Instamom: A Modern Romance with Humor and Heart

by Chantel Guertin

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Fans of Lauren Weisberger and Emily Henry won’t want to miss this funny, sexy, and emotional novel that looks at modern relationships, modern choices, and redefining—not to mention rebranding—your dreams, through the eyes of an Instagram influencer.

“Themes of personal choice and female empowerment underscore this tender rom-com from Guertin… A cast of wonderful supporting characters, led by spunky Addie, add authenticity and tug at the heartstrings. Readers will be charmed.” —Publishers Weekly
 
A PopSugar Beach Reads Selection
A BookBub Best Book of June

In this #funny, #wise, #emotionally compelling look at modern love and finding your true path, a proudly kid-free influencer meets the ultimate #dealbreaker . . .

It’s the influencer’s golden rule: know your niche. Kit Kidding has found hers on Instagram, where she gets paid to promote brands and share expertly curated posts about her fun, fabulous, child-free life. Kit likes kids just fine, but she passionately believes that women who choose not to become mothers shouldn’t have to face guilt. Or judgement. Or really hot chefs who turn out to be single dads.
 
Will MacGregor is aggravating, sexy, persistent, averse to social media, and definitely a bad idea. As soon as Kit learns his parenting status, she vows to put their scorching one-night stand behind her and move on. But Will and Kit are thrown together on an Instagram campaign, and the more time she spends with him—and his whip-smart, eight-year-old daughter, Addie—the more difficult it is to stay away, much less sustain what Will so cleverly calls her “Resting Beach Face.” Kit’s picture-perfect career path is suddenly clashing with the possibility of a different future—messy, complicated, and real. Which life does she truly want? Will she have to re-invent herself? And will love still be waiting by the time she figures it out?
 

 

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Release date: June 29, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 329

Sample

I finish the chapter of the book I’m reading, then reluctantly bring myself back to reality. Getting up from the bench where I’m sitting, soaking up the last drops of spring sunshine before the sun sets, I slip the book into my purse and start walking toward the nearby hotel.

Come on, Kit. Let’s do this. One more event to go and that’ll make twenty influencer events this week—possibly an all-time record, but everyone knows spring is a busy time for openings, launches, collaborations. And the invitation for the Beachdazer event promises I’ll have a “beachy good time.” Right now, my idea of a good time is going home, kicking off the world’s most uncomfortable heels I reserve solely for these events, changing into my favorite pj’s, pouring myself a large glass of wine and finishing off this novel. But it’s fine. It’s Friday (#Friyay!), and while these launches don’t pay, they pay off in campaigns. All I’m expected to do is smile, laugh, drink a cocktail, snap a bunch of photos and share them with my followers. It’s not exactly comparable to having an open-heart surgery to perform before calling it a week, I remind myself.

My phone buzzes.

Where r u?

Feloise, my agent. Likely seeing other influencers posting to their social channels, and worried I’m skipping the event.

I snap an upwards shot of Hotel 6ix, the hot fifty-story hotel-slash-residences that shot up at the waterfront seemingly overnight, and send it to her, resisting the urge to roll my eyes because sure, Feloise has been riding me a bit lately, but she’s just doing her job, and it’s the reason she’s so sought-after. Plus, I chose this career, this life. I have no one to blame but myself. And so I Superwoman pose in my white T-shirt, black cigarette pants and silver heels and tell myself that I’ve got this. Head held high, smile plastered on, I push through the massive glass double doors, flipping my shoulder-length brown hair over my shoulder.

Inside Hotel 6ix, the lobby is a cavernous space of dark wood, cold metal and shiny tile. Off to the left is the row of junior publicists, lined up in order of ascending height like neat Russian dolls, clipboards in hand, bleached teeth gleaming, hair in beachy waves. They’re dressed head-to-toe in beach-inspired outfits: white sundresses, sunglasses on their heads, beach bags hooked into the crooks of their arms.

