C.J. Martín's Blog: Martín's Musings

Hi everyone! Hope your summer is off to a great start! It’s still fairly cold in my neck of the woods, even though it’s the middle of June. To be honest, I’m (mostly) happy about the cooler, rainy weather because I’m 33 weeks 4 days pregnant!

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That’s right!!! Almost 34 weeks! I can’t believe how quickly this pregnancy has flown by!  For the most part, it’s been—dare I say—enjoyable. I was very fortunate to not have morning (or as some women refer to it, all-day) sickness, my cravings were at a minimum, and my hormonal days were few and far between.

But now, as I enter the home stretch, I’m starting to get uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable. My belly is always in the way and I can barely get my socks and shoes on! Our little man is still sitting breech (Frank Breech to be exact) so I have very intense pain under my lower left ribs as his head and feet are pushing directly there. I’m trying all sorts of yoga poses to get him to turn, but so far nothing! If any of you ladies have any suggestions/ideas please drop them in the comments below!

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I’m toying with the idea of starting a YouTube channel with my husband. I want to do a “nursery reveal” and share my “first-time” experiences as a mom.  I’m probably completely crazy but during these past 8 months, I’ve been (somewhat) obsessed with following different Moms/Families on YouTube and Instagram (stories) and thought, why the hell not? My friend Kristy introduced me to a Utah-based family, The Dashleys, who are super relatable and have 2 adorable kids. You can check out their channel here.  I also am a big fan of Mallory Ervin

I’m very shy, but at the same time, I keep telling myself, oh well, what’s the worst that could happen? I feel like this is such a new and exciting time in our lives, and it would be totally awesome to document all the moments! I’ll keep you posted if we decide to go through with it

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Title: The Work Wife

Series: Standalone

Genre: Romantic Comedy/Contemporary Romance

Release Date: February 26, 2019

Blurb:

We’ve all been there before: wanting something—or someone—we can’t have. Whether it’s a decadent slice of chocolate cake that will blow a diet, the too expensive yet oh-so-cute shoes that cost more than an entire paycheck, or the drool-worthy barista who whips up this morning’s macchiato…the point is, we can relate.

Meet Charli. A slightly awkward, forever single twenty-eight-year-old woman who definitely wants what she can’t have.

Enter Oliver. A thirty-eight-year-old executive chef who can’t stop thinking about his quirky co-worker, even though he’s engaged. Life is about choices, and saying “yes” to one person means saying “no” to another. But what if Charli and Oliver have been saying yes to the wrong people?

The timing isn’t right. The place isn’t right. But is it ever?

They say if you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen. Charli and Oliver just may set the kitchen on fire.

The Work Wife is a standalone romantic comedy. Equal parts cocky and self-assured, a pinch of awkward sprinkled with a dash of sass, topped with a whole lot of sizzlin’ heat, you’ll love this laugh-out-loud romance by best-selling author CJ Martín.

Disclaimer: The Work Wife is a standalone, romantic comedy, and is intended for readers ages 18+.

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 Amazon US: https://amzn.to/2U8y7GX

 Amazon CA: https://amzn.to/2H8dWoG

 Amazon UK: https://amzn.to/2UeC8K9

 Amazon AU:https://amzn.to/2KZGDHB

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And while you’re at it…are we FRIENDS on Goodreads? If not, click HERE!

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A note on Reviews…

Please, please, PLEASE consider leaving a review on Goodreads/Amazon if you liked The Work Wife (or any of my books for that matter!)

Reviews mean the world to me. Yes, I read EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. The good ones make me smile, laugh, cry, and so damn happy that I get to share my words with the world. The bad ones (sometimes) ruin my day, make me cry (not in a good way!), and make me want to bang my head against my keyboard. BUT in turn, they also help me grow and become a better writer.

I know it’s a pain in the a$$, we’re all busy, but I look forward to those few lines of encouragement when I’m feeling down or when my words aren’t flowing, AND it helps connect other readers to new books, authors, etc, so PLEASE write a review. I will love you forever, promise

I hope you enjoy Oliver and Charli’s story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Julia and Jim’s story have been floating around in my head for quite some time, so stay tuned for updates and sneak peeks on their love story!

Until next time!

xoxo,

CJ

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The Work Wife is yours TOMORROW, February 26th and will be available through Amazon (Kindle) for purchase ($3.99) or you can read for FREE in Kindle Unlimited.

Are you excited to dive into Charli + Oliver’s world? Just 24 more hours to go…

Until then here is the last chapter in the free sneak peek series!

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

All rights reserved © 2019

Oliver

My eyes linger on Charli as she stands in line with her sister and Meg, one of our waitresses and probably Charli’s closest friend at the restaurant. Well, besides me, that is. I watch as she bypasses the crystal tray of mimosas and goes straight for the pan of fluffy Belgian waffles. She piles them high on her plate before topping them with fresh cut strawberries and whipped cream. Charli is not shy about the foods she loves. I gotta say, the chef in me genuinely appreciates her hearty appetite. I’ve learned in her year tenure at the restaurant, waffles are her favorite, and because of this, I include them on the menu at every single one of our brunches.

“Ol.”  Ainsley’s voice draws my attention, and I angle my body toward where she sits at my side. “The food’s great.”

I smile at her compliment, even if it’s forced, because her praise is undeserved. Ainsley is the world’s pickiest eater, and she rarely, if ever, eats the food I prepare. Case in point: Her plate is comprised of exactly one scoop of fruit salad, a single slice of sourdough bread—no butter, no cream cheese, no nothing—and an assortment of olives. “Thanks, Ains.”

Charli, Julia, and Meg return to the long banquet table and sit opposite us.

It’s quiet for a few moments as we all dig into our food. I keep stealing glances at Charli while she eats, because her face is so expressive. With a single glance, I can tell instantly if she loves or hates something.

When she cuts a piece of sausage and pops it into her mouth, her eyes roll back a little, and she moans. “OhmyGod. So good.” The ecstasy in her voice is almost vulgar, and if we weren’t in a restaurant surrounded by thirty other people, if my fiancée wasn’t sitting right next to me, I might find it a turn on. Fuck, okay, I do find it a turn on, and it’s a problem. A big fucking problem.

“You like it?” I ask, even though it’s obvious she does.

“Yeah,” She lifts another bite to her mouth. “Andouille?”

“Good girl.” My eyes sparkle. “I added a bit of Cajun seasoning this time.”

“Yum.”

Leaning forward, I snatch a piece off her plate.

“Hey!” She swats me with her fork. “Get your own.” Chuckling, I grab another piece from her plate, and this time she almost stabs me with her utensil, but deep down I know it’s an idle threat. We’ve shared food a million times before. It’s one of the things I love about her. If she likes something, she wants everyone else to like it, too.

“Aww,” Julia quips. “You guys are so cute.” The look that Charli gives her sister is murderous. I’m not naïve. Yes, I can be clueless, I can be self-absorbed, I can be an asshole, but I kinda sorta have an idea that Charli has a crush on me. Or, at the very least, is attracted to me.

I truly don’t mean this the way it sounds, but a lot of girls are into chefs. I’m not sure if it’s the crisp white jacket or that cooking is an aphrodisiac or what it is exactly, but it doesn’t make it any less accurate. If I wanted, I could have any number of girls at the ready. The problem is, Charli is the only girl I’ve ever imagined things going further with. Sure, between us there’s been some innocent, harmless flirting, but for the most part, she’s rather conservative with me, almost as though she’s afraid what could—what would—happen if we both let our guard down.

She’s right to be worried.

“I still can’t believe how much you and your sister look alike.” Ainsley gestures between the two sisters.

Both Julia and Charli scrunch their noses. Julia speaks first. “You think?” She shakes her head. “I don’t think we look alike at all.”

“Yeah,” Ainsley continues. “You both have wide, blue eyes. Same oval face, same slim nose.” Ainsley turns to me. “Don’t you think?”

