Title: The Divorce Attorney
Author: Melanie Munton
Genre: Romantic Comedy
Release Date: May 26, 2020
Cover Designer: L.J. Anderson at Mayhem Cover Creations
Hosted by: Buoni Amici Press, LLC.
What are you supposed to do when your insanely hot divorce attorney leans over after you’ve signed your divorce papers and seductively whispers in your ear, “Give me a call if you want to know how it feels to be handled by a real man since you were clearly too much woman for him,” before sliding his business card over and walking out the door?
I mean, what do you do with that?
Sure, I’m tempted. I just lost a hundred and eighty pounds of stupid, cheating man. I deserve to treat myself.
The thing is, I think he might be too much man for me.
After all, he’s fifteen years my senior, though he doesn’t look it.
But the urge to learn what this seasoned pro could teach me proves irresistible.
And as it turns out, he’s a pro at a lot of things…like destroying people’s lives.
I mean, what do you do with that?
Sure, I’m tempted. I just lost a hundred and eighty pounds of stupid, cheating man. I deserve to treat myself.
The thing is, I think he might be too much man for me.
After all, he’s fifteen years my senior, though he doesn’t look it.
But the urge to learn what this seasoned pro could teach me proves irresistible.
And as it turns out, he’s a pro at a lot of things…like destroying people’s lives.
| AMAZON | iBOOKS | NOOK | KOBO |
With his gaze finally raised in my direction, my attorney suddenly takes in his new view.
And drops his pen.
His Adam’s apple noticeably bobs as his eyes trail down my body. It’s not quite languorous, but it’s not exactly brief either. It happens almost absently—as if he doesn’t even realize how much time his eyes remain glued to my plunging cleavage.
I know I should feel uncomfortable at being the center of his attention. This so-called “uniform” was tailor-made for one purpose: to turn a lady’s bazongas into a flashing marquee. That’s what customers come to see at The Suckling Pig, a colonial-themed tavern where the female waitresses dress like sultry wenches from the Revolutionary War days.
Don’t judge me.
I need money. Desperately.
And in a touristy town like Charleston that has a lively downtown scene, working at The Suckling Pig is a surefire way for a well-endowed girl like me to rake in some extra dough.
But his intent expression as he looks me over does not at all make me uncomfortable. And again, it should. Now that I’ve seen his entire face, I realize this man is probably a good ten years older than me, at least. Not that he looks old, by any means. But the crow’s feet around his eyes and laugh—or frown?—lines around his mouth put him in his mid-to-late thirties.
I’m twenty-three.
Yes, yes, and I’m already getting divorced. Make your jokes now, and stow the judgment.
I quickly scan his left hand but don’t see a wedding band. Which is something. Checking out his apparently younger client isn’t wrong if he’s not married. Right?
For me, it’s just…different.
I’ve only ever hung out with guys my age, and I foolishly married one.
And clearly, that’s my problem.
Despite the fact that he’s my age, Grant is still too young to handle marriage like a responsible adult. Too inconsiderate to speak up and tell me he doesn’t love me anymore and that we never should have gotten married in the first place. Too much of a coward to admit that he felt pressured into the whole thing by his overbearing father. And of course, he hadn’t been about to share with me how unreliable he is with money. How he tends to piss it all away the second he can get his grimy little hands on it.
So, instead of communicating with me like a decent human being, he went and buried his relationship woes balls-deep in the barista at our favorite coffee shop. Unfortunately, I didn’t learn just how immature Grant really is until well after our marriage license was notarized. Hence, my presence here today.
Since Grant and I met in college, I haven’t done much venturing outside of my own dating pool age group. For whatever reason, I never really look twice at older men. Even when they hit on me at my job, I just don’t typically give them much thought.
Yet I’m giving my new attorney plenty of thought right now.
But it only takes a second for me to realize he’s a straight-up Maserati.
So insanely beautiful to look at, yet completely unattainable to someone like me.
I mean, why would a successful man like him, who clearly has his life together, ever find a frazzled, scatterbrained, twenty-three-year-old, soon-to-be-divorcee, hot mess of a graduate student attractive?
Although if I’m not mistaken, the gleam in his hazel eyes is one of…interest.
With my thick, layered black hair pulled up into a loose knot that shows off my long neck and aforementioned cleavage, sky-blue eyes that I’ve been told are a “mystical” color, narrow waist and hips, and pale Irish skin, I guess I’m not terrible to look at.