“Hi, Kit!” one of the publicists says to me in her singsong voice. “You made it!” I rack my brain for her name, then remember it’s Emaline as she checks me off her list. Emaline leads me to the mirrored bank of elevators and we ride up to the fortieth floor, filling the air with small talk until the elevator doors open into a massive room that feels spacious and airy, with floor-to-ceiling windows that give a near-360-degree view of the Toronto skyline: the CN Tower, the OVO Centre where the Raptors practice basketball and the islands, which are a favorite escape for everyone but me on hot summer days. I’ve been in this room for three other events already but I still love this view of the city. But back to the event space: it’s been completely transformed into a beachside resort and even though I’ve seen a million space makeovers, I’m impressed: several windows have overlays so you can stand in front of them and look like you’re on the beach in Bali, Thailand, Australia; the floor is covered in a light layer of sand, and lounge chairs, beach umbrellas and beach balls are scattered throughout. “You can pick out your beach bag here,” Emaline says, leading me over to a lineup of straw baskets with tassels, striped canvas totes, bright bags with neon handles. The bags are all adorned with inspirational puns such as Shell Yeah! and Seas the Day! I choose one—an outfit-matching black-and-white striped tote that says Avoid Pier Pressure and peek inside to see that it’s filled with beach essentials—flip-flops, a beach towel, sunglasses, a sunhat, and the pièce de résistance, the Beachdazer curling iron. It’s generous, for sure, and my twenty-year-old self would’ve ridden this freebie high for days, but sometimes, it’s hard not to think about how, if I really needed a new curling iron (or beach towel or sunglasses, for that matter), I could easily buy the item in less time than I’ll be spending at this event. And the towel wouldn’t have the Beachdazer imprint on it.

“Aren’t the cabanas amazing?” Emaline waves an arm to the far wall where half a dozen brightly colored fronts of cabanas have been created. They’re not real—you can’t go in them, they’re just for show. For the ’gram. To give influencers the ability to choose the appropriate backdrop to fit their Instagram grid. But they look real. And if those don’t work, there’s an entire whitewashed wall near one of the huge windows letting in natural light—ideal for those who can’t afford to have their own lights, tripods or photographers in tow. Or can’t be bothered. “If you need to change, there are washrooms by the elevators. Once you’re ready, you can head over to one of the hair stations to get your hair ‘Beachdazed’”—she shoves her clipboard under her arm so she can air-quote—“and then help yourself to food and drink, have a great time and take lots of pictures, obviously. I can’t wait to see your final look!” She claps excitedly, then hands me a square pink card. “Here are the event hashtags, so you don’t forget.” I look down at the card: #lifesabeachdazer #rideabeach-dazer #beachhairdontcare.

Emaline excuses herself and starts her spiel from the top with a woman who’s just entered the room behind me, a large black bag slung over her shoulder, a photographer—in his early twenties, thin, stylish—trailing behind her. Possibly a photography grad, though probably her boyfriend. Potentially both.

I scan the room, debating whether to prioritize beachy waves or a bourbon on the rocks, and take in the usual influencers.@NoNoJoJo is standing on the “beach” with a beach ball. Her whole schtick is that she doesn’t use any filters or editing—she does, however, have a professional photographer, and at this moment, a whole slew of lighting accessories. Her photographer snaps away while she tosses a beach ball, laughs and catches it. Toss, laugh, catch. Toss, laugh, catch. When she’s satisfied, she moves on to one of the beach chairs, pops on a pair of sunglasses and picks up her pink cocktail, twirling the drink umbrella in one hand, pretending to sip the drink through the striped paper straw. Meanwhile, @PugMama is trying to coerce her pug into sitting pretty on one of those massive blow-up flamingos that’s on top of a blue floor that’s supposed to look like water. The pug is not interested and @PugMama looks stressed. I root around in my oversized Balenciaga bag, remembering that earlier today I was at the opening for a pet café and spa in Yorkville, and we got a gift bag. Sure enough, there’s a dog treat. I make my way over to @PugMama and hand her the nail polish-shaped dog treat. She looks at it, then at me, then throws her arms around me dramatically and showers me with thanks before getting back to her shoot.

That’s exactly how these events go. There are rarely any boring speeches, or presentations about how a product works anymore—that aspect of events died out about five years ago. That info will all arrive in our inboxes after the event, along with the next steps in our contract how to post about actually using the curling iron. For now, all the brand cares about are the photos we take: that the tens of thousands of dollars they’ve spent on making this event look picture-perfect will result in perfect pictures on our grids—making our followers jealous that they didn’t spend their Friday night in the same way, and convincing them that getting a Beachdazer iron will make their lives better.

And so, we eat pretty food, drink sugary cocktails, chat to other influencers and make sure we get the best photo possible. A bad photo isn’t just a bad photo: a bad photo gets low engagement. Low engagement means you can’t charge as much for campaigns. And if engagement gets low enough, brands drop you from their rosters . . . and so on and so on, until we’re unable to make our livings as influencers. Most of us got our followers before the algorithm changed. Now, you’ve got to constantly weed out the bots to make sure your following is legit. Because while brands say they don’t care that much about “number of followers,” they really do. And getting new followers is a slow race. Turtle instead of hare. Brands are being pickier, followers even more so. Autumn (@LoveAutumn) leans toward me from the next chair. “You got the Crystal Clear junket, right?” she asks and I shake my head.

