All Fired Up

by Dylan Newton

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

After one wild night together, two complete opposites plan to stay firmly in the friend zone, but life has other plans in this delightful romantic comedy, perfect for fans of Emily Henry and Abby Jimenez.

As a successful book publicist, Imani Lewis works night and day to promote her authors.  It’s her dream job, but she’s become a total workaholic. So when her grandmother invites her to stay for the summer as she recovers from surgery, Imani happily agrees. But being back in the same small town as her one-night stand may not be quite the relaxing break she envisioned… 

Zander Matthews wakes up every day determined to enjoy the present because he knows from his time in the Marines that tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. But he’s never gotten over the beautiful woman who blew through town a year ago, then disappeared. And he doesn’t want to be hurt again. So they agree to a deal: he’ll help Imani fix up her grandmother’s house as long as they stay firmly in the friend zone.

Whether it’s repairing tiles in his ceramics studio, dodging nosy neighbors, or soothing the most obnoxious parrot ever, Zander never fails to make Imani laugh. And soon their friendly banter is turning ever flirtier. But since Imani’s stay is temporary and Zander can’t be tied to anything beyond the most tenuous plans, will she be able to handle it when things get all fired up?

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 368

Sample

Chapter 1

It’s only vomit. It’ll come out,” Imani Lewis said with far more confidence than she felt. She dabbed regurgitated kiwi from her vintage Hermès white silk shirt with the last of her emergency wet wipes, waving away the distraught mother’s apology. “What with the bumpy landing and watching dance recitals on my phone, Jasmine got motion sick—used to happen to me all the time as a child.”

Jasmine’s mom—whose name Imani hadn’t caught in the chaos of entertaining her daughter during the flight from JFK to Buffalo—grimaced as they deplaned.

“You’re so prepared,” she said, as Imani deposited the vile pile of used wet wipes into a plastic bag she pulled from the left zippered pocket of her purse. “And you’ve been so tolerant with my little bundle of energy.”

The culprit, a three-year-old who had escaped her own Exorcist-like projectile vomiting without a drop staining her daisy-printed shirt, smiled. She skipped ahead of them on the ramp leading to the airport terminal. Her Princess Tiana backpack acted like a bumper, pinballing her off other passengers.

“Watch me! I can twirl like those ballerinas, Ms. Imani.” The elfin toddler’s yellow-and-white beaded braids flew out like rays of sunshine as she whipped around in a joyful string of full-body-flinging pirouettes. Whatever she lacked in grace she made up for in vigorous enthusiasm, and Imani’s heart squeezed as it did every time she watched young dancers. Her Tuesday/Thursday volunteer gig at the Bronx Barre Belles was the highlight of her week and probably the only thing she’d miss during this unpaid leave of absence.

Well, that and the paycheck from her publicist job.

Her cell phone buzzed like an angry nest of wasps in her purse. She’d turned it back on as they were taxiing, but before the device had synched up, she’d gotten a chestful of vomit. She pulled out her phone and peeked at the display, stumbling in her only pair of Louboutin heels.

She’d racked up twenty texts during her forty-five-minute flight.

A glance revealed fifteen were from her number one romance author about some snafu with the book-signing itinerary, four were from her contact at the Florida bookstore asking where their scheduled author was, and one was from the man filling in for her during her leave…wondering where she kept the stapler.

Then she saw she’d received a voicemail from her boss at Cerulean Books.

Crap. Trisha never called unless things were seriously off the rails.

Imani sucked in a breath through her teeth. Dread coiled like a serpent in her guts, constricting her in a way that had become hideously familiar these past few months. Her mind skittered into action, crafting a checklist:

□ Call star romance author. Take ownership of any problem, including acts of God.

□ Resolve itinerary issue.

□ Call bookstore manager. Grovel until everything is back on track.

□ Call assistant publicist to see why he isn’t assisting. Tell him where to find stapler. (Note to self: Breathe. Resist urge to tell him where to shove said stapler.)

