BOOK #2 IN THE BAD BACHELOR SERIES
Everybody’s talking about the hot new app reviewing New York’s most eligible bachelors. But why focus on prince charming when you can read the latest dirt on the lowest-ranked “Bad Bachelors”—NYC’s most notorious bad boys.
Wes Evans, son of Broadway royalty, just wants to achieve something without riding on his family’s coattails. Too bad the whole world is talking about his sex life after the notorious Bad Bachelors app dubs him “The Anaconda”. But when he sees a talented ballet dancer, he knows she is exactly what he needs to make his show a success.
Remi Drysdale only had one thought when she fled Australia for New York—never mix business with pleasure again. Ever. She gets the perfect chance to reclaim her career when a handsome stranger asks her to audition for his show. Remi promises herself not to tangle with the guy who holds her career in his hands…no matter how enticing his reviews are on the Bad Bachelors app…
CAN THIS BE READ AS A STANDALONE?
This series has a separate couple in each book, therefore they can be read as standalone stories. However, this series is best enjoyed in order due to continuing subplots.
Is this book available in languages other than english?
Not at this stage.
IS THIS BOOK AVAILABLE IN AUDIO?
Yes! It's coming soon on Audible.
Excerpt from BAD REPUTATION
From: Sadie Marshall
Subject: You’re famous…well, part of you is.
I’m sure you’re not enough of a douchebag to have a Google Alert set up for your own name (or if you are, no judgment. Okay…a little judgment), so you may not have seen this. But your junk is famous! No, that’s not a typo.
"I’m not the kind of woman to have a one-night stand, but after I saw a picture of him on holiday in Bora Bora with that Victoria’s Secret model, Nadja Vasiliev, I HAD to know if it was real. And I can tell you, ladies, that bulge is not a product of Photoshop. Let’s just say that most guys are garden snakes. If you’re lucky, you might get a king snake. But Wes is an anaconda…and he knows how to use it."
Oh. My. God.
I don’t even know what to say. There’s this app that allows New York women to rate men they’ve dated or something crazy like that. I was checking it out for a friend *cough-it-was-totally-me-cough* and I found you on there. Your reviews were enlightening, my friend. Maybe I should rescind my previous request that we never get in each other’s pants. Because apparently, you’ve been hiding a predator in there.
Wes Evans was used to women checking him out. He exercised often and presented well, always living by his father’s advice that he should dress like he was about to meet someone important. In New York City, a meeting like that could take place anywhere—riding in an elevator, sitting in the back of a cab, or lining up to order a coffee.
After a stint as a guest judge on Dance Idol, his face had garnered even more attention. Fans of the show wanted to gush over their front-runner picks, and wannabe performers tried to make an impression in the hopes he might remember them the next time he held an audition.
But this…this was different.
“What can I get you?” The barista devoured him with her eyes, the smooth dart of her tongue leaving behind a glossy sheen on her pink lips.
“Cold brew.” He pulled his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. “Black.”
She tilted her head slightly. Behind a set of thick-framed glasses, her gaze roamed down his body, lingering south of his belt. “Size?”
She reached for a clear plastic cup, sticking the cap of her Sharpie into her mouth and pulling the pen out with a pop. Another barista passed behind her, also checking him out. “I heard he was more of a Venti,” she said in a not-so-quiet whisper.
The first barista mushed her full lips together as though trying not to laugh while she marked the cup. “It’s Wes, right?”
He wanted to ask how she knew his name, but frankly, he wasn’t about to subject himself to more assessment. He felt like a piece of steak being wheeled around on a cart at one of those fancy restaurants, just waiting for people to comment on his shape and size.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.
“No thanks.” He handed over a ten-dollar bill and walked away before she had time to count his change.
He was ready to be done with today. And the quicker he got his caffeine fix, the better. Perhaps he should have chosen a place a little less public for this meeting. But when Sadie, his best friend and now business associate, had forwarded him the email about the Bad Bachelors website earlier that morning, he hadn’t taken it too seriously. The second he’d stepped out of his Upper East Side apartment though, he’d realized that Sadie wasn’t the only one using this tabloid cesspool of a website.