“Oh shoot, sorry. I just figured you were one of the five on the list. They’re taking us to Fogo Island for two nights.” Her mouth drops open. “Can you believe it? But it’s not like you can’t go on your own, right?”

We both laugh and throw back our drinks, because we both know that no one goes to these hot spots on their own. And besides, that’s not the point. Sure, anyone can stay at the Instagrammable Fogo Island Inn, if they have $2K a night to throw at a room at the only hotel on the remote island in the Atlantic that takes a full day of planes, cars and ferries to get to. It’s not about that. It’s about not having to pay. Getting the junket invites is an unspoken competition between influencers, and while I tell myself I don’t care, that this isn’t my main event like it is for some of the others in the room, that a free trip doesn’t actually pay the bills, it still feels like an insult not to be one of the chosen few. And yet, my schedule for the coming months is already packed. The last thing I can squeeze in is a multi-day press junket. Especially when I still need to perfect my Women in Business speech, for my real job.

An hour later, my shoulder-length, normally straight brown hair is in big waves and I’m looking around for the ideal place to set up my camera when someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn to see a guy, dressed in black, with a camera around his neck. “Do you mind . . . ?” He holds up his camera.

“Of course.” I brush a strand of hair away from my face. These events also have their own photographers, so that the publicists can create a post-party report. “Where should I stand?”

I turn a few degrees toward the windows to reduce shadows and flash my teeth in the smile I’ve perfected in thousands of similar photos at thousands of similar PR events.

But the photographer is looking past me. I turn, and there she is: @LegallyBrunette. Brown hair, coffee eyes, flawless brown skin, Balaya is 5’11” and model-thin. She’s in law school but has made it quite clear that if she hits a million followers by the time she’s called to the bar she’ll give up law for the influencer life. “It’s my passion,” I remember reading in The Cut a few months ago, an article that apparently garnered her another 300,000 followers. The thing is, I believe her. I believe she loves getting dressed up and having her picture taken. Like right now. She loves every minute of this.

I slink to the right, embarrassed, as @LegallyBrunette moves into place, hips out, lips pursed. I look around the room, wondering how much longer I need to be here until I can sneak away.

“Oh come on, it can’t be that taxing to be here,” a voice says and I turn to find myself looking into the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. Chiseled face, bit of five o’clock shadow, brown, swoopy Roger Federer hair. He’s tall, broad, and he’s making the tray full of food he’s holding with one hand seem like it’s as light as a dime.

“Excuse me?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be looking like you’re having a fin-tastic day? Laughing. Smiling. That sort of thing. You can do better.”

“I was smiling, until you decided to tell me how I’m supposed to be acting.” Why am I even talking to this guy?

“Ehhhhh—you were pretending to smile but really, your eyes say your mind is elsewhere. You know you’re supposed to love being here, that this is supposed to be so much fun, but you’re not feeling it. And you’re sort of feeling bad about yourself because you’re not more into it, that you can’t muster up the excitement that the others have for being here, getting their hair done and their pictures taken, free drinks, amazing food, and calling it work. But mostly you’re feeling a bit washed up—excuse the pun. And it’s all coming out in your Resting Beach Face.” He laughs. “They should put that on one of those beach bags you’re all getting.”

My mouth hangs open. Why do the best-looking guys also have to be the biggest assholes? I’m about to lay into him but he grins and says: “I’m teasing you. You have a very pretty face, you just look like you don’t want to be here.”

“First of all, I don’t need you analyzing what I look like because it’s none of your business. And second, you’re a man at an influencer event for a curling iron. How desperate are you?”

“That”—he points a finger at me—“was sexist. But I’m going to let it slide because unlike you, I’m not an aging influencer. Insta-atheist, actually. I’m also the reason you can’t stop eating the canapés. I’m the caterer for this thing. So there.” He smiles, his green eyes twinkling.

“Wow,” I say, fanning myself with my hand. “You must be some caterer to land this job.” He looks confused. “Catering an all-female press event where no one even touches the food. You know those could be inedible and no one would know, right?” His eyes narrow and I smirk, and walk away, but my heart’s pounding. And my stomach is growling. But no way am I touching anything that jerk made.

Lucy, the head of the PR firm hired to run this event, walks up to me. “Whale hello there.” She grins. I put my glass down on the high-top table beside me because Lucy doesn’t just air kiss me like the other publicists, she gives me an actual hug. We’ve known each other since we were both starting out in media and she’s one of my favorite people.

