A hilarious, new, frenemies to lovers, forced proximity romance is out this week from K.M. Golland, and I have an awesome sneak peek for you.
Excerpt
Sunlight spears through the open door, coaxing my heavy eyelids to open. I rub them with my knuckles and roll onto my back, Riley’s snoring now a soft rumble.
Propping myself on my elbows, I glare at him before climbing out of bed, pillow in hand. How dare he sleep peacefully when all he’s done for the past several hours is disrupt the peace? How dare he just lie there without a care in the world? Well-rested. Blissful. Comfortable.
Inching along the side of his bed, I raise my pillow behind my head but pause as my eyes settle on his bare leg poking out from underneath his sheets. A nicely sculpted leg. Muscular. Tan. A virile sprinkling of hair.
I stare at it, captivated, as if I’ve never seen a man’s leg before.
He snorts.
I freeze.
He snorts again, eyelids spasming before relaxing again.
Despite how freaking annoyed I am at him, I can’t deny his rugged good looks. I also can’t help but wonder if he’s wearing any underwear, because I can’t see any sticking out from under the sheet.
Wait! Is he naked? I step back. He better not be!
Slamming the pillow down on his face, I wrench it back again, and shout, “Wake up!”
Riley releases a cacophony of grunts, blinking as he wrestles with his sheets until he’s upright and leaning back on his palms.
I whack him again for good measure. “You liar!”
“What the fuck?” He raises his hand, shielding himself from further blows.
“Yes, what the fuck indeed.” I stab my finger at him. “You snore like a damn freight train.”
The jerk searches the room and then looks at me as if I’m an imbecile. “Freight trains don’t snore.”
“Whatever! You do!”
Growling, I whack him again, then storm to the closet and collect my clothes for the day.
“What time is it?” he grumbles as if it’s too early to be awake.
“Time you moved cabins.”
“Wait! What?”
“You heard me.”
“Come on, Riles. You don’t mean that.”
I wrench open the bathroom door, step inside, and allow it to slam behind me, shouting, “I most certainly do!”
“I’m sorry,” he calls out. “I don’t usually snor—”
“Liar!”
Growling again, I slam the toilet lid down, lay a towel over it, and place my clothes on top before boxing the air like Mike Tyson’s uncoordinated twin. I’m not normally the violent type. Frustrated air-boxer? Yes. Physically connect my fists with someone else? No. Yet, for some reason, Riley makes me want to kung-fu his ass. Twice over.
Clenching the edge of the vanity, I grit my teeth and stare at myself in the mirror, my hair awry, my eyes puffier than a pufferfish. Oh my God! I look like Beetlejuice.
I groan, turn the faucet on, and grab my toothbrush, scrubbing my teeth like a mad woman before spitting out the froth more forcibly than intended, white foam spraying the mirror.
Tempted to leave it there, because Riley seems to think mess is acceptable, I end up wiping it away, since the clean freak within me won’t stand for it, and then I secure my shower cap and step into the shower, hot water massaging my shoulders and neck and slowly easing my volcanic tension.
I press my palms against the wall, hang my head, and exhale, once again counting to five—a stress-relief technique I picked up not long after starting my job with Georgia. It’s a daily ritual I perform, but I certainly didn’t anticipate having to continue it on vacation. Then again, what would I know? I never go on vacation. Perhaps they are stressful.
No, they’re not. Vacations are enjoyable. My vacation will be enjoyable, just as Mom wanted it to be. Riley and his snoring be damned.
Today, we dock in Halifax, Nova Scotia—one of my bucket list ports of call—and I plan to visit St. Mary’s Basilica, the Fairview Lawn Cemetery, and the Titanic exhibit at the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic. Ever since I was a young girl and watched Titanic at the theatre with Mom, I’ve been fascinated—borderline obsessed—with the ill-fated maiden voyage. More than fifteen hundred people tragically died on April 15, 1912, and what’s worse is their demise could’ve been avoided.
I’m also a hardcore Leo DiCaprio fan.
Humming “My Heart Will Go On” as I psych myself up for the day ahead, I finish showering, then I spend the time needed to put on my makeup and do my hair when a knock on the bathroom door has me almost poking my eye out with my mascara wand.
“What?” I grouch.
“Hurry up! I need to piss.”
“Piss over the balcony.” I swipe on another coat of mascara then bite my lip, contemplating whether he’d be the type to do just that, which I think he would, so quickly add, “No! Don’t! Use the toilet in the lobby instead.”
He groans and murmurs, “Fine,” and by the time I’m done, he still hasn’t returned, which only elevates my frustration with him. We need to go over more rules and boundaries. “Sleep with your mouth closed” a new one added to my list.
Not having the time nor patience to wait any longer, I collect my bag and passport and head to the buffet restaurant for a quick breakfast.
The smell of pancakes, toast, and bacon heavily permeates the air as I dodge person after person rushing about with plates and bowls in hand, some of them lining up at food stations while others try to find empty tables.
“Holy cow!” I murmur. This place is busier than Times Square.