□ Craft email re-explaining itinerary, highlighting how EASY it is to follow because it’s color coded, for heaven’s sake!

□ Delete the snark. Then send email.

□ Call Trisha to reassure her the issue is resolved. Fend off questions about the promotion to publicity manager she’s offered you. Remind her Wellsville has poor reception. Find polite way to make boss understand that, for a few weeks, communication will be spotty at best. (Note to self: Maybe compare Wellsville to the Bermuda Triangle in terms of cell reception?)

□ Hang up before boss hears your voice go up at the end like it always does when you stretch the truth.

□ Call Katie and relax for the summer. (Yay!)

Her inner list maker was interrupted as the toddler grabbed the edge of Imani’s overstuffed purse. Her eyes sparkled and she grinned in expectation.

“Did you see my good twirling?”

“Jasmine, she doesn’t have time now,” the mom said, catching hold of her daughter’s hand. “She’s going to visit her grandmother, like we are.”

Imani blinked at the mention of her grandmother. Her Gigi.

Releasing her death grip on her phone, Imani dropped it back into her purse. She fixed her face, smiling at the tiny, frenetic ballerina and shoving back the exhaustion from last night’s sleepless, pillow-flipping extravaganza.

“You are so talented, Jasmine!” Imani bent down to clasp the girl’s hands, still so small you could see tiny dimples instead of knuckles. She formed the girl’s arms into a round hoop in front of her daisy-shirted chest. “Now, pretend like you’re hugging a giant, fluffy panda bear who is so big your fingers can barely touch! Then we have to imagine a string holding you up nice and tall, and then we raise up on our tiptoes and twirl with nice round arms, like this!”

She spun Jasmine in a pirouette, clapping as the child held the form for three in a row.

“You’ve got a natural here, Mom,” Imani said to the mother, who gave her a thankful smile as she gathered up her still-spinning daughter and headed toward baggage claim.

Peeling off to the bathroom, Imani hauled her phone out again. She rapidly scanned the texts and surmised the problem: Leann Bellamy’s limo hadn’t arrived at the Sarasota location to take her to the Tampa signing, forcing the popular romance author to take a cab. That wasn’t typically an emergency; however, the cabbie decided to take the Skyway bridge en route from Sarasota to Tampa, unaware that Leann Bellamy had gephyrophobia—a raging fear of bridges.

Her star romance writer was currently sitting on the side of some road that led to the Skyway, hopefully still inside the cab. But maybe not.

Knowing this conversation was going to take a hot minute, she mentally rearranged her to-do list, opting for the most enjoyable task first: calling her best friend.

Shutting herself in the handicapped stall so she could use the sink in privacy, she hit Kate Sweet’s face in her Favorites menu, then began working on her shirt’s stain.

“Well, finally! I was beginning to wonder if Gigi decided not to get her knee surgery, or if she’d somehow talked you out of coming. That woman has mad persuasion skills.” Kate’s rapid-fire patter was like a sliver of sunshine in this crap-tastic morning. “But then Drake told me he’d had a call from your boss letting him know you were on your way to go over his book signing and movie cameo trip next week. I knew you’d never dare to ditch both Gigi and my husband!”

“You know I’d never keep anyone waiting, regardless of their infamous reputation. So sorry, Katie. The flight got delayed with the rain.” Imani dabbed at the splotch of green yuck with a wad of toilet paper and water, grimacing as it did little to fade the stain on her vintage white blouse. Neither did a fierce scrubbing with her emergency Tide pen. Instead, it made the whole section below the pattern of keys printed along the neckline practically transparent over her left nipple. Blowing out a breath, she abandoned the effort, the urgency of her next bunch of calls squeezing her chest. “I’m heading to baggage claim in a sec. I got barfed on during the flight, and then I deplaned in time for a major work crisis, so I’m doing some cleanup. Literally and figuratively.”