“Thanks for coming—I know you hate these things. It means a lot.”

“Are you squidding me? I’m having a beachy great time.” We both laugh and I silently curse the caterer.

“I know, it’s a bit much, but the client seems happy.”

I shrug and smile. Lucy and I work with some of the same accounts, like Fresh Food Fast, which sends its customers all the ingredients they need to create home-cooked meals. Everything comes in pre-measured bundles and is packaged in attractive sustainable recycled cardboard that makes you feel you’re saving the Earth simply by eating the food. Or, at least, that’s the intention. Fresh Food Fast is my single biggest client and Lucy keeps me on their good side, so it’s important I support her on her other clients, too.

“Remind me I have a great opportunity to send you. It’s a mini-spa getaway for Mother’s Day. We’re letting guests bring daughters or mothers, so you can bring . . .” She catches herself. “Oh shit, I’m such an ass. I’m so sorry.”

I shake my head. “It’s fine, Luce.” I put a hand on her arm. “Don’t worry about it.”

She sighs. “Anyway, I want you to meet someone,” Lucy says, looking around. She disappears for a moment, then returns, her arm looped through someone else’s.

And there’s the chef, again, with his dimple, grinning at me.

“This is Will MacGregor,” she says. “He’s the chef I hired for the event. Have you tried the food? It’s incredible. Will, this is Kit Kidding, one of our key influencers.”

She looks at me expectantly. This isn’t the first time Lucy’s tried to set me up with someone. It’s not that she doesn’t know a hot guy when she sees one, and I’m grateful she thinks of me first. But I’m not sure I’ll ever get involved with a guy again. I sometimes think I’ll be happier being single forever.

“We’ve met,” I say curtly. My stomach grumbles, loudly.

Another PR rep touches Lucy’s arm and she holds up a finger. “Excuse me,” she says before walking away. “You two should chat—Will’s not on Instagram.” Her eyes are wide as she turns to Will. “Maybe Kit could help you out with that.” She smiles and pats him on the shoulder.

“Fat chance,” I say once she’s out of ear shot.

“Fine with me. I don’t need help. Aren’t you a little old to be an influencer?” Will says, his eyes smiling.

“Aren’t you a bit too much of an asshole to be a chef?”

“I think chefs are supposed to be assholes,” he laughs. “And I’m not saying you’re old, per se. You’re quite cute.” He doesn’t look me up and down, as I expect him to. Instead, his eyes are fixed on mine, and I can’t seem to avert my gaze. He continues. “But aren’t influencers in their teens and twenties, living at home with their parents, taking selfies all day in their bedrooms?”

“Where do you get your information—Dateline, Grandpa?” I retort, but I’ve lost my edge. “You do realize that a chef without an Insta account is a bad business move, right? One of the top categories on Insta is food porn.”

“Wow, already talking dirty to me.” He raises his eyebrows, his eyes boring into mine. My heart pounds. Shit.

“How did Lucy even find you? Kijiji?” There, I’m back.

“Real life,” he says. “You should try it sometime. Oh wait, but if you can’t take a picture and post it then did it really happen?” His eyes are still shining, and his dimple is giving him away. My breath catches and before I can stop myself, I’m flirting back.

“I don’t know, why don’t we find out.” I hand him my phone. “Make yourself useful and take my picture so I can get out of here, and back to my real life.” I walk away from him, heading toward the blue cabana, praying he’s following me. I turn, and there he is, sauntering toward me. I hold the pose I’ve refined over the years, and as Will looks at me through my phone, I find myself taking him in. His muscular arms, strong jaw, tanned skin. Oh boy.

“Grab that Frisbee and toss it in the air or something,” Will says. When I make a face he throws his hands up. “What? I thought part of my job as Instagram boyfriend was to give you direction.”

“Just take the picture.” I pose a few more times, reluctantly grabbing the Frisbee because it’s actually not a terrible idea to be doing something with my hands. A few minutes later, Will hands my phone over. “There. I got three or four pics. I’m sure one will be fine.”

“Three or four?! ” I grab my phone.

He chuckles. “Relax. There’s about a hundred, give or take a thousand.”

“Great, well, thanks. Now I’ve gotta go. See you around, Will MacGregor.”

He nods, his lush lips together. “See you around, Kit.”

I make my way to the exit, say my goodbyes to the publicists, who are handing out cards with the event hashtags in case we’ve somehow lost the first one, and get into the elevator just as the doors are closing. I exhale, letting my entire body relax. It’s really too bad I’m not interested in dating right now, because that guy was hot. Even if he was a cocky asshole.