Suddenly all sets of eyes are on me, awaiting an answer. Truthfully, I don’t think Charli and Julia could be more different. Charli is healthy, voluptuous, with full, round breasts and curvy hips. Her hair is a few shades darker than her sister’s, and her eyes are a touch bigger, wider, and more mysterious. But the real distinguishing factor is the beauty mark above the right corner of Charli’s lip.  I’ve never seen anyone with such a prominent mark. I’ve thought about pressing my lips to that delicate spot more times than I care to admit.

Julia, in comparison, is waiflike. She’s very thin, and if I’m honest, looks almost skeletal, like she could use a good meal. Or twenty. Her eyes are the same color, but her hair is lighter, almost a mousy brown. Don’t get me wrong, she’s pretty, attractive even, but if this were a beauty competition, Charli would win by a landslide.

“Ol?” Ainsley nudges me with her elbow and repeats the question. “Don’t you think they could pass for twins?”

Clearing my throat, I give the best answer I know how. “I have no idea.” I shrug. “What do I know? I’m a guy.”

Ainsley chuckles, and I say a silent prayer that the conversation drops. But not even five minutes later, I’m greeted with another bullet.

“I keep telling her,”—Julia leans in toward Ainsley—“she’s got to start dating again.”

Meg raises her hand. “I agree.”

“See, Meg gets it!” Julia smacks her fist on the table before her eyes sweep around the room. “There has got to be at least one hot”—Julia brings her eyes to mine and enunciates the next word—“single guy here that we can set her up with.”

“Jules!” Charli whisper hisses. “What are you doing?”

“Getting you laid.” Julia reaches for her champagne flute.

“Enough.” Charli’s hand wraps around her sister’s tiny bird arm. “I can’t date someone I work with.”

“Why not?” Her sister’s attention flutters around the room before landing on Simon. The twenty-one-year-old dishwasher. “What about him? He’s hot.”

I can’t stop my gaze from sweeping over Simon. Kid’s a punk. With his spiky, jet black hair, murky green eyes, and tribal snake tattoo—he’s not Charlotte’s type at all. At least, I hope he isn’t.

Julia turns in her seat. “Meg, what do you think?”

Meg see-saws her hand back and forth. “Decent.”

“No,” Charli affirms, barely sparing Simon a glance.

“Why not?” her sister repeats.

I force shallow, even breaths despite the jealousy simmering in my veins. For fuck’s sake, leave it alone, Julia.

Charli rolls her eyes in exasperation. “Because it’s unprofessional.”

My mind dissects the reason why Charli disagreed. Not because of Simon per se, but because they work together.

Maybe she thinks he’s attractive.

Maybe she’s into younger guys.

Maybe…I’m being a jealous shit.

“Because if it doesn’t work out, things could get messy. Because if Don finds out, he’d be pissed—”

“Don loves you,” Julia interrupts.

This is true. Don does love Charlotte and regales everyone with the story of how she got her start at Mecca. Apparently, Don’s wife, very much pregnant at the time, ordered Chinese food from a local shop. His job was to pick it up before returning home. Unfortunately, Don didn’t have any cash on him, and the joint only accepted cash as payment. Charli was there to pick up her own order, and seeing Don’s crisis, paid for his order, ultimately saving him from a very hungry, very hormonal wife. He gave Charlotte his business card and told her if she ever needed a job to give him a call. Six months later she called, and the rest is history.

“You know Don won’t care,” Meg chimes in again, nodding her head toward Simon. “I say go for it.”

Why the fuck is Meg encouraging this? She just got scratched off of my Christmas list.

My stomach tightens, and I can feel Charli’s eyes on me, imploring me for help, but I don’t dare look at her, because I’m afraid of what she’ll see reflected in my own. Anger. Protectiveness. Jealousy. I stab the potato on my plate with more force than necessary.

“What about Jim?” Ainsley’s suggestion is such a curveball that I choke on the bite I just swallowed. She looks at me expectantly before popping another olive into her mouth.

“Jimbo?” I scrunch my nose. “You want to set Charli up with my best friend?” My eyes widen to match the doubt of my voice. “My recently divorced best friend?”

“Sure, why not?” Ainsley shrugs. “I think they’d get along great.”

My eyes find Charli’s for a brave moment before looking away. “Jimbo works all the time.” I take a swig of my grapefruit juice, hoping the bitterness will wash away some of my unease. “Besides, he’s too old for her.”

Charli’s face reddens—a mixture of fury and embarrassment—as she holds up her hand. “Guys, enough.” She ticks her fingers. “One, stop talking about me like I’m not even here. Jesus.” Her eyes cut to Julia, then Meg, and finally Ainsley. “Two, I don’t do blind dates. Sorry. Not sorry.”

My muscles, which up until this point I didn’t even realize were tight, loosen. I can feel the tension drain from my body, and my chest deflates with a solid puff of air.

Ainsley, however, is undeterred. “It wouldn’t be a blind date, silly.” She grabs another olive. A black one this time. “We could all go out together. I’m home for the next week. I’m sure we can arrange something.” She looks at me, a genuine smile on her face. “What do you think? The four of us? Will be fun, yeah?”

Fun? No way. Hell is a more appropriate word. My teeth grind together in agitation. “Just let it go, Ains.”

Confused, Ainsley looks from me to Charli, then to the other girls. Charli shrugs and shakes her head. Meg is busy looking at her phone, but Julia holds my eyes, a mischievous smile stretching across her lips. She knows.

There’s an awkward pause, a strange moment suspended in time, before Charli reaches for her sister’s champagne flute and drains the glass in one single swig. Her voice is confident, assured, when she speaks. “All right, I’m in.”

“Yeah?” Excited, Ainsley leans forward in her chair.

“Yep.” Charli nods, face stoic. “Text Jim.” My eyes flash to hers, and I hold her stare, as she says, “I’d love to meet him.”

The Work Wife releases tomorrow,  February 26th! Purchase for $3.99 or read for FREE in Kindle Unlimited!  Until then, add to add to Goodreads:

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And while you’re at it…are we FRIENDS on Goodreads? If not, click HERE!

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FORTY-EIGHT more hours until The Work Wife releases!!!! Thank God because I can’t stand to wait much longer. I’m dying for you to dive into Charli and Oliver’s hot, sexy world! Keep reading to find out what happens when Charli, Oliver, Ainsley, and Julia all end up in the same place together. Hint: It’s a recipe for disaster!

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

All rights reserved © 2019

Charli

I hate Drunk Charlotte. Drunk Charlotte is the reason I tossed and turned for more than half of the night and woke up with a pounding headache. Drunk Charlotte is the reason for the dark circles under my eyes and the ratty, untamed hair piled in a messy knot atop my head. And she’s also to blame for Julia attending Sunday brunch at Mecca this morning.

Sunday brunch is a tradition that began at the restaurant long before I started working there. Don, the owner, is a really nice guy. I know that’s an expression that is often overused or undeserved, but he truly is. He takes chances on his employees (I’m a prime example of this) and works hard to foster a sense of community amongst his employees.

The first Sunday of every month, all employees are invited to attend a feast prepared by our kitchen staff. The budget is very generous, and the food is always delicious. Every employee, from dishwasher to manager, is invited along with his or her spouse. Most of us never bring a plus one, but apparently, Drunk Charlotte thought it was an excellent idea to ask Julia along since she is staying with me through the following week.

“What happened to you?” Oliver asks, as soon as I walk into the kitchen.

“Don’t ask.” I peer over his shoulder at the creamy gravy he’s mixing for his signature chicken fried steak. The smell, thick and buttery, causes my stomach to roll.

“Jesus.” He pauses, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?” He ushers me toward the empty chair shoved in the back corner of the workspace. It’s been broken for almost two weeks but still hasn’t found its way to the dumpster.

“Hey, Charli!” Julia’s voice booms from the entryway, loud enough to be heard over the clatter of the pots and pans. “You back here?”