“Oh no!” Kate’s voice wavered between a laugh and a cry of dismay. “Well, take your time, and let me know if I can help. We’re unstoppable when we team up, and although it’s been a while since I broke out the Roy G Biv gel pens, you know I’ve got your list-making back. I’m so glad you’re here, Imani—I can’t wait to catch up and tell you the plans for the gender-reveal-slash-baby-shower tomorrow.”

Imani smiled at her friend’s enthusiasm. She’d never imagined her busy, event-planning best friend to be the one married and expecting so soon, but Drake Matthews’s charms had evidently proven too hard for Kate to resist.

“I’m honored you chose me as the baby’s godmother. I saved the reveal envelope with the sonogram results, still closed like you sent it to me. I’ll open it at the party, and we’ll both be surprised on the same day. It’s right in my purse.”

“Where else would it be but in the Mary Poppins bag?” Kate joked. “And that’s sweet. I’m so happy you’re going to be here for Baby Matthews as Auntie Imani.”

A warmth spread in Imani’s chest at the name.

“Aw, really? The baby can call me Auntie?”

“Well, we’ve lived together on and off for years, so we’re sisters in every way but genetics,” Kate said with the easy, breezy way that only someone who already had siblings could manage. Then Kate gasped. “Oh, I forgot to tell you! The venue I reserved had a plumbing issue, so we’re having the shower at Zander’s studio. He’s got this ceramic thing we can smash after you fill it with the appropriately colored starch for the reveal. I was freaking out when my original place canceled, but this is so much better! You remember Zander, right?”

At the mention of Drake’s youngest brother, Imani felt her face tingle with pricks of heat, and the cleansing breaths halted in her chest.

Zander Matthews.

Yep, she remembered him, all right. He was her first and only one-night stand. Well, technically, it was two nights, two mornings, and one long, glorious afternoon, nine months and twenty-five days ago. But who was counting?

Kate must’ve assumed her memory had sinkhole-sized gaps, as she quickly supplied details.“He’s the taller, beefier Matthews brother who has the smoldering Jason Momoa vibe that’s broken hearts all over this county. Oh, remember? He’s the guy you did that fun dance with at my wedding—what was it called again?”

“Bachata.” Imani felt the tension in her guts move up into her chest, constricting the breath there. No. Not so soon! She’d thought she’d at least have a week to tell Kate about her hookup with Zander and, more importantly, explain why she’d kept this secret from her best friend whom she’d confided everything to since elementary school. And Zander—she thought she’d have more time to figure out how to explain why she’d never answered his texts and calls, how the intensity of that weekend had sounded every alarm bell in her heart…

But she was facing him tomorrow. At his studio. In his element.

Inhaling, Imani figured she might as well just plunge in. “Yes, I remember him. Listen, I’ve been wanting to tell you something but haven’t known how to—”

“You can tell me about it in the car,” Kate interrupted, “because I’ve got to pee again. I swear, these next six weeks can’t go by fast enough. I need to meet this child who is making a punching bag out of my bladder! I’ll see you when you get done with baggage claim.”

“Wait, I need to—” Imani realized Kate had already disconnected. “Damn.”

She winced, anticipating the confession to come, gazing into the airport bathroom mirror. Before locking up her tiny Bronx apartment this morning, she’d tied her long brown hair back in a low ponytail and taken care with her makeup, going heavy on the concealer. But the dark smudges under her bloodshot brown eyes were like a billboard screaming Insomniac! Her normally olive complexion—a credit to her half-Hungarian heritage—looked pale and washed out, and coupled with the sheer, almost nipple-revealing wet spot on her boob…well, suffice it to say she wouldn’t be ’gramming this look.

She snagged her favorite red lipstick from her purse and applied it generously. She’d read once that people perceived you as “put together” as long as you had on lipstick.

She was about to challenge that perception.

Her best friend was a stickler for details, so she’d notice Imani’s fatigue and maybe go easy on her for keeping such a secret from her for this long. Anyway, it wasn’t like Imani would be spending a lot of time with her two-night flame. They’d see each other for maybe a couple hours? Although Wellsville was a small town, it was big enough to avoid the youngest Matthews brother, if she tried.

