It was supposed to be one night.
But it may be the beginning of forever.
Unlikely Date, a sexy opposites attract, single parent contemporary romance from Amazon bestselling author Samantha Christy is coming April 30th, and we have your first look!
“I don’t get it,” Jaxon says, sinking his teeth into a foot-long chili dog. He studies the impressive ass of the busty blonde waitress who just tucked her phone number into my breast pocket. “We have the same DNA. Share the same parents.” He glances down, eyes sweeping over his jeans, Doc Martens knockoffs, and standard-issue Nighthawks fan tee. “Is it my clothes?”
“It’s my charm,” I deadpan.
“Charm?” He chokes down another bite. “Brother, you couldn’t charm the deuce I took this morning back into my asshole. Seriously, how do you do it? I mean, you’re such a dickwad.”
My left eyebrow spikes at his choice of words. “Dickwad?”
“I teach teenagers all day. What do you expect?”
The suite roars when the Nighthawks score a run, putting them up 7-2 over the Indians in the eighth inning, all but ensuring a win.
The more the Hawks win, the better my job security. They’re my biggest client. And as owner, president, and CEO of a sports marketing firm, every run they score is more money in my pocket.
Brady Taylor, the former Nighthawk who still holds the team record for pitching the most perfect games, crosses the room. “You see my kid pitch that fastball in the fifth inning? He’s pushing one hundred miles per hour. That’s Hall of Fame territory.”
“Sure did. Stryker is the reason the stands are packed.”
He smiles proudly. “Hell yeah, he is.”
The inning turns over, and the Hawks take the field. Brady thumbs to his wife, sitting in the front row biting her nails. “Better get back to Rylee. She can’t watch him pitch without squeezing all the blood out of my hand.”
“Give her my best.”
“Will do. Catch you later, Tag.”
A pair of kids duck around Brady and bump into me as they zoom by. I check my tailored pale-gray Hugo Boss dress pants to make sure they didn’t smear food on them. Fucking kids. They shouldn’t be allowed in here. I get out a smoke and nod to the door. Jaxon shakes his head but doesn’t say anything. He gave up years ago on trying to get me to quit. I step outside the suite and find the nearest designated smoking area. A semi attractive woman talks to me as we puff away. I oblige her, proving my point that despite my dickwad tendencies, I can still charm the pants off a snake.
I toss her number into the trash can, then look back. Yeah, she saw me do it. She shoots me the bird and turns in a huff. That’s right, honey. Mentioning your seven-year-old when you want to ride my cock all night is not how to get me into bed.
As soon as I’m back in the suite, Dylan Graff crosses the room with two drinks in his hands. I lean into Jaxon, eyes still on Dylan. “Here it comes.”
“Here what comes?”
A fresh beer is placed before me as if I can’t snap my fingers and have Miss Hotpants appear with one in ten seconds flat. Probably with her address this time. And maybe the key to her place. Yeah, it’s happened.
Dylan is an intern for the New York Nighthawks. Someone who wipes noses and asses if he’s told—of adult baseball players. He’s got his head so far up my butthole that it must be hard for him to breathe. I get it. He’s young. A recent grad who’s trying to make connections with anyone and everyone. But he’s taken his suck-up-ness to a whole other level.
He wipes the wetness from the beer off his palm and onto his Old Navy chinos before extending his hand. “Mr. Calloway,” he says.
I hate it when people call me Mr. Calloway. Unless said person is a stacked woman with tits that stand at attention when she’s flat on her back, and I’m driving into her like a jackhammer.
“Tag,” I say with my handshake.
He nods to the stadium below. “Looks like it’s going to be another good day.”
“I guess you get to keep your job.”
He laughs a little too loudly. Fucking suck up. Jaxon chuckles beside me.
“So, hey.” He wipes both palms now, hesitating.
“Spit it out, Dylan.”
He looks nervously across the room. I follow his gaze to the attractive brunette leaning against the wall chatting with another familiar Nighthawks staffer. Her cheeks pink when she sees three pairs of eyes on her.
“My cousin Ingrid was wondering if you’d like to, um…” His palms run down the side of his pants again. If the guy doesn’t change soon, I could wring him out like a sponge. “Meet her?”
I shamelessly appraise her from thirty feet away. I pride myself on assessing the fuckability of any woman from afar. It’s one of my best qualities.
The rounded globes of her tits, which scream push-up bra, are squished together by her tighter-than-spandex V-neck T-shirt. Her honey-brown hair falls loosely, a chunk of it trapped in her cleavage as if asking to be pulled out. By me. “She seems nice.”
He smiles like a kid who’s been given a silver dollar and a pat on the head. “She is.”
“And by nice, I mean her brunette curls would look amazing bobbing between my legs.”
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And my blind date.
Tag Calloway is toxic. If you aren’t in his small inner circle of friends, you’re nothing.
An inconvenience at best.
And it’s just my luck that my first blind date—heck, my first date since ‘The Incident’––happens to be with him.
I’ve spent years hiding myself from men. From life. Wallowing in guilt and camouflaging my body.
I live for one reason. Gigi. The broken-condom accident who has become the singular light of my life.
Why did I let my friends talk me into this?
He’s the last person I should trust with my feelings. My body. My scars.
But when our night turns into something I never expected, common sense fails me and I fall hard, knowing this time, it won’t be my body that suffers gruesome damage, it will be my heart.
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About Samantha Christy
Samantha Christy’s passion for writing started long before her first novel was published. Graduating from the University of Nebraska with a degree in Criminal Justice, she held the title of Computer Systems Analyst for The Supreme Court of Wisconsin and several major universities around the United States. Raised mainly in Indianapolis, but also living in Lincoln, NE for a time, she decided to devote herself to family upon the birth of her third child and became a stay-at-home mom. It was then when the writing bug really took hold as she was a voracious reader. Being a stay-at-home mom facilitated her ability to follow her dream of becoming an author.
When she is not writing, she keeps busy cruising to every Caribbean island ships sail to. Samantha Christy currently resides near St. Augustine, Florida with her husband and the two of her four children who haven’t flown the nest. Oh, and her dog, Ozzy, who she worships and thinks is the most adorable Whoodle on the planet.
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