“Yeah, Jules.” I groan, voice dry. “I’ll be right out.”

Oliver’s eyes find and hold mine. “Julia’s visiting?”

“Yeah.” I close my eyes and blow out a breath, trying my best to dull the pounding in my head.

“That explains a lot.” He turns and begins to walk away.

Although Oliver and Julia have never met in person, he’s witnessed several FaceTime calls over the past year. Not to mention the fact that I’ve talked to him about her—both good and bad. Sure, she’s my sister and I love her, but sometimes I can’t stand her. On a scale of one to ten, I’d say we’d rank right about an eleven as being polar opposites.

My eyes pull down, and refocus on the rounded, black curve of Oliver’s shoes. The unmistakable, pungent smell of scrambled eggs floods my nose, and my head snaps up.

“Here.” He hands me the plate, along with a glass of fresh, cold-pressed apple juice. “Eat and drink this. You’ll feel better.”

“I’m fine,” I say, even as I begin to shove the eggs into my mouth. By the third bite, I realize I’m ravenous and quickly finish the generous portion. The eggs are good. Really good. Light and fluffy, seasoned with the perfect amount of salt and pepper, precisely the way I like them. Selfishly, I wish I were in a better state of mind to appreciate their flavor.

He quirks a brow, a smug, knowing smile on his face. “Good?”

Oliver’s ego is already huge, and I’m not about to inflate it anymore. I’ve no doubt he could make actual shit not only taste good but have a person begging for seconds. What’s worse? He knows it. I shrug. “It was all right.”

“Oh, Charli.” He chuckles, actually chuckles, as he takes the empty plate from my hands. “Some things never change.”

I manage to pull myself out of the chair, but it’s awkward since the one leg is broken, and it feels like I’m sitting in a lopsided hole. Plus, I feel like I’ve gotten run over by a truck.

“You’re right, Chef.” My eyes find his. “But someone’s gotta keep you in line.”

He hands my empty plate to Simon, our newest dishwasher. Oliver’s eyes sparkle with mischief as they hold mine. “Well, then, I hope you’re up for the task.”

I open my mouth, about to protest, when he commands, a challenge in his voice. “Now, get out of my kitchen.”

* * *

The morning goes from bad to worse. After leaving Oliver’s kitchen, I head straight to the “party” room, a small square space that we use for reservations of twenty or more, where brunch is always served. To my surprise, Ainsley is sitting at the table.

Ainsley—Oliver’s fiancée Ainsley—and she’s chatting with Julia.

Dread like I’ve never felt before coils low in my stomach. Jules would never say anything intentionally to out me or my feelings for Oliver, but she’s also a bit dense and a little too forward for her own good.

Ignoring the throbbing pain in my head, I rush over to the table and inject myself into the conversation rather ungracefully. “Ainsley!” I exclaim. “I didn’t know you were back.”

“Charli!” Ainsley pushes herself to stand and hugs me. “So good to see you.”

Here’s the thing. Ainsley is a sweetheart. Genuine. Kind. Caring. At least from what I could ascertain from the handful of times I’ve met her, and Oliver rarely says a bad word about her. Come to think of it, he doesn’t say much about her at all. Apart from the weird exchange my first day, Oliver never talks about his girlfriend—I mean fiancée. Semantics.

“Nice to see you, too,” I say, pulling away from her a bit to find an open chair next to Julia. “I take it you’ve already met my sister, Julia.”

Ainsley nods as Julia speaks. “Ainsley just got back from Copenhagen.”

“Wow.” I muster with minimal enthusiasm in my hung-over state. Seriously, I don’t know how Julia is so bright-eyed and bushy tailed. Even if she is a few years younger than me, at twenty-two I was still wrecked the morning after a night of drinking.

Several servers enter the room and set up large silver pans along the side table. Brunches are served buffet style so that everyone can eat and chat. Oliver and Don follow not a minute later, and Don announces to the room, “Bon appétit.”

Most rush to the buffet line, but Oliver takes a seat directly across from me.

This morning just keeps getting better and better.

Stay tuned tomorrow for the next chapter! Until then, add to add to Goodreads:

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And while you’re at it…are we FRIENDS on Goodreads? If not, click HERE!

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THREE more days until The Work Wife releases. Have you been enjoying Charli + Oliver so far? Leave me a comment if you think Oliver is as delicious and yummy as the food he prepares!

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

All rights reserved © 2019

Charli

Julia arrives three short days later, toting her craziness behind her like two misbehaving children in full meltdown mode. I love my sister, I really do, but to say our relationship is complicated would be the understatement of the century.

From an outsider’s perspective, our bond appears stable, but it’s superficial, a patchwork of childhood memories, two common parents, and a few shared laughs.  Our personalities couldn’t be more different, and I often wonder how we could belong to the same family. Julia is attention seeking, loud, and often referred to as “the life of the party.” And me?  I’m not any of those things.

After everything that went down with Ryan, Julia has made a strong, genuine effort to be my friend. So I figure if she’s willing to try, then so am I, because people can:

1.) mature

2.) change

3.) learn to not hook up with her sister’s boyfriend of three years.

“You have nothing to eat.”  Julia slams the last kitchen cupboard door shut and plops onto the stool. “I’m starving.”

Dropping my purse onto the counter, I suppress my eye roll. “There are plenty of things to eat.” Sorry my food choices aren’t up to your standards, Princess Julia.

I pull the first of three takeout containers from my fridge and crack open the lid. Dipping my head, I sniff the contents to ensure they’re still fresh, and luckily they pass my ‘it doesn’t smell like death’ test.

“Here.” I slide the container across the countertop. “Eat this.”

Her eyes narrow in skepticism and I half-say, half-joke, “How long are you here for again?”

“A week.”

Great.

“Just until the dorms re-open.” She shrugs. “I couldn’t take one more day at Mom and Dad’s house.”

I nod because I get it.

She picks up the container and asks, “What is it?”

I grab a plate and fork for her. “Sautéed vegetables.”

Julia scrunches her nose as she studies the contents with suspicious eyes. “There’s no meat in it?”

“No,” I manage to grind out, even though I’m fairly certain Oliver deglazes the pan with beef stock. But that doesn’t count as meat, right?

She dumps the veggies onto the plate I pulled from the shelf and pops it into the microwave. While the food heats, Julia pours two glasses of wine, sliding one down to me.

That’s the other thing. Julia loves to drink. Okay, that sounds bad. I guess most twenty-two-year-olds do, and I’m not against imbibing in a glass (or two or three), but I’m not a fan of getting piss-ass drunk on a work night.

The microwave beeps, and I hand her the dish. She’s silent for a few moments as she takes the first bite. Then she moans, loudly, with pleasure. “Oh my God. This is so good.”

Chuckling, I roll my eyes. “I think you’re just really hungry.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “This is so good that I’d make love to these vegetables. No.” She shakes her head again. “I’d marry these vegetables.”

“You’re nuts,” I say, sipping my wine.

“Oliver is an amazing chef.”

My eyes narrow. “How do you know he made them?” I mean, he did, of course, but the fact that she immediately discounts my cooking abilities pisses me off a little.

Her fork pauses mid-bite, and her eyes hold mine for a beat before she breaks into a laugh. She doesn’t say anything, as she shovels another forkful into her mouth.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I gripe.

“Come on, sis.” She reaches for her wine glass. “Even if I didn’t already know you sucked at cooking—”

“I don’t suck.” My cooking skills have improved. Marginally.

She makes the OK sign, her eyes wide. “Even if you could cook, the to-go container kind of gives it away.”

I snap my fingers. “Dammit.”

Shrugging, she says, “Besides, if I had Chef McHottie cooking for me, night after night, I’d never cook either.”

“He doesn’t cook for me every night.”

She sets her glass on the counter, angles her body to face me, and gives me a look that says, “Please.”

