"Fun, funny, hot, and heartfelt...The apocalyptic beach read that everyone needs." - Alix E. Harrow, Hugo Award-winning author
A paranormal romantic comedy at the (possible) end of the world.
From New York Times bestselling author Gwenda Bond, Not Your Average Hot Guy is a hilarious romantic comedy about two people falling in love, while the fate of the world rests on their shoulders.
All Callie wanted was a quiet weekend with her best friend. She promised her mom she could handle running her family’s escape room business while her mom is out of town. Instead a Satanic cult shows up, claiming that the prop spell book in one of the rooms is the real deal, and they need it to summon the right hand of the devil. Naturally they take Callie and her friend, Mag, along with them. But when the summoning reveals a handsome demon in a leather jacket named Luke who offers to help Callie stop the cult from destroying the world, her night goes from weird to completely strange.
As the group tries to stay one step ahead of the cult, Callie finds herself drawn to the annoying (and annoyingly handsome) Luke. But what Callie doesn’t know is that Luke is none other than Luke Morningstar, Prince of Hell and son of the Devil himself. Callie never had time for love, and with the apocalypse coming closer, is there room for romance when all hell’s about to break loose?
Release date:
October 5, 2021
Publisher:
St. Martin's Publishing Group
Print pages:
336
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“Hmm.” My mother puts her hands on her hips and inspects the waiting area with a slight frown. She’s wearing a T-shirt with her favorite Time Lord on the front.
I try to imagine what she’s seeing. Because everything is just as it should be: the giant metal lock with the name of our family business—THE GREAT ESCAPE—hangs straight and shiny on the wall; the counter and hardwood floor are pristine; T-shirts and key chains and water bottles saying WE GREAT ESCAPED wait in stock bins; iPads for customers to bring into their chosen rooms sit in a fully charged line; and, of course, the all-important release forms are plentiful.
“I feel like I’m forgetting something, Callie-expialidocious,” Mom says, walking around to give everything a higher level of scrutiny.
“That seems unlikely,” I say.
Because Mom doesn’t forget things. Her mind is the proverbial steel trap. If you want to know how Bletchley Park broke the Enigma code during World War II to help defeat the Germans or the names of the key people who worked on the team (it wasn’t just Alan Turing), she can recite the answers without pause. Same if you can’t remember which episode of Star Trek is the one where Kirk kisses Uhura.
(It’s “Plato’s Stepchildren”—I’m not even that into classic TV, but I inherited her legendary affinity for collecting random pieces of knowledge. Though I do my best to make mine even more obscure. I’m particularly drawn to occult factoids. Historical ghost stories? Every single era of witch burning? Famous grimoires for a thousand, Alex? I’m your girl.)
No, she’s not forgetting anything. I know exactly why Mom is postponing her departure. She’s freaking herself out about leaving. I understand. I’d be doing the same thing. I also inherited her predisposition to hermit in my favorite places and trust new people slowly, when I end up trusting them at all. A big event filled with strangers? Speechifying in front of them? Nightmare territory.
“It’ll be fine,” I tell her. “Go. You don’t want to be late. This is a big deal.”
Mom’s frown melts away, replaced by a cocky grin. “It is, isn’t it?”
“Huge.” I sweep out my arms. “Planet-sized.”
The Association of Escape Room and Countdown Games named her Owner of the Year and she’s off to their conference in Nashville for the weekend to accept the award. Meanwhile, I volunteered to hold down the fort with the (in my opinion, unnecessary) help of my older brother, Jared.
We’re the best escape room business in the country. I help Mom write and run the games and find all our props in my copious spare time. Yes, it’s decently copious. I graduated from college in the spring with a history degree, only to discover that there are no jobs for someone with my specialty. We’ve all decided being doomed to repeat history is fine, I guess. I’ll admit I’m flailing a bit—school wasn’t much of a challenge for me, well, ever. The read-all-the-books thing. I can even adequately math.
Adulthood seems to require different skills, ones I didn’t realize I needed. I’m also single. Apparently relationships require different skills too.
“Still,” Mom says, and her frown returns. “I was hoping Jared would show up before I left.”
“I’m sure he’s on his way,” I say.
Jared is a freak of nature, by which I mean smart and good at extroverting and social situations. He’s in his second year of law school, which he took to the way perfect human specimens take to becoming lawyers. I’m sure he has not just straight As, but a million friends and a canon of party anecdotes.
Meanwhile, I’m considering going to graduate school to become more (or less?) employable, fantasizing about the giant libraries it will afford me access to hide away in. Ah, crusty old book spines and teeny tiny type, how I dream of thee. Mostly, my mom is okay with my struggle to figure out what to do with my life. But she knows we’re anxiety twins.
She focuses on me. Her hands rise to my shoulders. “Callie, you’re going to do great this weekend,” she says, sensing my secret nerves that I’ll manage to mess this up. “Everyone on the books is routine. The odds a tricky situation will come up are low. Jared will be here. But I don’t have to go…”
“It really will be fine.” When that doesn’t seem to convince her and I can practically hear her anxious nature telling her to stay home and skip the awards, I fall on the sword of my pride. “And you’re right. Jared will be here anytime.”
“Okay.” She squeezes my shoulders, then lifts her hands away as the tone of the door opening sounds. “Call me if anything happens.”
I turn expecting to see my brother, but brighten at the sight of my best friend for life and the ever after, Mag. A freshly applied glittering fuchsia lip stain pops against their brown skin and baggy gray silky T-shirt. David Bowie is their forever patron saint, a fixed star in their ever-evolving constellation of style. Mag landed a job as a graphic designer for a local ad agency immediately after graduation.
“We are not going to need to bother you in any way,” Mag says. “Go, be fancy.”
Mag and I met after church during toddlerdom and our friendship was sealed when we renamed all our dolls after superheroes and had them attack the other kids’ Barbies (liberating them from the control of Planet Blonde; we could be judgy). I trust Mag always, and they trust me.
“I know what it is!” Mom thrusts her hand up and snaps her fingers. “The extra clues. You know people always crumple at least one. They’re in the—”
“Extra clue cabinet, neatly labeled,” I return, giving her a helpful-daughter stare. “And yes, there are plenty, we made new ones last weekend. You are not forgetting anything. Go.”
“Okay, fine.” At long last Mom retrieves her purse from behind the counter. “But no new bookings. Just what we already have. And you’ll call me if anything happens?”
“Scout’s honor,” I say.
“You were never a scout.”
“I was,” Mag chimes in. “Eagle and everything.”
“Close enough, then,” Mom says.
“Plus, you know I’m not going to get into trouble.”
“You’re having a tough time lately. You could use some trouble.” She pauses. “Not this weekend, though, please. Text me when your brother gets here, and I’ll see you Sunday night.”
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