Lies, a steamy, fast paced standalone filled with the perfect blend of heat and humor from New York Times bestselling author Kylie Scott, is available now!
Betty Dawsey knows that breaking things off with Thom Lange is for the best. He’s nice, but boring, and their relationship has lost its spark. But steady and predictable Thom, suddenly doesn’t seem so steady and predictable when their condo explodes and she’s kidnapped by a couple of crazies claiming that Thom isn’t who he says he is.
Thom is having a hellish week. Not only is he hunting a double agent, but his fiancĂ© dumped him, and thanks to his undercover life, she’s been kidnapped.
Turns out Thom is Operative Thom and he’s got more than a few secrets to share with Betty if he’s going to keep her alive. With both their lives on the line, their lackluster connection is suddenly replaced by an intense one. But in his line of work, feelings aren’t wanted or desired. Because feelings can be a lethal distraction.
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Excerpt:
“You’re going to break
his heart.”
“No, I’m not,” I say.
“That’s sort of the whole point. If I really thought leaving him would break
his heart, then I probably wouldn’t be leaving him in the first place.”
My best friend, Jen,
does not look convinced.
Boxes fill a good half
of the room. What a mess. Who knew you could accumulate so much junk in only
twelve months? At least we weren’t together so long that I can’t remember who
owns what. One year is about the sweet spot for this issue in relationships,
apparently.
“The fact of the matter
is, we’re not in love. We have no business being engaged, let alone getting
married.” I sigh. “Have you seen the packing tape?”
“No. He’s just such a
nice guy.”
“I’m not debating
that.” I climb to my feet, then head up the stairs to the second bedroom.
Thom’s unofficial workout room/home office. Not a room I normally go into. But
it only takes a bit of rummaging to find what I’m looking for. Whatever else
might be said about them, insurance assessors are organized. The bottom drawer
of Thom’s desk has a neat stash of stationery. I grab a couple rolls of thick
tape.
“And leaving him this
way…” Jen continues as I head back down.
“How many times have I
told him we need to talk? He’s always putting it off, saying it’s not a good
time. And now he’s away again. I’ve been messaging him for the last week and he
barely replies.”
“You know he has to
drop everything once a job comes up. I realize he’s not the most exciting guy,
Betty, but—”
“I know.” I smack down
a line of tape with extra zest, sealing the lid of the last box. In this
Operation Abandon Ship Posthaste, I know I’m definitely slightly the bad guy.
But not totally. Say sixty/forty. Or maybe seventy/thirty. It’s hard to tell to
what degree. “I do know all of that. But he’s always busy with work or away on
some business trip. What am I supposed to do?”
A sigh from Jen.
“When you realize
you’ve made such a monumental mistake, it’s hard to sit and wait to fix things.
Nor is it fair on either of us to keep up the pretense.”
“Guess so.”
“And the fact that he’s
yet again made no effort to prioritize our relationship and make a little time
for me in his busy schedule is just further proof that I’ve made the right
choice in ending this now before it gets any more complicated. End of rant.”
Nothing from her.
“Anyway, you’re
supposed to be on my side. Stop questioning me.”
“You wanted to get
married and have children so badly.”
“Yeah.” I sit back on
my heels. “I blame it all on playing with Ken and Barbie’s dreamhouse when I
was little. But it turns out that being in a relationship with the wrong person
can be even lonelier than being alone.”
Jen and I have been
friends since sharing a room in college. We’ve witnessed the bulk of each
other’s dating ups and downs. For some reason, I’m the type of girl who guys
will go out with, but don’t tend to stick with. Apparently, I’m fuckable—just
not girlfriend material. Maybe it’s my smart mouth. Maybe it’s the whole not
fitting current societal expectations of beauty i.e. I’m fat. Maybe I was born
under an unlucky star. I don’t know; it’s their loss. Like anyone, I have my
faults, but all in all, I’m awesome. And I have a lot to give. Too often in the
past few months, I’ve had to keep reminding myself of this fact.
“There are just so many
jerks out there,” Jen says. “I was happy that you’d found a good one.”
“I think I’d prefer a
jerk who was genuinely into me than a nice guy phoning it in.
Honestly, I’d rather go adopt a dozen
cats and settle into old age and isolation than be with someone who treats me
as if I’m an afterthought.”
She looks at me for a
long moment, then nods slowly. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”
“Me too.”
“Time to start filling
up the cars. Boy, do you owe me.”
I smile. “That I do.”
Jen stands and
stretches before picking up one of the boxes labeled kitchen. “I just didn’t want you to do something you’d regret, you
know?”
“I know. Thank you.”
Alone in the
two-bedroom condo, everything is silent. My parting letter sits waiting on the
coffee table with his name written on the front. A slight bulge in the envelope
betrays the shape of my engagement ring. It’s a sweet, simple ring. One small
diamond perched on a band of yellow gold. My hand feels wrong without it.
Naked. They say there are different love languages and you have to take the
time to learn your partner’s needs. It’s like he and I never quite got there.
Or maybe I’m just crappy at relationships.
The bridal magazines
I’d collected are in the trash. Perhaps I should have taken them into the
florist shop where I work so someone could get some use out of them. But this
feels more symbolic, more definite. My family are a couple of states away, and
I have only a few of what I’d classify as good friends. Being an introvert
makes it hard to meet people. A boyfriend, a husband, would mean I’m no longer
alone. Someone cares about me and puts me first. At least part of the time.
Only Thom doesn’t any of the time, so here we are.
I tighten my ponytail
of long dark hair. Then, in a rare display of dexterity that my yoga instructor
would be proud of, I stack three boxes in my arms and head outside into the hot
afternoon sun. Jen’s Honda Civic is parked at the curb, the trunk standing open
as she moves things about inside. My old Subaru sits in the driveway waiting to
be filled. Birds are singing and insects chirping. It’s your typical mild
autumn day in California.
That’s when the condo
blows up behind me.
About Kylie Scott
Kylie is a New York Times and USA Today best-selling author. She was voted Australian Romance Writer of the year, 2013, 2014 & 2018, by the Australian Romance Writer’s Association and her books have been translated into eleven different languages. She is a long time fan of romance, rock music, and B-grade horror films. Based in Queensland, Australia with her two children and husband, she reads, writes and never dithers around on the internet.
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