“He doesn’t,” I insist, chugging down another considerable gulp, only to realize my glass is empty. Holy shit, I better slow down.

Julia reaches for the bottle and tries to pour me another glass, but I cover the glass with my hand. “No more for me.”

She tuts, swatting my hand away, and pours a second, very full glass. “Nonsense. I love Drunk Charlotte.”

My eyes narrow. “Not happening. I have work tomorrow.”

“I know.” She nods. “With Chef McHottie.”

“Jules, please stop calling him that.” Despite my protests, I take another sip from my now-full glass. “You know he’s engaged.”

She shrugs as though I’ve told her something nonessential, something like “Oliver hates drinking tap water.” Yep, he’s a total water snob, and it drives me bananas. I mean, seriously, does he not realize how detrimental all those plastic water bottles are to our environment? But, I digress.

“You like him.” She scrapes the last of the veggies onto her fork.

Now it’s my turn to shrug. Jules is the only person whom I confided in about my Oliver crush. This will make me sound like a terrible person, but I’m going to confess it anyway. I’ve confided in Julia, not because we’re close—we’ve already discussed the fact that we’re not—but because Julia has a very loose moral compass, and I knew she wouldn’t judge me. If I told Em, my best friend who is married with two kids, she’d click her tongue in reproach. Or if I fangirled to Meg at work about Oliver’s hotness, she’d sneak knowing, accusatory glances at me every time he and I were alone together. So I keep my shameful, dirty secret to my guilty self.

It should also be stated that Drunk Charlotte was present during my confession to Julia. Drunk Charlotte is a chatty bitch, and apparently has never learned the expression, “Loose lips sink ships.”

Julia drops her fork to her plate. “I say, bang him.”

“Julia!” I gasp in mock horror, because I certainly won’t admit that I’ve thought about just that more often than not.

“What?” She pushes the dish away. “You’re already in a relationship with him.” One shoulder lifts. “Might as well be having sex. That’s the fun part.”

“You’re right.” I nod, and her eyes widen at my easy agreement before I continue. “We are in a relationship. A professional relationship.”

“And if you believe that’s all it is, I have a bridge to sell you.”

Scowling, I ask, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means—” she looks directly in my eyes “—you’re the work wife.”

My nose wrinkles. “The work wife?”

“Yeah.” She pours herself a second glass. “You spend all your time together—”

I interrupt. “Because we work together.”

She continues, unfazed. “He cooks for you all the time.”

“He’s a chef, Jules.”

“You two have all these inside jokes, you talk about him constantly, and you think he’s ‘the sexiest man alive.’ ” She makes air quotes around that last part.

Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.

I did say that, didn’t I? Well, not me, per se. Drunk Charlotte said it. Remind me to cut a bitch. My face flushes a deep crimson red, so hot in fact, that I can feel the heat pouring from my skin. The wine is only making it worse.

Stalling, I lift my glass to my lips and empty the contents in one swig. Finally, I bring my eyes to meet Jules. “So, what if all those things are true? He’s engaged, Jules. Engaged.” My tone turns sorrowful. “You saw what Dad’s affairs did to Mom. I can’t—I won’t—be the other woman.”

Julia sneers. “Monogamy is outdated and unrealistic.” She watches as I spin my glass by its stem. “Mom and Dad’s marriage sucks. But you know what? Mom chose to stay with him, Charli. She chose it.” Her eyes find mine. “You can’t steal someone who doesn’t want to be stolen. You can’t make a man cheat. Everyone has free will, free choice.” Her voice turns a touch colder, and I know her well enough to know this is a façade, her way of acting tough so she doesn’t get hurt, because the truth is, my dad’s affairs—yes, plural, he had several, and my mom still stuck by him—affected us. “I’d rather be the cheater than the one being cheated on.”

Squeezing her thigh, I smile, trying to communicate that our parents’ relationship isn’t all bad. When things were good between our parents, they were really good.

Maybe Mom should have left when she found out the first time he was unfaithful. I was six, and Jules was just a baby. Every woman likes to think she’d leave, that she’d never tolerate her husband sleeping with a twenty-year-old waitress in the stockroom of the diner where they both worked, but my mom was young, jobless, and loved my dad fiercely. She still does. Who are we to judge?

Jules places her hand on top of mine and squeezes back. The melancholy that flickers behind her eyes is replaced by a mischievous smile as she asks, “Wanna crack open another bottle?”

Stay tuned tomorrow for the next chapter! Until then, add to add to Goodreads:

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Welcome back! The Work Wife, my all new standalone, romantic comedy releases in FOUR short days! Chapter 3 is coming your way now

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Welcome back! The Work Wife, my all new standalone, romantic comedy will be yours in FIVE days!  As promised, here is the next installment of Charli + Oliver’s love story!

Prologue

Chapter One

All rights reserved © 2019

Oliver

Chopping and dicing are two of my favorite things to do in the kitchen. I like to lose myself in the monotony of it. The rhythm of the sharp blade slicing through the paper-thin skin of the vegetable, the click-click-click of the wooden handle of the knife as it hits the counter. The perfect, linear cuts creating new pieces from a whole. It soothes me. It also gives me a chance to think, which is why, even with Jason, our prep cook, and Giancarlo, my sous chef, I do most of the prep work myself. Some people sit in the dark chanting, “Om.” Me? I chop vegetables.

Tonight, more than ever, I need to lose myself, because my mind is in fucking overdrive.

It’s an irrevocable, undisputable fact that things either happen all at once or not at all. Three-hundred-and-eighty-nine days ago, my girlfriend Ainsley and I decided to take our relationship to the next level. I popped the question, she said yes, and moved into my house the following week. I wish I could tell you that our love is the life-altering, can’t-live-without-you, stars-in-our-eyes type of love, but it isn’t.

Our love is steady. Calm. Familiar.

By the time I finally proposed marriage, we’d been dating for almost two years. Our relationship isn’t the stuff of Hallmark movies but we enjoy each other’s company, and give each other space to be our own person. I work a lot, and with Ainsley being out of the country for weeks at a time, the relationship is ideal for us both.

So, a little over a year ago, I bought a ring, and over Indian takeout—Ainsley’s favorite—I asked her to be my wife. No over-the-top proposal. No confession of “I can’t live without you.” No talk of finding my soul mate. Looking back, and it embarrasses me even to think this, the whole ordeal seemed rather formal. It was crisp, efficient, business-like, but then, Ainsley isn’t a hearts-and-flowers kind of woman.

The crazy thing is, at the time it all seemed so normal. I told myself that if Ainsley was happy with the way things were, then so was I.

Then, things changed. Three-hundred-and-seventy-three days ago, I met Charlotte Ann Truse, and my world tipped on its axis. Charlotte crashed into my life, literally, with such force that I was drowning in her before my dumbstruck mind thought even to take a breath.

From the day I chased her and that damned dog down the sidewalk, something sparked inside me. It was like a switch had been flipped. Like I had been living in the dark my entire life, and she finally brought the light. My light.

Too corny?  Maybe. But it’s the fucking truth.

Everything about her intrigues me. From her round blue eyes to her pert nose, to the lone beauty mark that sits just above lips so plump and juicy I don’t know how I’ve resisted taking a bite, to the long brown hair she always wears tied up in a loose knot that my fingers itch to run through.

But it’s more than just her physical appearance. Even if I weren’t attracted to her—and trust me, it’s damned near impossible to imagine that—she’d still take my breath away.

A little awkward, a little unsure, a whole lot feisty, she keeps me on my toes. Her take-no-shit attitude keeps me—and my arrogance—in check. I have to fight back a smile every time she scolds me with that smart mouth. A mouth that I ache to have pressed against my lips, my skin, my dick.

But what makes her the absolute total package?  She’s a foodie, just like me. She will try any and everything at least one time. Never turns her nose up, never questions calories or fat content, simply leans in and takes a decadent bite. She enjoys food the way it’s meant to be enjoyed. Slowly. Sensually. With all five senses. And it turns me the fuck on.

