Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend (The Guys Who Got Away Book 1) Read online

  Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend

  Lauren Blakely

  Little Dog Press

  Contents

  Also by Lauren Blakely

  About

  Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend

  Prologue

  1. Summer

  2. Summer

  3. Oliver

  4. Summer

  5. Summer

  6. Oliver

  7. Summer

  8. Summer

  9. Oliver

  10. Summer

  11. Summer

  12. Summer

  13. Oliver

  14. Summer

  15. Summer

  16. Summer

  17. Oliver

  18. Oliver

  19. Oliver

  20. Summer

  21. Oliver

  22. Summer

  23. Oliver

  24. Oliver

  25. Summer

  26. Oliver

  27. Summer

  28. Summer

  29. Summer

  30. Oliver

  31. Summer

  32. Oliver

  33. Summer

  34. Oliver

  35. Oliver

  36. Summer

  37. Oliver

  38. Summer

  39. Oliver

  40. Summer

  41. Oliver

  42. Oliver

  43. Oliver

  Epilogue

  Also by Lauren Blakely

  Contact

  Copyright © 2020 by Lauren Blakely

  Cover Design by Helen Williams.

  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 contemporary romance 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 book is licensed for your personal use only. This book 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, especially if you enjoy sexy romance novels with alpha males. 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

  The Guys Who Got Away Series

  Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend

  The What If Guy

  Thanks for Last Night

  Standalone MM Spinoff

  A Guy Walks Into My Bar

  The Gift Series

  The Engagement Gift

  The Virgin Gift

  The Decadent Gift

  The Heartbreakers Series

  Once Upon a Real Good Time

  Once Upon a Sure Thing

  Once Upon a Wild Fling

  Boyfriend Material

  Asking For a Friend

  Sex and Other Shiny Objects

  One Night Stand-In

  Lucky In Love Series

  Best Laid Plans

  The Feel Good Factor

  Nobody Does It Better

  Unzipped

  Always Satisfied Series

  Satisfaction Guaranteed

  Instant Gratification

  Overnight Service

  Never Have I Ever

  Special Delivery

  The Sexy Suit Series

  Lucky Suit

  Birthday Suit

  From Paris With Love

  Wanderlust

  Part-Time Lover

  One Love Series

  The Sexy One

  The Only One

  The Hot One

  The Knocked Up Plan

  Come As You Are

  Sports Romance

  Most Valuable Playboy

  Most Likely to Score

  Standalones

  Stud Finder

  The V Card

  The Real Deal

  Unbreak My Heart

  The Break-Up Album

  21 Stolen Kisses

  Out of Bounds

  The Caught Up in Love Series:

  The Swoony New Reboot of the Contemporary Romance Series

  The Pretending Plot (previously called Pretending He’s Mine)

  The Dating Proposal

  The Second Chance Plan (previously called Caught Up In Us)

  The Private Rehearsal (previously called Playing With Her Heart)

  Stars In Their Eyes Duet

  My Charming Rival

  My Sexy Rival

  The No Regrets Series

  The Start of Us

  The Thrill of It

  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

  Let me just say -- none of this was supposed to happen.

  I didn't expect the letter to go viral. I didn't think anyone would figure out who Dear Sexy Ex was. And I especially never thought he would find out about it.

  Yeah, bit of a miscalculation there.

  But see, I need the money to fund my brand new venture. And Dear Sexy Ex, well, it turns out he needs me to save his business.

  By becoming his fake fiancée.

  Yup, that's the pickle I find myself in -- pretending to be madly in love with the charming, brilliant, and utterly infuriating man known as Dear Sexy Ex.

  Only, it's not an act. And he can never know.

  Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend is a standalone romance you can escape into! The other standalone romances in The Guys Who Got Away series include The What If Guy!

  Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend

  By Lauren Blakely

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  Prologue

  Summer

  Dear Past Me,

  In about twenty-four hours, you’re going to have a spectacularly brilliant idea.

  One that will make all the sense in the world at the time because it’ll
solve a big, hairy problem. And you love ideas that solve big, hairy problems. Like in sixth grade when you decided to sell origami door-to-door to raise money for the soccer team’s travel. (Who knew there was such a big demand for folded frogs in suburban New York when you were in middle school? You did!)

  Or in eighth grade when you ran for Chief Fun Officer on a platform of two junior proms, the second one including a carnival, because who doesn’t love a carnival?

  But this idea? This outstanding, fantastic idea that’ll make your dreams come true?

  Watch out, Summer.

  You’re going to end up with a soaking wet bridesmaid’s dress, a swan boat incident you’ll never live down, the disappointment of your entire family, plus the crushing heartbreak you’ve sought to avoid for decades, and also . . . a pole.

  Yes, that kind of pole. The kind of pole everybody whispers about when they see it in someone’s basement. A “Do they really do that with that?” pole.

  I wish I could tell you it’ll all work out.

  But, as I stand here now, clutching the wet remains of the dress while figuring out what to do with this pole, I don’t have an earthly clue how any of this will resolve.

  Because of all the harebrained schemes you’ve whipped up, this one doesn’t just take the cake. It bakes it, frosts it, and serves it up in all its three-tiered, royal-icing glory.

  You’ll look back on other cringeworthy moments in your life—like that time you boldly updated your Twitter feed after four martinis, or your shame over the wrong placement of the apostrophe in ladies’ night—and they will pale in comparison.

  It’s worse, even, than when Mom found you practicing volleyball indoors when you were fourteen.

  In the living room.

  And you had to give up all your allowance to pay for the chandelier.

  And the vase.

