Once Upon A Wild Fling Read online

  Contents

  Also By Lauren Blakely

  About

  1. Roxy

  2. Miles

  3. Roxy

  4. Miles

  5. Miles

  6. Roxy

  7. Roxy

  8. Miles

  9. Miles

  10. Roxy

  11. Roxy

  12. Roxy

  13. Miles

  14. Miles

  15. Miles

  16. Miles

  17. Miles

  18. Roxy

  19. Roxy

  20. Miles

  21. Miles

  22. Miles

  23. Roxy

  24. Roxy

  25. Miles

  26. Roxy

  27. Roxy

  28. Miles

  29. Roxy

  30. Miles

  31. Roxy

  32. Miles

  33. Miles

  34. Roxy

  35. Roxy

  36. Miles

  Epilogue

  Another Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Lauren Blakely

  Contact

  Once Upon A Wild Fling

  Lauren Blakely

  Copyright © 2018 by Lauren Blakely

  LaurenBlakely.com

  Cover Design by © Helen Williams

  First Edition Book

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Also By Lauren Blakely

  Big Rock Series

  Big Rock

  Mister O

  Well Hung

  Full Package

  Joy Ride

  Hard Wood

  One Love Series dual-POV Standalones

  The Sexy One

  The Only One

  The Hot One

  Standalones

  The Knocked Up Plan

  Most Valuable Playboy

  Stud Finder

  The V Card

  Most Likely to Score

  Wanderlust

  Come As You Are

  Part-Time Lover

  The Real Deal

  Unbreak My Heart

  Once Upon a Real Good Time

  Once Upon a Sure Thing

  Once Upon a Wild Fling

  Unzipped (Fall 2018)

  Far Too Tempting

  21 Stolen Kisses

  Playing With Her Heart

  Out of Bounds

  The Caught Up in Love Series

  Caught Up In Us

  Pretending He’s Mine

  Trophy Husband

  Stars in Their Eyes

  The No Regrets Series

  The Thrill of It

  The Start of Us

  Every Second With You

  The Seductive Nights Series

  First Night (Julia and Clay, prequel novella)

  Night After Night (Julia and Clay, book one)

  After This Night (Julia and Clay, book two)

  One More Night (Julia and Clay, book three)

  A Wildly Seductive Night (Julia and Clay novella, book 3.5)

  The Joy Delivered Duet

  Nights With Him (A standalone novel about Michelle and Jack)

  Forbidden Nights (A standalone novel about Nate and Casey)

  The Sinful Nights Series

  Sweet Sinful Nights

  Sinful Desire

  Sinful Longing

  Sinful Love

  The Fighting Fire Series

  Burn For Me (Smith and Jamie)

  Melt for Him (Megan and Becker)

  Consumed By You (Travis and Cara)

  The Jewel Series

  A two-book sexy contemporary romance series

  The Sapphire Affair

  The Sapphire Heist

  About

  There are a million reasons why Miles Hart isn't the man I should date but allow me to enumerate the top three. He's friends with my brother, he's a single dad, and he's a sexy, in-demand rock star. He might as well wear an off-limits, totally unavailable, and don’t-even-attempt-to-ride-this-ride sign.

  And there’s one more, little itty-bitty thing -- he's never asked me on a date.

  That is, until he asks me to be his plus-one when his band plays at his high school reunion. It shouldn’t be a big deal. After all, we’re just friends, and no one is giving us our own hashtag. Except me . . .

  I have three good reasons to keep my hands off Roxy Sterling—her brother’s my business manager, my kid is the center of my world, and the last time I fell hard for a woman I was burned so badly that my interest in relationships has gone up in flames. But once I bring Roxy’s body next to mine on the dance floor, I want all the not-safe-for-work things I can't have with her.

  My brain knows there’s no way for us to work, but tell that to my big mouth. Because the second she plants a hot, sexy kiss on me, I have the bright idea to ask her to keep being my plus one—turning one night into a few.

  What’s the harm in spending a little more time with her and having her by my side at all these events? Nothing at first, until I learn exactly how risky we might be.

  1

  Roxy

  Some things in life are easy, like getting lost in a book, finishing off the entire bag of sea-salt popcorn while binge-watching your favorite TV show, and trying fabulous new restaurants with your best girlfriends.

  And some things in life are opening-a-pickle-jar hard, like assembling any kind of furniture that arrives in a box, finding a good man when you’re over thirty in New York City, and also, giving a cat a bath.