I probably shouldn’t admit this, but sometimes I get a boner watching her eat. Not all the time. Okay, usually, yeah, I do. But when these tiny, soft little moans of uncontrolled pleasure escape her mouth, or when she tips her head back and smiles in ecstasy, or when she licks her fingers…

A man would have to be made of stone not to be affected.

There are so many reasons why I cannot have feelings for Charli. I could write a book about the ways us getting involved is a bad idea. It would probably be a three-part series by the time I finished listing the ways.

For one, I’m engaged. It’s my strongest defense against her and probably the reason why I told her almost instantly about Ainsley. You know how sometimes when a guy is trying to pick up a girl at a bar and the girl casually mentions “her boyfriend?” to ward him off? I know, smooth, right?

But that was me. I was the lame one, spouting nonsense about the significant other to establish clear boundaries. It didn’t even make sense, but on Charli’s first official day, when she was stocking the bar tray, she asked if I liked maraschino cherries. I blurted. “No, but my fiancée does.”

I don’t know what the hell came over me, but somehow I figured telling her about my relationship would draw a line in the sand between us. After a rather long, awkward pause, she smiled and said, “Good to know.”

Reason number two: she’s my coworker. I’m reasonably certain that Don wouldn’t care if we dated. He’s very laid back and adores Charli. He likes me, too, but mostly because I bring prestige to his restaurant in the form of press and Michelin stars, and he knows it.  I don’t think he’d care if I banged the entire staff, as long as I kept pumping out top-rated dishes and earning glowing reviews from the food critics. But even if Don were on board, things between Charli and me had the potential to get messy. I’m a huge proponent of the mantra “don’t shit where you eat.”

Sighing, I grab three long, fresh carrots that will be used in the mirepoix.

Peel. Slice. Chop. Repeat.

Now, where was I? Oh yeah, three, Charli’s ten years younger than me. On nights when Charli has me really wound up—nights like tonight when she wears a flimsy little floral dress that could easily be undone with a straightforward pull of the tie around her waist—I cool off by reminding myself that she was eight when I was eighteen. That kills any indecent feelings real fast.

Moving on. Number four—

“Oliver.” My dark eyes slowly look up, landing on a perfect set of round, full tits, leaning toward me. Why, God, why do you torture me so?

“Oliver.”

Charli snaps her fingers, and my attention jumps to her face.

“Yeah?” My voice comes out gruff.

Her brow quirks. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “What do you need?”

“Let Jason finish that.” She gestures to the round onions and stalks of celery that I’ve yet to touch. “Michael Brown is here.”

I sober in an instant, the color draining from my face. According to the insider tip we received, Michael isn’t supposed to arrive for his evaluation until tomorrow. I haven’t even prepared the salt rub for the bass yet. Goddammit.

“From the Times?” I wipe my hand on the rag tucked in the front of my apron. “Don told me the tasting was scheduled for tomorrow.”

She shakes her head. “Change of plans.”

Even though on the outside I appear calm and put together, I’m more than a little anxious. Few things rattle my steel-hard resolve. I’ve run two full marathons back to back, gone cliff diving in the Maldives, and even competed in the Colorado Trail Race. It’s safe to say I’m a bit of an adrenaline junkie.

But no matter how many times food critics have sampled my cuisine, no matter how many rave reviews I’ve received, no matter how many awards or accolades trail my name, tastings are nerve-wracking as hell. I mean, the person’s entire job is to criticize, to critique the meal that a chef (a.k.a. me) has painstakingly prepared. And the Zagat and Michelin associations are not shy about taking stars away if a restaurant (again, me) doesn’t meet their stringent qualifications.

Reading my hesitation, Charli assures. “You’re a rock star.” Her eyes shine with pride. “You got this.”

A slow smile tips the corners of my lips. “Thanks, Charli girl.”

She swats my ass as I walk past, and I’ll admit, I like it more than I should. “Now, go dazzle Mr. Food Critic with your super sexy…”

I snap my eyes to hers, wanting her to comment on my body—just once.

Arms.

Mouth.

Dick.

I hold her gaze for a moment longer, and her smile widens as though she knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Food, Oliver. Your super sexy food.”

Chuckling, I push the door open.

I’ll take the compliment.

The truth is, I’d take anything from her.

Stay tuned tomorrow for the next chapter! Until then, add to add to Goodreads:

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Hi and welcome! The Work Wife, my all new standalone, romantic comedy releases in just SIX days! Are you excited?!  I will be posting one chapter per day until release day (February 26th). Today is the first official installment but if you missed yesterday’s cover reveal, you may want to click here to read the prologue. Happy reading

All rights reserved © 2019

Present Day

My advice? Never fall in love with a married man. Don’t spend your days pining away for the most perfect, most handsome, most infuriating man you’ll ever meet, because his heart belongs to someone else. Don’t fantasize about his beautiful, full lips pressed against your skin, or the sexy way his brows furrow when he concentrates. And definitely don’t imagine waking up next to him, naked, wrapped in silky soft, one-thousand count, organic Egyptian cotton sheets that smell like lavender, while a gentle summer breeze billows the sheer curtains…

“Earth to Charli.” The loud thunk of a cardboard box hitting the wooden bar jolts me from my stupor. Joe, our main bartender, waves a hand in front of my face, and I straighten my spine. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I grab the rag from the countertop, barely resisting the urge to twist it in my hands. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He shrugs. “You looked a little out of it.” He hefts another box onto the bar top. “Do you think you could cover my shift tonight?”

Internally, I cringe, but outwardly, I fake smile. Sure, as the food and drink manager, I’m knowledgeable about the liquors we stock, the vendors we have contracts with, scheduling conflicts…but bartender extraordinaire I am not. Even if my skills weren’t subpar (they definitely are), Mecca’s fancy drinks specials are sophisticated enough to have even the most skilled mixologist scratching his head. Upscale restaurants like Mecca are awash with high-end clientele who consistently order top-shelf, high-priced drinks like they’re going out of style.

I square my shoulders to disguise my hesitation. “I don’t think—”

Joe cuts me off before I have a chance to finish.

“Tonight’s drink specials aren’t crazy hard.” He tosses a laminated placard my way, and I scramble to catch it.

Even though I’m the one who printed the menus, my eyes give a precursory skim over the list as if seeing it for the first time.

“Please.” His eyes droop into the saddest, most pathetic puppy dog eyes I’ve ever seen. “Xavier cried all night. I’m running on fumes.”

“God.” I roll my eyes. “Way to play the ‘We just had a baby’ card.”

He chuckles. “I never said I fought fair.”

“Ugh. You’re the worst,” I tease, tossing the rag on the counter before reaching into the box he’s just cut open. “You know I’ll do it.”

He pats my upper arm. “And you, my dear, have a heart of gold.”

“It’s my gift.” I stand on tiptoes to set a bottle of Pernod on the highest shelf, but I lose my grip on the slim neck, and it slides through my fingers. Before I can catch it, the bottle crashes to the floor.  Shards of glass splinter in all directions, and sweet, sticky liquid seeps into the tile cracks. The unmistakable heavy scent of anise fills the air.

“Shit.” I grab a terry cloth rag from the counter.

Joe bends to help, picking up the tiny slivers of the broken bottle with his bare hands.

“Careful,” I warn, as he stands and drops several longer shards into the trash. I crouch on all fours, rag in hand, allowing the liquid to penetrate the cloth. An image of Cinderella flashes through my head. Even as a manager, I’m still scrubbing floors. Where the fuck is my Prince Charming?

A door slamming startles me from my thoughts, and I look up, just as Oliver enters through the kitchen.

Ask, and you shall receive.