Besides, Zander was all about the casual lifestyle. Her discreet inquiries to Kate after her weekend fling revealed that while he’d dated dozens of women in the past, he was still friends with them post-breakup. She figured he’d moved on from their weekend long ago, which was for the best.

Imani shrugged off the worry. This trip wasn’t about her. It was about her best friend’s baby shower first, followed by Gigi’s double knee replacement. Then she could relax! Something she hadn’t done in…she couldn’t remember how long.

She smiled, imagining her leisurely summer. It was worth taking the unpaid leave from work, worth the hit to her pocketbook, and worth putting a bookmark in her career, as long as she got to chill out for a while. She’d bask in the cooler, Western New York summer temps, enjoy the food that was tied to happy memories, sit on Gigi’s front porch, and figure things out.

Like her life.

Imani replaced the lipstick and stain-removal pen in her tote, zipping it with finality. Soon she would no longer be worried about puke stains, authors stuck on the roadside, massive career decisions, or wondering if her red lipstick was distracting enough to hide the widening cracks in her armor. She’d be with her best friend in a town from her past, spending all summer with her grandmother—the woman who was the closest genetic relative to the mother she’d lost more than a decade ago.

It was going to be amazing.

As she rode the escalator down to baggage claim, Imani multitasked, calling the bookstore to let them know Leann Bellamy was stuck in traffic. Then she dialed Leann’s number as she searched for Kate in the crush of people surrounding the revolving luggage carousel, maneuvering to the front so she could spot her bright-turquoise suitcases. The number for the romance author’s cell rang busy, and Imani juggled with her phone to hang up, just as she spotted her luggage trundling toward her.

Suddenly, a tall white man whose broad shoulders strained at his fitted T-shirt stepped in front of her, snatching her big bag, along with the smaller matching one, off the belt.

“Excuse me! Those are mine,” Imani said to the back of the six-foot-five guy.

Something in the way he moved gave away his identity before he turned to flash her with his sparkling, devil-may-care grin.

Her jaw dropped.

It was Zander.

Zander freaking Matthews.

He of the hot bachata moves, and the hotter under-the-covers moves, stood in front of her at the Buffalo airport. Kate had been right—if you darkened his dirty blond, surfer-like curls, the guy could be a stand-in for Jason Momoa in Aquaman, as they had the same broad shoulders, bulging biceps, and legs like tree trunks.

“It’s you,” she breathed.

“It’s me.” His low voice and sexy smile hit her square in the libido. “The car is parked outside, and Kate’s waiting for you there. You set?”

Her mind noted with dismay that he was just as scrumptious as he’d been that weekend. It hadn’t been her imagination embellishing his solid frame, the thick, corded muscles that said he did more physical labor than throwing clay in his studio.

“I—I’ve got everything,” she squeaked, dazed. For two hours, she’d be stuck in a car with the guy she’d slept with and then practically ghosted, plus her best friend who knew nothing about it? Could this be any more awkward?

Imani followed as Zander hefted her luggage and carried both of her bags on his back, refusing to roll them for some reason known only to him. He stopped shy of the exit’s revolving doors, gesturing to the restrooms.

“We’ve got time if you need to towel off.” Zander aimed a pointed look at her chest, his expression amused. “So…did you win?”

Imani blinked. “Did I win?”

“The wet T-shirt contest. I’m guessing you were a shoo-in for your flight. The other passengers didn’t stand a chance against that lacy bra.”

Imani scowled, refusing to laugh. “A gentleman would have politely averted his gaze.”

Zander shrugged, leading the way through the revolving door.

Was that all he had to say to her? Not “Hi” or “Nice to see you again” but some crack about her wet blouse? Imani’s eyes narrowed as she spoke to his back.

“A gentleman would have said how nice I looked, even if I’d been puked on by a kid who’d just eaten a sliced kiwi. A gentleman would not—”

“Let me guess.” Zander’s smile became razor sharp. “A gentleman wouldn’t call out the woman whose only reply to his texts and voicemails following their amazing weekend together was ‘Yeah, that was fun.’ He wouldn’t ask why she’d blocked him from her life without a single conversation. No gentleman would put the woman who’d practically broken his heart in that awkward position. Would he?”

