America's Geekheart (Bro Code #2)(102)

“I almost murdered it,” I whisper conspiratorially.

She snort-laughs into her glass like she’s drunk on Dr Pepper, which is also adorable. Who gets drunk on Dr Pepper?

Olivia Moonbeam, that’s who.

“Gluing the pink fur on it was my punishment for welding the principal’s car doors shut,” I explain. “Got so much of it stuck to myself, I was pink up to my elbows for a week.”

She snort-laughs into her glass again, a sound like a baby pig squeaking in joy.

I think. I don’t know any baby pigs, personally, but they’re cute. And she’s cute, so cute I can’t look away from her blue eyes as she whispers, “I switched the liquid foundation in my mom’s makeup case for green paint, and she did an entire zombie movie before she realized it. But the paint started flaking off in the middle of filming and a guy broke out in a rash that made the boom operator think we had a for real zombie outbreak on our hands, so he quit.” Her eyes scrunch up and her chin wobbles, and shit, I think she’s going to cry. “But I was just trying to help. Mom was afraid there wouldn’t be enough foundation, but I knew there’d be enough paint.”

“You helped,” I assure her. “You helped that boom guy realize he had a seriously overactive imagination. I’ll bet he went out and got a normal job, with no zombies in it, and lived happily ever after.”

Her lips part, and she lifts those Blue Lace Agate-colored eyes to mine like I’m some kind of hero. I know they’re Blue Lace Agate blue, because it’s the first thing she said to me all those break-ups ago. Hi, I’m Olivia Moonbeam, and I have Blue Lace Agate-colored eyes. It’s the best gemstone for chasing away fear. So if you’re ever afraid, you can just look in my eyes. I sense you’re afraid right now, and that’s okay. Losing someone we love is one of the scariest things there is.

I had no clue how she knew what I was afraid of that day—I don’t make a habit of talking to strangers, or anyone else, about my feelings.

But she was right, losing love is scary, even if it’s love that isn’t in such good shape anymore, love that probably should have been laid to rest many moons ago.

But maybe it’s time to stop being afraid. Maybe I should look into Olivia’s eyes and stop worrying that I’ll never be quite good enough, or worthy of being someone’s hero.

“You’re a very good bartender,” she says in reverent whisper. “You always know what to say to make people feel better.”

I don’t know shit about helping people—I just get them too buzzed to care about their problems for a while—but the tequila’s humming in my blood and whispering those words that usually get me in trouble.

She likes you. Go for it.



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Sneak Peek at Stud in the Stacks





If you love sexy studs who aren’t afraid to read romance novels, socially awkward heroines, and jungle beefcake bachelor auctions, read on for an excerpt of Stud in the Stacks!

Knox (aka Mr. Romance, aka Tarzan, but only for tonight) Even though it’s been six years since I stripped for a roomful of women, I’m pleased to report my loincloth still fits in all the right places. Tad more snug in front than I remember, but if I had to grow, might as well be in the junk.

I give the elastic one last test as the producer signals that I’m up. Spider-Man gives me a fist bump. Thor smacks my ass. They’re the last two bachelors going up on the block after me in tonight’s superhero-themed auction.

There are some who might say Tarzan isn’t a superhero, but Jane would beg to differ.

And I fucking own this costume.

Plus, if no one else bids on me, my Nana’s right up front, ready to throw down the hundred bucks I slipped her before the show.

I’m hoping for a little higher than that though. Batman just went for a cool five grand.

Batman was a dick, which I assume my Nana didn’t know when she started the bidding on him. A grade-A, condescending asshat who thought just because he had a few million bucks in the bank, he could call people gay like that’s an insult and take a metaphorical shit on my favorite books.

I fucking want to beat Batman.

“Ladies,” local anchorwoman Nancy Houlihan says into the microphone onstage just beyond the door where I’m waiting, “next up is…”

She pauses, the spotlight criss-crosses the stage, and a drum rolls. All goes silent, the light stops on the doorway, and Nancy crows, “Tarzan!”

My music starts—does anything say jungle man quite like “The Lion Sleeps tonight”? Not if you have half a sense of humor, it doesn’t—and I put all my swagger into walking out that door to the whoops and hollers of the fancy crowd. Nancy’s on the far side of the stage, waiting at the microphone while I make my way to center stage, grinding and gyrating and showing off my old moves for the ladies.

At the front table, Nana’s covering her eyes, and despite my irritation with Batman, it’s all I can do to keep from cracking up.

Am I a sexy beast? Sure.

Do I know how to give the ladies what they want? Damn straight.

But a bachelor auction? I’m a little more than just my meat, thank you very much. Also, I’ve read over eighty bachelor auction romances. I know how this story usually ends, which is why I almost said no.