrappers in Paris. And not the stupid giant cotton sort with dainty flowers printed on them. Buy something that cries out for a Brazilian wax and a daily regimen of cellulite-reducing squats.

  The red-eye is supposed to depart from JFK at 10:40 p.m., so like the anal freakazoid that I am, I take a cab and arrive at the terminal by 7:00. After lugging my almost-fifty-pound lime green suitcase (which I lovingly call the green monster) to the check-in counter and waving good-bye as it slips away on the conveyor belt, I sling my backpack over my shoulder and make my way through the long security line. The good news is that aside from a leery glance from one of the guards who seems to wonder about my taste in socks when he makes me remove my knee-high boots, it’s largely uneventful.

  Over the years I’ve become a pro at flying. Roger’s family lived out west, and we used to do the airport shuffle all the time. I’ve learned to extract my laptop from my bag in advance, to pack all my liquids in ziploc bags and to be prepared to have a very unattractive, very hairy agent ask if I’d rather he grope my crotch in a super rapey way, or just put me into “the machine.” That’s what I call the the giant see-through tube which I’m convinced is just a means for a bunch of men to get their rocks off checking out women’s nipples through their shirts.

  Thankfully, today I don’t get offered a pat-down or a boob-ogle, and things go swimmingly. Maybe the machine can sense that I’m wearing big ugly underpants and has rejected me on the basis that it doesn’t want to puke.

  Once I’m through security and have slipped my boots back on, a feeling of profound relief sets in. The annoying bit is over. I am officially on my way to Paris, which means I’m officially free as a bird.

  I stride confidently towards the first shop I see, one that sells travel pillows and glossy magazines coated in airbrushed celebrity faces. After purchasing the requisite bag of peanut M&Ms and the latest edition of People, I start my hunt for an appealing bar. But before I’ve taken three steps, my phone lets out a series of quacks, which can mean only one thing.

  Jen’s sent me a text.

  Quack, quack, quack. Make that two texts. I grab the cell and stare at the screen.

  One: Are you there yet?

  Two: p.s. Look up verynaughtywildlife.com when you have a chance. It’s hilarious.

  She’s piqued my interest, I’ll admit. But instead of standing in the middle of the airport and opening my web browser, I grab my bag and head to the pub across the way, whose name is Jimmy O’Beerstein’s or Pukey McIrish, or something equivalently drunken sounding. I don’t care about the name; all I know is that I want enough booze in me so that I stop feeling feelings, at least for the next several hours.

  I grab a seat at the far end of the bar and paste the URL that Jen sent me into my phone’s browser. Almost immediately I gasp and cup my hand over my mouth to stifle the laughter. It would seem that she’s sent me to a site that sells sex toys and men’s underwear shaped like…wild animals. I’ve just paused on a dildo that resembles a very smug giraffe, complete with vibrating head. When the bartender saunters over, I quickly hit the button to darken the phone’s screen and smile up at him, trying my damnedest not to look like the sort of person who would cram a long-necked mammal into my special lady place.

  “Can I get you something?” he asks. His eyes are everywhere but on me, like he’s making sure that evil airport thieves aren’t shoving his beer glasses down their pants. It’s just as well; I’ve pretty much resolved not to make eye contact with anyon
e male for the rest of my days.

  “A gin and tonic,” I say. “Lots of gin.”

  He flashes a dismissive smile that tells me the only way I’m getting extra gin is if I give him a blowjob, then disappears. I take advantage of the moment of silence to peruse the TV screens hanging above the bar area. There are four of them in front of me, all of which are showing the sorts of sports that men seem to enjoy, for God only knows what reason. I guess this place isn’t exactly a haven for the fairer sex. Every screen in front of me is showing males playing with balls. I’m just going to put it out there: sports that involve the words “balls” and “dribbling” should be a lot more exciting than they are.

  My eye is mercifully drawn away from the screens and over to a man pulling up a stool at the far end of the bar. He’s currently muttering something under his breath, like some invisible irritant is bugging the hell out of him. But that’s not what’s captured my interest. Not even close. Yes, fine, I’d promised not to stare at men, but I can’t help it. Not this time.

  He’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen, and Independent Adriana wants to do unspeakable things to his body.

  Chiseled jaw, dusted with just the right amount of stubble. Sexy, dark eyebrows. Thick, brown, close-cropped hair that’s a little longer on top than at the sides. He has the look of an athlete about him, and all of a sudden like clouds have parted inside my brain, I understand the appeal of sports. Then again, he could be a rich businessman, given that he’s dressed to the nines. No, make that the elevens. His dark suit has a bit of a metallic sheen, like raw silk. It's cut to enhance his shape, which as far as I can tell is pretty damned beautiful. Judging by the way his clothes hug his muscles they’re in love with his body. And who the hell can blame them? If I got to press myself against that taut flesh I’d never let go either.