Making a dash for the coffee machine, desperate for my elixir of life, I scoot to a stop and wait in line for a short while before pouring a cup, and then I weave my way to one of the food stations to grab a bagel. My chances of finding an empty table seem slim, but I scan the room nonetheless, when Riley raises his hand and waves me over to where he’s seated.
Huh. So this is where he disappeared to.
I consider flipping him the bird but don’t, instead acknowledging him with a single head nod as I chart a path in his direction.
“Morning, sunshine.” He tips his mug to me, his twinkling blue eyes annoyingly wide and fresh.
I decide I no longer like them.
“It’s been morning for me since three-thirty when your hog call woke me up,” I say, sliding into the spare seat and releasing my plate onto the table with an intended clatter.
“Hog call?”
“Yes.”
“Wow! That’s insulting.”
“It’s meant to be.”
“Brutal.”
“That’s what happens when I’ve had little to no sleep.”
“Sorry.” He dips his head and sips from his mug. “Must’ve been the beer.”
“Good guess, Einstein, because I was nearly drunk off the fumes.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Yes,” I grumble. “That bad.”
“Sorry,” he murmurs again.
His apology seems genuine, but it doesn’t change our dilemma. “You said you didn’t snore.”
“I don’t… usually.”
“Well, you did, and it’s a problem.” I spread cream cheese on my bagel and take a bite, mumbling, “I’m not spending the next few weeks with no sleep.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It won’t.”
Scoffing, because you don’t just magically stop snoring because you say you can, I sit back and cross my arms over my chest. “How can you be so sure?”
“I have a plan.”
“You do, do you?”
“Yes.”
“Speaking of plans, we need to revisit the rules and boundaries.”
Riley groans. “It’s too early for that.”
“I’m serious. Our situation is already unconventional and uncomfortable. The least we can do is set some guidelines to make it a little easier.”
He stretches his arms toward the ceiling, then locks his fingers and rests them behind his head. “Fine. What are your rules and boundaries besides the ones you’ve already stipulated?”
“I—” My treacherous eyes lock onto his biceps, and I almost choke on my bagel.
“You okay?” he asks, brow raised.
“Yes”—cough—“I’m fine.” I thunk my chest with my fist, then take a sip of my coffee. “You need to knock.”
“What?”
“Knock… before entering the cabin.”
“But I’ll forget.”
“Then try not to. I might be getting changed, and I don’t want you barging in on me.”
“Why not?” He leans forward, picks up his toast, and points it at me. “You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”
Heat blooms in my cheeks, and I can’t help squirming in my seat. “I’m not ashamed of my body, Riley. I respect it, and that means not flaunting it naked in front of strangers.”
“I wouldn’t exactly say we’re strangers anymore.”
“That’s not the point,” I say, gritting my teeth.
“Okay. Ease up.” He chuckles. “I’ll try to remember to knock.”
“Thank you.”
“Anything else?”
I take another bite and mumble, “Toilet seat down.”
“Why not toilet seat up?”
“Because I can’t sit on the rim of the bowl.”
“And I can’t piss when the seat is down. If I have to lift it, why can’t you put it down?”
I go to drink my coffee again but pause, the side of the mug resting against my lip as I deliberate his rebuttal of how gender biased toilet etiquette can be. But then I remember hygiene trumps all.
“Because it’s unhygienic to leave it up,” I deadpan. “Poo particles.”
He bursts with laughter. “Poo particles?”
“Yes. They become airborne and land on your toothbrush.”
Riley shakes his head but doesn’t argue. “Fine. I’ll put the seat down.” Then he adds, “And the lid, if the poo particles concern you so much.”
I lift my brow, because that’s actually fair. “Good. I will too.”
We eat in silence for a moment, and when he doesn’t say anything else, I ask, “Do you have any rules or boundaries for me?”
“Yeah, stop hogging all the space. I have stuff too and nowhere to put it.”
I wince. “Sorry. I didn’t realize how much room in the closet I’d taken up until I found my very-expensive blouse thrown on my bed.” I smile the kind of smile you smile when you don’t want to smile.
“I didn’t throw it.”
“Looked like you did.”
“I assure you, I didn’t.”
Engaged in an eye-locked showdown, I slowly exhale. Maybe he’s telling the truth. “Do you need more closet space than you currently have?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t finished unpacking.”
“Well, when I get back from the city today, I’ll free up some room just in case.”
He smirks. “Thank you.”
I smirk back. “You’re welcome.”
Riley runs his hand over his beard, studying me.
“What?” I mumble, fearing I’ve smeared cream cheese on my face.
“You feeling better?”
“Huh?”
“You said you felt sick last night.”
“Oh. Yeah. I did.” I divert my gaze. “It came and went. I’m fine now.”
“Good. Because another one of my rules is no puking in the cabin.”
I laugh. “What?”
“No puke. If you need to, do it overboard or somewhere else.”
“I’m not puking overboard. That’s disgusting. It might land on someone below. And anyway, I have anti-nausea meds. I’m not going to puke.”
“Sweet. So are we all sorted then, cabin cop?”
“For now.” I down the last of my coffee, stand, and collect my bag. “If there’s anything else, I’ll let you know.”
He stands too, and murmurs, “I’m sure you will.”
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