I busy myself with the task at hand, as Oliver approaches and drops his keys onto the counter before looking down at me. I wish I could say my heart didn’t skip a beat. That my face didn’t flush. I wish I could say that I didn’t notice he’s wearing a light cream t-shirt, my absolute favorite color on him because it brings out the caramel flecks of his eyes. But it’d be a lie. All of it.

“Whaddya drop this time, butterfingers?” Oliver chuckles, his heavy gaze lingering on me for just a moment too long.

My eyes narrow. “Shut up.”

One time, one freaking time, while helping in the kitchen because Melbourne, our prep cook at the time, unexpectedly stormed out (okay, not so unexpectedly, because he and Oliver did not get along), I dropped his highly prized Le Creuset Saucier. By the way, who calls saucepans by fancy names like saucier? Executive chefs, that’s who, but I digress…

The saucier didn’t break, but the lid bent and now doesn’t seal right. According to Oliver, the saucier is useless, a fact that he reminds me of every time he cannot use said saucier to prepare his world famous béarnaise.

He laughs again and extends his hand to help me up, and unlike our first encounter all those months ago, I accept the help, doing my absolute best to ignore the catch in my breath and the flutter of nerves in my belly as his skin grazes mine.

I wonder if he struggles the same way I do, but there’s no tension in his features. Just a soft, easy smile. The creases that rim each eye belie his age. At first glance he could pass for a man my age—twenty-eight—even though he’s ten years my senior. He’s almost forty. That should turn me off. But it doesn’t.

If that weren’t enough, there’s also the teeny tiny fact that he’s engaged— practically married—and not interested in me. Yeah, there’s that, too.

I wiggle my hand free of his. “What are you doing here?” Turning away, I snatch a utility knife from the shelf. I slice through the lines of cardboard until the box is smooth and flat. “You’re not scheduled to come in until five.”

I may have his schedule memorized, but it’s not because I’m some weird, psycho stalker. I’m in charge of all the staff schedules, so knowing when someone’s shift ends or begins is a natural byproduct of the job.

He grabs the bag from the counter. “I have to prep the vegetables for tonight’s feature.”

“That’s Jason’s job.”

“Eh.” He shrugs. “Got nothing else to do.”

My stomach sours, because I know the exact reason why he has lots of free time. “Ainsley’s away again?”

“Yeah.”

He begins walking toward the kitchen, and I follow with the folded cardboard on my way out to the recycling dumpster. “Where’s she off to this time?”

Ainsley, Oliver’s fiancée, is a flight attendant. She’s abroad more than she’s stateside. Supposedly, after the wedding, she plans to switch to domestic routes only, so she’ll have more time to spend with her new husband. Yes, I said husband. And yes, I die a little inside every time I say it, even if it is only in my head.

“Copenhagen.” His brow furrows. “I think.”

“Mmm,” I mumble, already halfway out the door, not wanting to hear any more about his perfect fiancée. Most days are good days. I accept the fact that Oliver’s engaged to be married. In a different time, in a different life, maybe we could have been something more than what we are: colleagues, friends, and fellow foodies. I accept that he’s with Ainsley, and the kicker of all kickers? Ainsley is an awesome girl. Really awesome. Like, if I met her under any other circumstance, I’d want to be her friend.

But today’s not a good day. Just this morning, my ex-boyfriend’s engagement photo popped up front and center on my newsfeed. It’s not that I want Ryan back. Things didn’t work out between us for a reason, and I get that, but it’s just that everyone—all of my friends—are so happy. At least, it seems they are. My social media feed is flooded with proposals, marriages, and baby announcements, while I haven’t gone on a “real” date in more than a year. Maybe that’s why I pathetically pine after Oliver. Perhaps I just need to get laid.

I heave the cardboard into the dumpster, let the lid slam down behind me, and walk back toward the restaurant. For a moment, I contemplate using the front entrance so I can avoid Oliver, but decide against it. I’d have to walk almost an entire block out of my way, and it’s starting to drizzle.

By the time I make it into the kitchen, Oliver’s already at his station, head bent down, a mixture of colorful vegetables spread out before him. I attempt to sneak past him without saying a word, but his gruff voice stops me halfway through.

“Charli.”

My face flushes. It does every damn time he says my name because I imagine him saying it, low and needy, hovering over me. Naked. Skin to skin.

Shit.

Wetness begins to pool in my panties and I shake my head to dismiss the sexy thought. Clearing my throat, I ask, “Yeah?”

“Were you trying to sneak past me?”

I turn and gesture to the workbench. “You’re busy.”

His eyes snap up, hold mine. “That never stopped you before.”

“Okay, fine.” I roll my eyes at his teasing, playful tone. “I’m busy.” I head into my small office situated in the back corner to grab a new shirt. Calling it my office is very generous. Technically, it’s a small five-foot-by-eight-foot dumping ground for everyone’s shit.

When I walk back into the kitchen, Oliver’s gaze darts from the black shirt in my hand to my eyes.

I answer his unspoken question. “I’m covering for Joe tonight.”

He nods, returning his attention back to the cutting board, but I swear, as I push through the door, I can feel his eyes on me, right up until the door swings closed.

***

“I’m exhausted.” Meg, one of our servers, plops onto a stool across from where I stand wiping down the bar.

I’m tired, too, but more than anything, I’m relieved that I survived the night of fancy cocktails. Still, I agree with her. “Tell me about it. I’ve been here since eleven this morning.”

Her eyes widen. “Damn. That’s rough. I take it you’re not going out for drinks with us then?”

“That’d be a no.” My eyes drift to the middle-aged couple who still occupies the private corner booth. Someone, I can’t remember who, nicknamed it the bang booth, or BB for short, because couples always request it.

My eyes drift to the table to where their dessert plates are wiped clean, but their glasses are still full. Those drinks cost me fifteen minutes of googling, and God only knows how much data usage on my already-limited plan. I had no other choice, because I had no freaking clue which liquors combined to form a Vieux Carré.

What did my Google search uncover?  I’ll put it this way: the innocent, non- assuming, middle-aged couple is getting turned up tonight. Vieux Carrés are made with a shit-ton of alcohol.

My gaze snaps to Meg’s as I say, “Doesn’t look like BB is going anytime soon.”

Meg rolls her eyes. “Ugh, I know.” She squeezes the back of her neck. “It’s their twentieth anniversary. They have a sitter.”

“Hmm, that explains the fancy drinks,” I say, more to myself than Meg. Internally, I hope Mrs. Middle-Age has purchased equally fancy lingerie for Mr. Middle-Age. Maybe she’ll even get a little wild tonight, let him spank her. They are celebrating, after all.

Suppressing a smile at my dirty train of thought, I ask, “How do you always manage to get everyone’s life story?”

She shrugs. “I have a friendly face, I guess.”

“I guess.” I throw the rag into the sink. “Well, I think I’m about done here. Rebecca will cash you and the other servers out after closing.”

“No problem.” She hops off the chair. “Oh, I almost forgot, Oliver wants you to stop and see him before you leave.”

Groaning, I ask, “What does he want now?”

“Who knows?” She makes a face. “You know how he needs you for everything.” She taps her nails on the bar. “You’re the only one who can manage him and his…” She hesitates, as she searches for the right word. “Particular ways.”

She’s not wrong. Months of working side by side with a top-rated chef such as Oliver will teach a girl a few things. Oliver is borderline obsessive about which food distributors we use and why. And his kitchen staff? Turnover is rampant. Oliver gives one-hundred-and-ten percent and expects everyone on his team to do the same. But after eleven-plus hours on my feet, I don’t know if I’m up for his charming personality.

To be frank, professionally speaking, Oliver is a huge pain in my ass. His attention to detail is relentless, and I swear, his brain never shuts off. I guess one doesn’t get to be a three-star Michelin-rated chef due to cutting corners or laziness. There’s no doubt that Oliver has taken Mecca from up-and-coming restaurant to a front page, you need to call six months in advance, top-rated restaurant. Don, the owner, gives Oliver a lot of freedom. A little too much freedom, in my humble opinion.