“Broken your h—” Before Imani could finish, a car beeped behind them. She spun, and her anger was replaced by a spasm of embarrassment as she recognized the driver.

It was Drake Matthews. Bestselling horror writer and her number one client.

Next to him, hanging out of the window, waving like a goon, was Kate, his wife and Imani’s best friend.

Imani forced a smile. “H-hi, Kate. And Drake. It’s good to see you. I didn’t think you’d have the time to pick me up, with your book’s deadline. And you all came. I feel so…special.”

“I always have time for my publicist.” Drake peered out Kate’s open window, pushing his dark glasses up his nose to give her a warm smile as he gestured to the Prius. “Sorry about the tight squeeze, but Kate’s car is in the shop and my truck doesn’t have a back seat. My brother offered his car as long as I agreed to drive and take him with us to get some wings. Hop in! My wife is dying to talk sex with you and Zander.”

Imani sucked in a breath.

Zander chuckled. “That’s my favorite kind of talk. Although I have to say, you’re a little late. Dad had that talk with me twenty-some years ago. But I appreciate the thought.”

Kate rolled her eyes.

“Drake, why do you purposely set Zander up like that? No, I want to talk to you about the sex of the baby. I think I’ve changed my mind. I want you two to tell me tonight. But not now—over dinner.” Kate’s green eyes lit up. Her auburn hair had grown longer and more luxurious, and she glowed with pregnant happiness. “I’m dying for some Buffalo wings, and trust me, this restaurant’s homemade blue cheese is Lactaid-worthy.”

Imani crossed to the car, her face aflame. Apparently, Zander hadn’t told Kate and Drake about their hookup. Yet. Maybe this was karma warning her to come clean to her best friend?

Kate’s face went from shining to dim, reading something in Imani’s body language.

“What’s wrong? And why are you soaking wet?”

Imani’s forehead felt as though it had its own sprinkler system. Brushing away sweat with her free hand, she opened her mouth, unsure of what she was going to say but determined that if her best friend and her famous client were going to hear of her sleeping with Zander, they were going to hear it from her.

Suddenly, Zander spoke in her ear. “You’re lucky I’m a gentleman.”

Imani felt Zander’s arm around her shoulder, but before she could say more, he was talking to Kate and opening the back passenger door.

“Aww, she’s just mad because I pulled her out of the wet T-shirt contest before she could show skin to win.” Zander shoved her bigger bag in, then swept his hand as if sending her into a throne room instead of the squished back seat of his car.

“I don’t think my suitcases will fit.” She ducked inside, holding her tote on her lap like the little old ladies did on the subway.

“My car’s like your purse. It holds more than people give it credit for.” Zander tossed her smaller turquoise bag into the trunk and piled in next to her, somehow closing the door. “Told you we’d fit! Let’s get the momma-to-be some wings!”

Without warning, Zander reached across Imani, tugging the seat belt out from under the suitcase and hooking it over her. He clicked it home, his thick fingers grazing her hips, perilously close to her ass. Zander’s body filled the back seat, and she found herself bending toward him, like a sunflower to the sun. His smell—Irish Spring soap and a hint of something warm and spicy—enveloped her. Despite everything, she breathed in deep, sucking him into her lungs.

Damn. How did he always smell so freaking good?

His blue eyes met hers as he fastened his own seat belt. He grinned, as if sensing his effect on her.

“Buckle up,” he said in a low voice. “It’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

Chapter 2

Zander settled into the back seat with Imani, who seemed to be pretending he was a cactus, leaning away to avoid brushing shoulders.

Her cherry lips curved in a forced smile.

“Thank you so much for taking time out of your workday to pick me up. Had I known I was going to warrant such a…large welcoming party,” she said, glancing sidelong at Zander, her eyes as shimmering and splendid as a new can of chestnut-tinted stain, “I would have ordered an Uber so I didn’t inconvenience anyone.”

