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Natalie Pepper knows almost nothing about New York City, except that it’s far, far away from her home in California. When she packs up everything she owns and moves there on a whim, luck is on her side. She stumbles into a promising marketing job in the developing Internet industry and finds herself surrounded by poised and polished men who are nothing like the guys she knew back home.
One guy stands out from the rest… CJ: All-American hunk and genuine good guy. But they work together, and giving in to their mutual attraction could put Natalie’s sparkly new world at risk, so she resolves to look, but not to touch.
Natalie’s new friend Candace Kanie has no such concerns. From the barroom to the boardroom, she’s used to getting exactly what she wants, and her no-crap attitude ensures that nothing gets in her way. But when she meets Damon, the notorious playboy at Natalie’s company, she finds that her take-no-prisoners style might not be as effective in the romantic realm.
Frustrated and often irrational, Candace pushes for what she wants until something’s gotta give. And when it does, she realizes that the one thing she might not do better than anyone else is change.
The first book about the loves, lives, and laughter of a group of friends finding their way in the city is a laugh-out-loud romantic comedy full of Men and Martinis!
#11485 in Kindle Store > Kindle eBooks > Literature & Fiction > Women's Fiction > Romance
#12972 in Kindle Store > Kindle eBooks > Romance > Romantic Comedy
#14845 in Books > Romance > Romantic Comedy
Closets Are Overrated
Natalie
My Celica drove away from me and for a second I thought I saw myself waving from the back window. There I was, hanging over the seat back, my long blond hair draped over one shoulder, a lopsided smile on my face. My dark blue eyes were wide as I waved at the poor wretch who’d just left everything she’d ever known, handed her car keys to a stranger and allowed herself to be left standing alone, her life in boxes at her feet, at a busy curb on Amsterdam Avenue. I squinted and shook my head. And the girl in the window was gone.
And it was just Frank, driving away from me. The balding fat man from the parking lot near Newark had agreed to buy my car sight unseen over the phone and had driven me into the city on the tail end of my madcap cross-country dash. He left me there watching as he dodged my little car through the swarm of yellow cabs and disappeared amid the honking thrum of New York City traffic.
I turned to look at the steel door set back under an awning in the hulking stone building that was my new home, and a wave of nausea hit me. Hard. I turned and retched into the gutter, vomit streaking the passenger side of the car in front of me.
“Watch it,” a thin man with a beak nose said as he slid into the driver’s side of the car I’d just puked on. He started the engine as I was wiping my mouth on my sleeve, still doubled over. He rolled down the passenger side window, and I wondered if he might ask if I was okay. I felt like I needed someone to care just a little bit at that moment. “I oughta get your insurance. You know vomit is corrosive?” With that educational rebuke, he pulled abruptly away from the curb, leaving me feeling sick and more alone than I’d ever been.
Welcome to New York City, I thought. Welcome to your new life.