With a reserved sigh, I peer inside the swinging door, and the motion catches Oliver’s eye almost instantly. “What’s up, Ollie?”

Oliver growls at the nickname, and I have to admit his angry snarl is half the reason why I call him by the moniker more often than not.

“Nothing, Chuck.”

I shrug. “You know that doesn’t bother me.”

A knowing smile creeps across his face. “But Chucky does.”

“Fuck you.” A shiver passes through me. I’m not a fan of scary movies, at all, especially ones with grotesque dolls wielding sharp, deadly knives. “That’s just cruel.” I shake my head and walk farther into the large kitchen. It’s loud—pots and pans scrape against the stainless steel grates of the commercial gas stove, and it’s at least ten degrees warmer than in the dining room. “You know that movie scares the shit out of me.”

“Poor baby.” He swats me with a towel.

“You’re not the one whose cousin pranked her with an actual Chucky doll and a butcher knife.”

His tone turns patronizing. “I’m sure it was all very traumatic.” He cocks his head. “How old were you again? Thirteen? Fourteen?”

“I was nine.” I try to smack him, but he darts out of the way. I roll my eyes and then ask, “What do you need, Chef? Can it wait until tomorrow? I’m beat.”

He shakes his head no.

Of course, it can’t.

“The delivery from THC Foods is fucked up.” He snatches the purchase order pinned to the bulletin board. “I specifically ordered chanterelle mushrooms, not white button.”

My nose scrunches as I try to recall the purchase request. I can’t remember if I ticked the box to allow for substitutions.

His voice drips with disdain. “They’re unusable.”

“Jesus.” I grab the slip from his hands. “You’re such a snob.”

“Says the girl who devours everything I make.”

“I devour McDonald’s, too, so that’s not really a compliment.”

He places a hand over his heart. “Now, that hurts.”

Laughing, I grab my purse from the bottom drawer of my desk and begin to fish for my keys. “I’ll take care of it tomorrow.” I look up to meet his gaze. “Will there be anything else, Master?”

“Master?” His lips tip into a wicked grin. “You trying to tell me something, Charli?” His tone deepens and his eyes glimmer with a hint of mischief. Or, at least, I think they do.

Maybe I just wish they did.

Ignoring the litany of thoughts flooding my mind, I flip him the bird on the way out the back door, and he calls my name again. Agitated, I spin to face him. “What?”

He holds a long, silver butcher knife in his right hand, poised at his shoulder like some deranged serial killer. “Sweet dreams.”

“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath.

Too bad he’s an asshole who stole my heart.

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*´¨)

¸.•´¸.•*´¨) ¸.•*¨)

(¸.•´ (¸.•COVER REVEAL

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Today is the day I finally get to share the cover of The Work Wife with you all!!! This all-new, standalone, romantic comedy is as much a feel-good read as it is HOT. Don’t miss the chance to see what Oliver and Charli are cooking up in the kitchen!

Book info:

Title: The Work Wife

Release Date: February 26, 2019

Cover Design: Kassi Jean, KassiJean Formatting & Design

Blurb:

We’ve all been there before: wanting something—or someone—we can’t have. Whether it’s a decadent slice of chocolate cake that will blow a diet, the too expensive yet oh-so-cute shoes that cost more than an entire paycheck, or the drool-worthy barista who whips up this morning’s macchiato…the point is, we can relate.

Meet Charli. A slightly awkward, forever single twenty-eight-year-old woman who definitely wants what she can’t have.

Enter Oliver. A thirty-eight-year-old executive chef who can’t stop thinking about his quirky co-worker, even though he’s engaged. Life is about choices, and saying “yes” to one person means saying “no” to another. But what if Charli and Oliver have been saying yes to the wrong people?

The timing isn’t right. The place isn’t right. But is it ever?

They say if you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen. Charli and Oliver just may set the kitchen on fire.

The Work Wife is a standalone romantic comedy. Equal parts cocky and self-assured, a pinch of awkward sprinkled with a dash of sass, topped with a whole lot of sizzlin’ heat, you’ll love this laugh-out-loud romance by best-selling author CJ Martín.

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Readers liking, tweeting, sharing, and commenting about books they like and/or are excited about is an author’s greatest tool to get the word about her books. So please feel free to do all the above 

P.S.S. Keep reading for an exclusive excerpt…

All rights reserved © 2019

One year ago

I’m going to kill him. Sweaty and out of breath, I remain splayed flat on my ass on the corner of Broad and Market streets. Precisely three blocks—three long city blocks—from my starting destination.

“Winston!” I shout, digging my heels into the pavement to prevent him from dragging me farther along. “Winston!” I yell again, desperation rising in my voice as I wrap the black leash around my wrist so tightly it nearly cuts off circulation.

People rush by in a hurry. Most sidestep around me, leaving a wide berth, one distracted woman almost steps on my leg, a few nosier passersby stop and stare with mouths agape. But mostly everyone ignores me and Winston’s incessant, annoying bark. All save for one person.

Him.

The man who sprinted three blocks from the restaurant and didn’t even break a sweat. Not one drop.

The man who watched in half-amusement, half-horror when I collided with the heavy sign as I finally caught up to Winston.

The man who made me gasp—aloud—when he pinned me with his dark, cocoa eyes.

“Are you okay?” the man asks, voice laced with concern, as he extends his hand toward me.

My hair is wild and messy, ponytail undone. My gym shorts bunch near the tops of my thighs, and I’m wearing a silly t-shirt that says in big, bold letters, “I Like Big Mutts and I Cannot Lie.” Definitely not my finest moment.

I want to maintain some semblance of dignity, which is damn hard given my current state. “I’m fine, really, but thanks,” I answer, and roll onto all fours, practically mounting the wooden sign that boasts “Mecca’s Daily Specials.”

When I finally right myself, I’m colored with vibrant streaks of chalk and dust, and the slate menu board has been wiped clean. I quickly scan the length of my body. No obvious scrapes or bruises. Besides my ego, that is.

I direct my attention to the dog that prances several feet in front of me, barking and howling as if his life depends on it.

“Come on.” I yank the leash with a little more force than is warranted. If his owner, Mrs. James, finds out about our little “incident” she’ll have my head. She’s a crazy dog lady if I’ve ever seen one. Not only does Winston eat a healthier diet than most humans—organic, fowl-free, low allergen, and low glycemic, but he also has standing appointments with his dermatologist, dentist, and psychologist. It was a wonder Mrs. James let me within fifty feet of her beloved German shepherd. My guess is she has no idea how unskilled of a dog walker I actually am. This may be due to the fact that I oversold my dog expertise by, oh, I don’t know, a million percent.

But I needed a job, and busy city dwellers like Mrs. James were willing to pay top dollar for their precious pooches to be exercised on daily walks. Never mind that I was scooping up shit every few feet and stopping to piss on every pole. The dogs that is, not me.

“You sure you’re okay?” The man asks, voice soft. His eyes drag over me, slow and lazy. His gaze caresses my skin, heats my flesh causing me to flush even more. But this time not with embarrassment.

“I’m fine.” Holding the dog’s leash with a firm grip, I lean forward to try to right the fallen sign, but it’s too heavy to manage one-handed. Jesus, how the hell was Winston able to run three city blocks, trailing a fifty-pound sign behind him? I’m properly winded having only carried myself.

The man’s fist closes around the other edge of the menu board, and together we stand it up. His chin tips toward the wooden sign, the corners of his mouth curling into a sexy smirk. God, he is delicious. “Care to tell me how this ended up all the way down here, attached to your dog?”

“He’s not my dog.” I don’t know why that’s the first thing I choose to divulge. Judging by the circumstances of my current situation, I’d say it’s the least relevant piece of information.

His eyes widen. “Okay.”

The explanation comes out in a rush. “I’m a dog walker. Or, at least, I am for a few more days.”