Zander grinned. His plan was working already. “As soon as Kate told me you were flying into town, we decided we should welcome you properly. Can’t have you thinking we don’t care. Because we do.”

Imani speared him with a glare and then turned to Kate, who was trying to pivot her pregnant body in the passenger seat to look at Imani while she spoke.

“Zan’s right.” Kate offered her friend a huge smile. “Besides, none of us have seen you, outside of video chats, since the wedding. I can’t believe it’s already been almost a year.”

“Boggles the mind,” Zander said, determined to needle Imani as payback for leaving him hanging after what he’d thought was the start of a new relationship. But more importantly, getting under her skin was part of his larger plan—the one he’d concocted once he’d heard Imani was spending the summer in Wellsville. He needed to find out whether they were more than one weekend’s fantastic chemistry. And the only way to do that was to spend as much time together as possible. If they weren’t compatible, he’d be able to evict her from his brain, where she’d lived rent-free since his brother’s wedding reception.

Imani ignored his comment, focusing on her best friend. “Kate, you have to tell me about your last ultrasound! Weren’t you tempted to glance at the monitor? You have such restraint, waiting the whole eight months until your shower…”

The two women chattered on, and Zander’s eyes met his brother’s in the rearview mirror. While his brother telepathy—something the three Matthews boys called their “bro-lepathy”—wasn’t as strong with Drake as it was with Ryker, it was clear enough for him to know what his oldest brother was asking.

What in the hell is happening? In Zander’s head, Drake’s voice sounded exactly like his stern, responsible big-bro voice.

It was a valid question.

You’d have to have the empathy of a doorknob not to sense the awkward vibe in the back seat. Or, in his sister-in-law’s case, you’d have to be so preoccupied with the task of making a small human, planning the impending gender reveal, and being thrilled your bestie was in town that you were too distracted to notice those stuck in polite purgatory two feet away.

These thoughts seesawed through Zander’s mind as he met Drake’s gaze in the rearview mirror. He shrugged his shoulders, bro-lepathy for: I have no idea what’s happening. Beats me.

Some of this was true. But most of it was a lie, and he was pretty sure Drake knew it. His writer’s attention to detail missed damn little, and he read body language as easily as one of his research books. His brother knew he was up to something. He just didn’t know what yet.

Drake shook his head, bro-lepathy for a mini-lecture that likely sounded something like: Whatever. I hope you know what you’re doing. And you’d better not piss off my publicist, or you’ll have hell to pay from both me and my wife.

Maybe Drake hadn’t put all those words into his gesture, but he didn’t have to. Zander knew what was at stake—she sat right next to him, her arms crossed over her wet shirt as she listened to Kate update her on every single thing that had happened since they last spoke. Which seemed to be yesterday.

Zander nodded along, pretending to follow Kate’s plans. But inside, he wasn’t listening.

He was plotting.

While Drake didn’t know of Zander’s past with Imani—nobody did, as far as he could tell—his brother had likely guessed he had a thing for his publicist. First, when he’d met her at Drake’s horror-novel launch party two Halloweens ago, they’d ribbed him for his obvious interest. Then, last August, at Kate and Drake’s reception in the swanky Niagara Falls hotel, everyone had remarked how “cute” he and Imani looked together…and then had to abruptly shift to another adjective after watching their impromptu bachata.

Dancing the bachata was a skill he’d acquired completely by accident. He’d thought he was signing up for a cooking class that exclusively focused on bruschetta, one of his favorite appetizers. He’d put his name in for it at the arts center, hoping that by improving his culinary skills and serving appetizers to his clients before workshops, he’d be adding an even classier vibe to All Fired Up, his ceramics studio chain. It was because he mistook a bachata dancing class for a bruschetta cooking class—and then went through with it for the whole six weeks—that he’d been able to hit the dance floor when the wedding DJ played the Shawn Mendes song “Señorita.”

Zander remembered that night. He’. . .