  And the picture frames too.

  Of all the things that seemed like good ideas at the time, this letter, this contest, this ruse wins the prize.

  So it’s up to you, Past Me, to avoid this jam we’re in now. Because I don’t have a clue what to do from here.

  Sincerely,

  Future You

  1

  Summer

  Ten days ago

  I am about to be busted.

  Embarrassingly so. And—I hang my head in shame—deservedly so.

  But, for the record, I don’t regularly check out guys’ packages.

  That’s not my thing. I don’t really think that’s any woman’s thing. I’m pretty sure gawking at the goods doesn’t rank alongside knitting and candle-making in my female friends’ hobbies. Or, at least, not that they’d admit in public.

  Except . . . I am doing it, and I can’t stop.

  It’s just that . . . seriously? Tiny little bathing suits?

  They’re impossible to look away from.

  I literally have no idea how anyone is not supposed to notice a guy’s, ahem, outline when he gets out of a pool wearing only a Speedo.

  How do Olympic diving judges focus on their job, or women across the beaches of Europe focus on anything else? Clearly, that’s why truly sophisticated European women always wear huge designer sunglasses.

  Since you’re supposed to avert your gaze.

  That’s what I’ve tried to do for the last minute.

  I 100 percent averted my gaze as Oliver reached his sinewy arms for the metal ladder. As he rose out of the water. As he stepped away from the pool.

  Because that’s the proper social protocol.

  But it’s really hard to keep your gaze averted the entire time when you’re having a conversation with a guy while he’s wearing nothing but a Speedo.

  And when he’s dripping wet.

  I mean, all those droplets of water are taking their sweet time sliding down his tanned skin. Along his pecs, over the grooves of his abs, and just a little farther.

  This is resist-tasting-the-cookie-batter hard. This is don’t-sing-along-to-“Bohemian Rhapsody” hard.

  Just. Can’t. Do. It.

  Also, there are extenuating circumstances here in the form of Oliver Harris. His form is an extenuating circumstance.

  Six foot one. Built like the statue of David. Face carved by a sculptor too.

  Did anyone look away when Daniel Craig got out of the water in his first James Bond film?

  I rest my gaze.

  I mean, I rest my case.

  I snap my gaze up, meeting Oliver’s eyes. Those damn green eyes that are twinkling with mischief.

  “So, does that work for you?” I ask, adopting the most casual tone I can. The kind of tone that says, I was so not looking at you as I totally focus on scheduling a get-together to discuss my new business venture.

  His grin twitches.

  Then, my longtime friend, in all his wet, toned, nearly naked glory, simply arches a brow, points to his irises, and dryly says, “You do know my eyes are up here?”

  Dammit.

  Caught red-handed.

  I improvise, pointing to the pool behind him. “I was just looking in the shallow end. I was sure I saw Mrs. Wilson’s rose-gold bracelet at the bottom. She thought she lost it during the water aerobics class I just taught.”

  So plausible. I could invent excuses for a living, surely.

  He nods slowly, an I call bullshit nod. “Right. Did you want to go have a look? Pop into the water? Organize a search party?”

  I tap my chin as if considering all three, then shake my head. “It was just wishful thinking. I looked pretty closely after class.” I sigh forlornly over the missing jewelry.

  Magnanimously, he offers the goggles in his hand. “I insist. It’s Mrs. Wilson’s prized bracelet after all. Let’s have another go, shall we? I’ll help you. We’ll be like scuba divers searching for buried treasure.”

  I’d give him points for holding his ground if he wasn’t holding it against me.

  But I maintain the oh-so-innocent facade as I gesture to my jeans and sky-blue blouse. “No. I’m already dressed for work. Busy day at the residence. Thank you though. I’ll just let Lost and Found know to keep an eye out.”

  He hooks his thumb toward the glistening water. A few solo swimmers power up and down the freestyle lanes. “Want me to jump in? Have a quick check?”

  I wave him off. “No worries. I’ll find it later.”

  “Are you sure? Might give you a better view of my arse. I’d appreciate an appraisal.”

  And the sexy Brit wins the battle of wills.

  I have no choice but to give him the all-the-way-to-Jupiter eye roll. “No need. I made my assessment that time you streaked naked across my backyard when we were sixteen. It’s a five, maybe a six on a good day.”

  He peers over his shoulder at the backside in question, then parks his hands on his hips. “I beg your pardon. This is a top-notch arse here.”

  I cross my arms and chuckle at the way he set up my victory shot. “Yes, indeed. I am definitely checking out a top-notch arse.”

  Like a cartoon character muttering curses, he says under his breath, “Touché, woman. Touché.”

  He steps toward me, shrugs a muscled shoulder, and gives me a smile from his cache of them—this one I’ve dubbed the disarming one. “Truth be told, I don’t mind if you gawk at the crown jewels. I wouldn’t tell you to look away from the works of art if you were at the Louvre.”

  “Less like masterpieces and more like Velvet Elvises and paintings of dogs playing poker.”

  The corner of his lips curves up. Why is it that infuriatingly good-looking men all have lopsided grins? Is it a standard feature when they’re assembled in the too-hot-for-words factory? Is it a custom order, or part of the Unfairly Handsome Package?

  “Summer,” he chides gently. “You’ve been doing it since we were fourteen.”

  Back then, I might have given in to the urge to swat him, but I don’t now. Instead, I grit my teeth, dig my heels in, and remind myself that even though he is the living, breathing embodiment of cocky mal
e in the city, he is also the guy who has saved me many times.

  And I’ve saved him more than once too.