The barista placed his cold brew on the counter and winked at him. She’d written her phone number on his cup.
“Wes!” Sadie waved at him from a table in the back corner of the café. Her hair was cropped close on one side and left longer on the other, the blue and purple strands curving down around her jaw. “Or should I say, Mr. Anaconda?”
“Don’t start,” he said, dropping into the seat across from her. “I’m beginning to wonder if the human race suddenly developed X-ray vision with the way everyone is looking at me.”
“I doubt they need it. Someone did a digital recreation over that picture of you and…what was her name? The Russian chick. Natasha? Natalia?”
“That’s it.” Sadie snapped her fingers. “Anyway, it’s floating around online. They Photoshopped it to show what was going on underneath your board shorts, and I have to say—”
“You really don’t.”
Sadie grinned and waded her straw through a mound of whipped cream sitting on top of some caramel-mocha monstrosity. “You’ve been keeping things from me.”
“I thought we had an agreement.”
Wes and Sadie had been friends as long as anyone could remember. They’d grown up as neighbors in one of the most exclusive apartment buildings in Manhattan, traded lunches on the playground, and, after a disaster of a kiss around the time they were eighteen, had promptly agreed that they would always and forever be friends. Nothing more.
“We do. But that was before I knew you were packing more than the average salami.” She couldn’t keep a straight face and burst out laughing. “Ew. No, I can’t even joke about it without feeling dirty.”
“Nothing personal. Besides, you’re going to have every other woman in this goddamn city chasing after you now. You don’t need my attention too.”
“Excellent.” He clapped his hands. “Can we cut the locker room bullshit and get back to work, then?”
“No need to get snippy.” Sadie looked too damn smug for her own good.
Wes opened the spreadsheet that had their production budget outlined to the very last detail, with a total that would make most people’s eyes pop. Broadway productions were expensive. Even those classified as “Off-Off-Broadway,” which were held in small theaters that seated less than a hundred people, cost a pretty penny. In this case, many of those involved were taking part for next to nothing, hoping the show would break out. But the theater still needed to be paid for, costumes needed to be created, and sets needed to be designed.
All of which required deep pockets.
“I got a final figure from the Attic,” Wes said. “It’s more than we budgeted for, but we can manage it. I’ll push the investors harder, and I have wiggle room with my own funds.”
“You’re already pouring so much of your own money into this.” Sadie frowned.
She didn’t often show her stress, but Wes knew her too well not to detect the hint of concern in her voice. It wasn’t exactly unwarranted. He was putting everything into this crazy idea.
Out of Bounds was his brainchild, a dance production with no separation between stage and seating. The cast was part of the audience and the audience part of the show. It was the antithesis of the world he’d grown up in, one fortified with rules and posture and tradition. With his big-picture view and Sadie’s talent for turning his vague descriptions into something living and breathing, he knew they had something special. All they had to do was back themselves long enough to give the rest of New York a chance to agree.
“I can manage a bit more,” he said. “I want this to work.”
Sadie bit her lip and nodded. “I do too, but I’m worried you’ll get cleaned out if this fails.”
“It won’t fail.”
Even as he said the words, the stats danced in his head. Successful Broadway productions were in the minority, with less than 25 percent turning a profit. And those were the ones with big advertising budgets. Breakouts like Hamilton were rare, and most productions ended up in a financial graveyard littered with the bones of failed dreams.
Fact was, the numbers were against them. They were more likely to crash and burn and end up with bank accounts drier than the Sahara.
“Besides,” he added, “I have the city’s best choreographer working for me.”
Sadie snorted. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Wes. But I hope you’re right. I burned a hell of a bridge leaving your parents’ company to do this with you.”
“You and me both,” he muttered.
Out of Bounds was either going to make or break his future, and Wes wasn’t the kind of guy who backed down from a challenge.
“Now all we need to do is secure the funding and find our perfect ballerina,” he said with a grin. “No sweat at all.”