Your boobs are basically winking at him. He would probably show the same amount of interest to a stripper that motor-boated him during a lap dance.
No one can put things into perspective quite like my bitch of a conscience, that’s for sure.
She’s such a ho.
And drops his pen.
His Adam’s apple noticeably bobs as his eyes trail down my body. It’s not quite languorous, but it’s not exactly brief either. It happens almost absently—as if he doesn’t even realize how much time his eyes remain glued to my plunging cleavage.
I know I should feel uncomfortable at being the center of his attention. This so-called “uniform” was tailor-made for one purpose: to turn a lady’s bazongas into a flashing marquee. That’s what customers come to see at The Suckling Pig, a colonial-themed tavern where the female waitresses dress like sultry wenches from the Revolutionary War days.
Don’t judge me.
I need money. Desperately.
And in a touristy town like Charleston that has a lively downtown scene, working at The Suckling Pig is a surefire way for a well-endowed girl like me to rake in some extra dough.
But his intent expression as he looks me over does not at all make me uncomfortable. And again, it should. Now that I’ve seen his entire face, I realize this man is probably a good ten years older than me, at least. Not that he looks old, by any means. But the crow’s feet around his eyes and laugh—or frown?—lines around his mouth put him in his mid-to-late thirties.
I’m twenty-three.
Yes, yes, and I’m already getting divorced. Make your jokes now, and stow the judgment.
I quickly scan his left hand but don’t see a wedding band. Which is something. Checking out his apparently younger client isn’t wrong if he’s not married. Right?
For me, it’s just…different.
I’ve only ever hung out with guys my age, and I foolishly married one.
And clearly, that’s my problem.
Despite the fact that he’s my age, Grant is still too young to handle marriage like a responsible adult. Too inconsiderate to speak up and tell me he doesn’t love me anymore and that we never should have gotten married in the first place. Too much of a coward to admit that he felt pressured into the whole thing by his overbearing father. And of course, he hadn’t been about to share with me how unreliable he is with money. How he tends to piss it all away the second he can get his grimy little hands on it.
So, instead of communicating with me like a decent human being, he went and buried his relationship woes balls-deep in the barista at our favorite coffee shop. Unfortunately, I didn’t learn just how immature Grant really is until well after our marriage license was notarized. Hence, my presence here today.
Since Grant and I met in college, I haven’t done much venturing outside of my own dating pool age group. For whatever reason, I never really look twice at older men. Even when they hit on me at my job, I just don’t typically give them much thought.
Yet I’m giving my new attorney plenty of thought right now.
But it only takes a second for me to realize he’s a straight-up Maserati.
So insanely beautiful to look at, yet completely unattainable to someone like me.
I mean, why would a successful man like him, who clearly has his life together, ever find a frazzled, scatterbrained, twenty-three-year-old, soon-to-be-divorcee, hot mess of a graduate student attractive?
Although if I’m not mistaken, the gleam in his hazel eyes is one of…interest.
With my thick, layered black hair pulled up into a loose knot that shows off my long neck and aforementioned cleavage, sky-blue eyes that I’ve been told are a “mystical” color, narrow waist and hips, and pale Irish skin, I guess I’m not terrible to look at.
Your boobs are basically winking at him. He would probably show the same amount of interest to a stripper that motor-boated him during a lap dance.
No one can put things into perspective quite like my bitch of a conscience, that’s for sure.
She’s such a ho.
Melanie grew up in a small town in rural Missouri. After marrying her husband, she decided she wanted to try coastal life because why not? A few months later, they moved to North Carolina where she discovered her passion for writing, and they never looked back. They are now enjoying life with their beautiful daughter in Savannah, GA and loving every minute with their little Georgia peach.
Melanie’s other passion is traveling and seeing the world. With anthropology degrees under their belts, she and her husband have made it their goal in life to see as many archaeological sites around the world as possible.
She has a horrible food addiction to pasta and candy (not together…ew). And she gets sad when her wine rack is empty.
At the end of the day, she is a true romantic at heart. She loves writing the cheesy and corny of romantic comedies, and the sassy and sexy of suspense. She aims to make her readers swoon, laugh out loud, maybe sweat a little, and above all, fall in love.
No comments:
Post a Comment