  Actually, that’s almost universally recognized as one of the most difficult feats in the world, even harder than the man thing, and quite possibly more challenging than sending a man, woman, or monkey into outer space.

  Fortunately, it’s something I’ve mastered.

  The scratch marks on the little old lady’s arms indicate she hasn’t.

  Understandably.

  My potential customer at Fluffy & Fabulous fiddles with her pearls, sighing sadly, even for a Monday. “I have to tell you something. Celine scratches. I don’t know why. She’s not a bad cat.”

  I nod sympathetically from across the salon’s pink counter. “Of course she’s not a bad kitty. It’s not personal, and it says nothing of her heart or her love for you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I raise my chin. “One hundred percent. She’s simply being a cat, but we know exactly how to handle girls like her.” I lean closer, whispering conspiratorially, “Ever heard of mittens for kittens?”

  The woman shakes her head.

  Reaching under the counter, I grab a pair of the tiny claw covers that h
elp make it possible for my employees and me to keep the skin on our arms when handling ornery cats.

  Which is to say, all cats.

  Harnesses help too, and sometimes, a stiff glass of bourbon for the bather.

  The lady wiggles her fingers in delight, picking up a mitten delicately. “They’re so darling.”

  “They are. Just like Celine is,” I say, and though I haven’t seen the feline in person—or in animal, rather—her mistress has shown me a wallet full of photos of the fluffy Himalayan. She’s magnificent AF.

  The woman raises a finger. “One more thing. What about escapes? Have you had any?”

  I shake my head. “We have a spotless record.” That’s a point of pride for me and my business, and I point to the chalkboard on the wall behind me. One of my artistic employees drew a pink pastel cartoon of a kitty and a puppy, and beneath them it says:

  Four years running and zero runners! No escapes from the premises—not even a single breakout from a tub!

  “Celine will be in good hands. Plus, my top stylist does the best cat blowouts in the entire city, bar none.”

  The lady hums. “Maybe a bow too?” She mimes tying a bow around her neck.

  “Absolutely. I’d recommend royal blue for Celine.”

  But the lady taps her fingers on the counter, a sign she’s not quite ready to commit. I know that look, and I know the way around it. I worked on Wall Street for five years, and they didn’t call me The Closer for nothing. It’s time to break out the big guns.

  “Listen, I have an idea I think might help you and Celine. Are you aware that we do house calls?”

  Her eyes light up. “You do?”

  “In-home stylings are a tad more expensive, but if you’d like, we can arrange for a pet stylist to come to your home, and I can send my top people-stylist for you too. A tandem blowout.” We offer those additional services for clients who want to be pampered right alongside their pets.

  The woman clasps her hands to her chest. “Yes. That sounds absolutely delightful.” She pats her bobbed hair, adding, “I do love a good blow j— I mean, blowout.”

  Her cheeks go pink, and I simply smile and whisper, “Me too.”

  I swipe on the tablet screen and open the calendar. “Let’s get you scheduled . . .” I look up so she can supply her name.

  “Ellie.”

  “You and Celine are going to enjoy this. Celine will look paws-itively meow-velous this weekend.”

  “She already has plans to spend her time sitting in my lap purring.”

  I smile, glad she doesn’t take her feline’s schedule that seriously. I don’t come across too many funny bones in the heart of the Upper East Side, the land of pampered pets and even more pampered people.

  But that’s why my flagship full-service pet salon is located smack dab in the heart of this pooch-and-pussycat-loving neighborhood.

  I wave to Ellie as she leaves.

  Once she’s gone, my manager sweeps to the front counter, her doe eyes somehow even bigger than usual, as if she’s seen a ghost. “Roxy, you’re needed in the portrait studio. We have a dog waiting with a guy.”

  “How did I miss them?”

  “They came in five minutes ago, and, well, I think you were . . .” Tara trails off.

  “It’s okay. I’m not ashamed for you to know I have a bladder. I was peeing,” I say, patting her on the arm.

  She laughs nervously, tucking her platinum-blonde hair behind her ears.

  “Who’s the pup? Do I know it?”

  “It’s Harriet.”

  That name tickles my brain as I head to my office to grab my camera. Tara follows, rattling the details of the sitting.

  I sling my camera around my neck, then something clicks. “Wait. Is Harriet a Weimaraner?”

  Tara says yes, and I picture a stunning, silky gray beast scampering through the park. “I know this dog,” I say heavily.

  The trouble is, I know the guy too.

  2

  Miles

  Once we round the corner and see an easel tucked into a classroom ahead of us, Ben transforms into a cheetah about to pounce. I can tick off the seconds till he starts running.