His brow quirks as if to say, “I think that’s for the best.”

“I’m starting a new job.” My gaze darts from him to the sign. “At Mecca. Have you heard of it?”

His eyes shine with amusement. “You could say that.”

“Well, I was supposed to stop in to drop off my tax forms for the owner. It wouldn’t take long, ten minutes, tops. Winston”—I jab my thumb in the dog’s direction—“had to be walked anyway, so I thought, why not kill two birds with one stone?”

I give in to my desire and permit my eyes to sweep the man’s face. It’s a nice face. More than a nice face, really. It’s a hot face. Clean-shaven, angular jaw, and strong, well-defined brows that frame rich coffee eyes that shine with a trace of humor. Short-ish, slightly wavy, dark brown hair that’s spiked in the front.

Not that he complains about my ogling. No, he uses the opportunity to assess me, as well. His eyes skim over my bare legs. Continue upward to my waist, ribcage, throat, face, before finally allowing his heavy, heated gaze to return to my breasts, lingering just a moment too long to be considered polite.

I clear my throat. “Anyway,” I continue, halting my inventory of his handsome face. “I looped his leash around the signpost—I was only going to be few minutes, after all, and I knew I couldn’t bring him inside.” A nervous chuckle escapes my mouth. “I’m not a complete idiot.”

The man doesn’t laugh. Awkward.

Undeterred, I continue, “Before I even got the door open, ol’ Winny here took off. I tried to stop him, run after him but…” My eyes find his and hold. “Well, you saw how well that worked out.”

His lips twitch, and my guess is he’s doing his damnedest not to laugh. Finally, he speaks, “You brought your dog to a job interview?“ Those cocoa brown eyes sparkle. “At a Michelin-rated restaurant?”

“He’s not my dog.” I huff, jolting forward a little bit as Winston pulls on the leash. Instinctively, the man reaches his hand out to brace me from falling. I jerk back from the contact, from the spark of heat of where his palm circled my bicep. “Thanks,” I mumble, retreating a few steps. “And it’s not an interview,” I add, finally processing the rest of his question. “I already have the job.”

His lips twitch again, drawing my attention. He has full, pillowy lips. Sensual lips. Lips that look soft and kissable.

“All right.” I turn in place, wanting to end this exchange sooner rather than later. “I guess I’m going to go.” I pull Winston alongside me and stand next to the sign. Hooking my arm around the top, I do my best to drag it beside me, but it’s heavy and cumbersome. At this rate, I’ll make it back to the restaurant in fifteen hours.

The man watches for what could only be a few seconds but feels more like minutes. A small smiling playing on his lips, he finally asks, “Want some help with that?”

To this day I don’t know why I denied the help. Maybe it was pride. Perhaps it was determination. More likely it was embarrassment. “I’m good, thanks.”

Shaking his head, he dismisses my refusal, snatches the sign from my hands, and starts walking faster than I’d thought possible with such a hefty load. Winston and I—okay, fine, just me—struggle to keep up. In record time, we’re standing in front of the posh double doors of Mecca.

I hesitate outside the restaurant, thinking of something to say other than a measly thanks. Before I can come up with something witty or cute, he opens the door and begins to walk inside, shocking the hell out of me.

“Where are you going?” I practically shout at his retreating back. He’s taking this Good Samaritan thing a little too far.

He stops, turns to face me, a coy smirk playing on his lips. “Back to work.”

I can feel the blood draining from my face, fast and sure, like when you dump a full bucket of water down the drain in one smooth, strong rush. “Wait.” I hold up my hand. “You work here?” I point at the restaurant in front of me. “Here here?”

“Yes and yes.”

It’s then that my eyes land on the embroidered name printed across the breast pocket of his white coat. A coat that looks dangerously close to a—“Oh, my God.” My skin prickles with heat. “Please tell me you’re not Oliver Pensen?” My voice rises at the end in question, even as my addled mind connected the dots. “Holy shit,” I mumble, a little breathless, a whole lot embarrassed. “You’re the head chef at Mecca.”

“Yes again.”

“Jesus.” I resist the urge to cover what I’m sure is my beet-red face. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”

His eyes skim down the front of his chef coat. “I didn’t exactly hide it.”

My eyes narrow in annoyance. “You know what I mean.”

He laughs off my accusation. “I was too busy chasing a sign thief.”

I scowl again, but he continues to laugh. “It was nice meeting you…” His voice trails off as he waits for me to tell him my name.

Clearing my throat, I say, “Charli.”

“Charli.” He repeats the name back to me, the syllables rolling off his tongue with ease, and I’m surprised by the sound of my name leaving his lips. Smooth, yet gravelly.

I want him to say it again. Would it be weird of me to ask? Probably.

He offers one last smile. “I have a feeling we’ll be seeing a lot of one another.”

Charli.

“I’ll tell Don you’re here.”

I nod before he enters the restaurant, leaving me standing on the sidewalk, a goofy, almost shell-shocked grin on my face.

Charli.

They say you only get one first impression. It takes just three short seconds for a stranger to form an opinion about you based on your mannerisms, body language, and appearance.

Oliver Pensen? He made the biggest impression on my mind, my body, my heart than anyone ever had before. Pity, really, because I’d soon learn that the man who stole my heart belonged to someone else.

Read the rest of the story on February 26th. Until then, add to add to Goodreads

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Title: Touching Down

Series: Standalone

Genre: College Sports (Football) Romance/New Adult

Release Date: July 16, 2018

Blurb:

An athlete and an artist fall in love… 

Tortured artist. Popular jock. There’s a reason these stereotypes exist. We were them.

I didn’t meet Jackson Walker until junior year, but from that day forward, I knew my life would forever change. What I didn’t expect, what I didn’t anticipate, was my heart’s betrayal. That I would bend and break and fall helplessly in love with a man who wasn’t mine to keep.

Our love always reminded me of the painting, The Starry Night.

Captivating. Breathtaking. Surreal.

Looking back, that should have been the first red flag. Not only did Van Gogh paint the famous print while a patient in an insane asylum, but he also considered the piece a failure.

Worthless. Broken. Like me.

Still, I saw us reflected in the rich oils, in the thick brush strokes — Jackson’s eyes reflected in the sparkling stars, his smile the bright crescent moon winking in the inky night sky. His presence, massive, all-consuming, demanding attention.

My contributions weren’t so beautiful. I brought the darkness, the swirls of color spilling together like the murky memories of my mind. The dark shadow, the silhouette of the cypress tree looming in the foreground, mourning. Guarding hidden secrets, ugly truths.

He is light. I am darkness. And in the end, darkness always prevails.

Touching Down is a new adult college football romance. If you like shy yet sexy, hot yet sensitive and enough sizzle to melt your Kindle, then you’ll love this steamy romance by best-selling author CJ Martín. 

Disclaimer: Touching Down is a standalone, college football romance, and is intended for readers ages 18+.

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 Amazon US: https://amzn.to/2NeYBT6

 Amazon CA: https://amzn.to/2mmQx7K

 Amazon UK: https://amzn.to/2utBYn2

 Amazon AU:https://amzn.to/2KZGDHB

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A note on Reviews…

Please, please, PLEASE consider leaving a review on Goodreads/Amazon if you liked Touching Down (or any of my books for that matter!)

Reviews mean the world to me. Yes, I read EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. The good ones make me smile, laugh, cry, and so damn happy that I get to share my words with the world. The bad ones (sometimes) ruin my day, make me cry (not in a good way!), and make me want to bang my head against my keyboard. BUT in turn, they also help me grow and become a better writer.

I know it’s a pain in the a$$, we’re all busy, but I look forward to those few lines of encouragement when I’m feeling down or when my words aren’t flowing. AND it helps connect other readers to new books, authors, etc, so PLEASE write a review. I will love you forever, promise

I hope you enjoy Jackson and Brooklyn’s story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Until next time!

xoxo,

CJ