Making my way through the lobby, I flip open the Uber app and as I’m entering my address a text pops up from a number I don’t recognize.

Have a real drink with me. Meet you in the lobby bar in five minutes.

My heart pounds and I stare at the message. How? When? Is this really meant for me?

I click on the message and see that there’s a message from me to whoever the sender is. It says Hey Hot Stuff. Seriously?!

I stare at my phone, then flip it over to make sure it really is mine. The case is a picture of a set of French doors, stacks and stacks of books on the floor. Yep, it’s my phone.

But I did not send that text—I squint at the message—three minutes ago.

“Pretty good party trick, huh?” I look up to see Will standing in front of me.

“How did you . . . ?”

He shrugs. “Come on.” He holds up a box. “I brought you some of my canapés. I figured you were probably starving. That’s usually what it means when someone’s stomach’s grumbling.” He chuckles. “Though I do admire your determination in not caving in to the temptation of my canapés just because you don’t like me.”

“Give me those,” I say, grabbing the box. “And thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He smooths a wave of shiny, thick hair across his face with his left hand. No ring. I follow him into the lobby bar to two stools at the bar, and immediately open the box. The bartender is drying a martini shaker with a tea towel. “What can I get you two?”

“Bourbon on the rocks,” I say between mouthfuls. Will raises an eyebrow. “No girlie drinks for you, huh? I like your style. I’ll have the same.”

The bartender nods. “One tab?”

“No,” I say at the same time as Will says “Sure.” He looks at me.

“I buy my own drinks,” I say. And do my own taxes and fix my own problems, I think to myself.

“I wasn’t implying I was going to buy yours. I just thought, the least you could do was buy me a drink after I took your million-dollar photo up there. And brought you snacks.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine, one bill.” I pop some sort of fried dumpling in my mouth. It’s delicious.

A moment later the bartender slides our drinks toward us and we pick up our glasses. Before I can take a sip, Will clinks his with mine, then brings it to his lips. “So, have you posted the photo yet? Have you gotten a million likes? That’s the game, right?”

“Not a game. And did you just ask me for a drink so you could verbally harass me or was there some other reason?”

Will shrugs. “That was pretty much it. You’re just so easy to tease.”

I slap him on the arm. “And you’re so easy to slap.” My hand feels like it’s on fire. He flexes. “It’s the guns. Can’t miss ’em.”

“Do you practice these cheesy lines in front of a mirror before you leave the house?”

And this goes on, this thrilling banter, for quite a while. When his knee touches mine, it’s electric. Like a current running through me. We order more drinks and I wait for those tiny surges, sometimes making them happen, a hand here, a knee there, innocent but intoxicating, until the bartender announces last call.

I stand and grab my bags. Will stands too. “This was fun.”

“Maybe for you.” Now I’m teasing him, but there’s a part of me that doesn’t want the night to end. I hate to admit that I’m having a lot more fun than I would be if I were in my empty apartment . . .

“You wanna see the view from my room?” he asks.

“Is it better than the view from the event space on the penthouse floor?” I say, but I’m intrigued. If he has a room, he’s not from the city. Which means that this could be a one-time thing and I’d never have to see him again. One and done. Exactly how I like things in my life right now. No commitments, no emotional attachment. This is my year to focus on my career—nothing else.

He shakes his head. “No, I’d say the view’s worse. But I have mixed nuts in the mini bar. Do you want to see my nuts?” He tries to keep a straight face but when I laugh, so does he. “Ahh, see? I knew it. You wanna see my nuts. C’mon, let’s go.”

And then I’m nodding, and Will’s taking my hand and leading me to the elevator and then up, up, up we go, our bodies close, the air thick. Will slides his arm to my back, his fingertips working their way up to my neck. His touch feels so right, sending tingles up and down my entire body, as though he’s touching me everywhere. I want to slow this moment down, to savor it and the feeling of anticipation of what’s to come.

Eventually there’s a ping, and the elevator doors open and he grasps my hand again and pulls me out of the elevator and down the hallway, fumbling in his pocket for his key card and tapping it against the door before pushing it open and pulling me inside. He kicks the door closed and I turn, and push him against the door, determined to be in charge, and take a step closer to him. His hands move to my hips and my hands run over his arms. He pulls me closer and tries to kiss me but I move my lips to his ear, my teeth nibbling at his earlobe. He moans, and squeezes my hip bones. My hands move to his toned chest. Four or five buttons down his fitted dress shirt he stops my progress and pulls off the whole thing and it’s his turn to kiss and bite his way down my neck. His chest is tanned and muscular, a hint of hair creating a line down his abs, disappearing beneath the . . .