  Three, two—

  “Wow, look at the art room. I can paint all day long,” Ben says, and his little feet are about to go, go, go.

  I clamp a hand on my son’s shoulder. “Walk. Don’t run.”

  I swear I feel him vibrate with excitement as he gawks, slack-jawed, at the art room in the middle of the private school we’re touring.

  The headmaster bends to meet Ben’s eyes. “Would you like to go check it out? Our art teacher, Mrs. Beedle, would be ever so delighted to show the budding artist around.” He gestures to the open doorway, and my son needs no invitation, speed walking into the classroom.

  Mr. Farrell smiles at me from beneath his gray mustache. He has a matching beard and a jacket with elbow patches. It’s so old-school I can’t help but love the getup.

  “As you know, Mr. Hart, we pride ourselves on supporting all the arts, from music to painting to writing,” he says.

  “And that’s one of the biggest reasons we’re interested in this school for Ben. He loves to draw and paint.”

  “Clearly, he has creative genes.” Mr. Farrell gestures to me, his tone a little too deferential, but I can deal with it. “I’ll wager he’s poised for greatness, like his dad.”

  I laugh lightly but don’t pick up the thread of the conversation. Since, you know, I don’t need to pat myself on the back.

  A lanky man in glasses walks by, carrying an armful of folders. “Good afternoon, Mr. Farrell.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Buckley.”

  The teacher says hello to me then keeps going, no second glance, no snap of the head. Excellent. I like being unnoticed.

  “Mr. Buckley is our English teacher. He’s fantastic, so he can certainly foster all that great writing creativity,” Mr. Farrell says, rubbing his palms together.

  “Who really knows what Ben will be good at? Maybe he’ll be a mathematician.”

  Mr. Farrell smiles cheerily. “That’d be no surprise. Math and music go hand in hand.”

  Okay, this is getting to be a bit much. Plus, I’m hungry. My belly is begging for attention in the form of a chicken sandwich, and I’d like to reward its patience soon.

  “Also,” he adds, “I want to assure you that your privacy is of the utmost concern to us.”

  “I appreciate that, but I’m not too worried.” I don’t want him to think I’m all uppity or require a back entrance simply because my name is in the news now and then and my tunes are all over Spotify.

  “We have other children of celebrities attending, and our teachers are highly respectful of privacy. There will be no red carpet, except the one we roll out for Ben. We’d be so delighted if he chose to matriculate at the Bingley School.”

  Matriculate? It’s kindergarten. Let’s take this all down a notch. But then again, I’m the guy looking for a fancy-schmancy private school for my kiddo.

  I want stability for Ben. He’s almost six, and he’s been on the road with me practically since the day he was born, hanging with sitters and nannies and me as we jetted around the world for my job. Now it’s time to give him something steady. Since I’m settling in Manhattan, I want his life to be as smooth as possible. And I want a small, friendly, supportive school where he can flourish.

  Once the you’re-a-regular-Jackson-Pollack treatment ends, we leave the art studio, the tour finished. Mr. Farrell escorts us to the playground and points to the iron gate that leads to the street, walking us there past the twenty or so adults who’ve arrived for today’s half-day school pickup. Along the way, there are whispers. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, and I’m keenly aware some of the parents are saying my name.

  I swear I hear one of them murmur, “I’d heard he might be taking a tour of the school today.”

  Another replies, “Yes, that’s why I picked up Briar Rose myself today instead of sen
ding the nanny.”

  Uh-oh.

  Seems like the headmaster isn’t quite as committed to privacy as he promised.

  “Thanks again, Mr. Farrell, and we’ll be in touch,” I say, placing one hand on Ben’s shoulder.

  He beams, waving at me. “Call me anytime. Call me at night. Call me in the morning. Whenever you want, Mr. Hart.”

  He might as well get a megaphone announcing I’m here.

  I take Ben’s hand and walk quickly down the tree-lined block of brownstones because I know the drill. It’s the same as the post-concert routine, only I have security then. I figured I didn’t need it to walk around the city, checking out elementary schools.

  Silly me.

  Shoes click behind me, stabbing the sidewalk purposefully. It’s the unmistakable sound of Lou Buttons or Jimmy Hoohoos or whatever Richie Rich shoes the denizens of this area have stuffed their feet into. I pick up the pace, but in seconds a perfectly coiffed brunette sporting red heels pulls up next to me.

  “Miles, I’m Cleopatra Lavinia,” she says, and why can’t people have normal names? “My daughter Cassiopeia attends the Bingley School.”