Roni wrote her first romance novel at age fifteen when she discovered writing about boys was way easier than actually talking to them. Since then, her flirting skills haven’t improved, but she likes to think her storytelling ability has. Though she’ll forever be a New Orleans girl at heart, she now lives in Dallas with her husband and son. If she’s not working on her latest sexy story, you can find her reading, watching reality television, or indulging in her unhealthy addiction to rockstars, er, rock concerts. Yeah, that's it. She is the National Bestselling Author of The Loving on the Edge series from Berkley Heat.
About the Book:
Add to Goodreads
- 1 $25 Gift Card (Choice of Amazon or B&N)
Southern gentility be damned. Nice was getting her nowhere. Aubrey Bordelon put her hands on her hips and attempted an I-mean-business face. “Look, I’m not here to get laid.”
The slab of beef serving as security guard raised his eyebrows and smirked. “I’m sorry to hear that, darlin’, but you’re still not getting in.”
He leaned his shoulder against the grimy frame of the door, blocking her view of backstage. She dipped her hand into her purse and felt around, pulling out her business card and holding it out to him. “I’m supposed to interview the band. I’m from the NOLA Vibe.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that.” He ignored her card and flipped the clipboard in his hand so it was facing her. She couldn’t read most of the names in the dim light of the alley, but she knew hers wouldn’t be there. “Problem is: you’re not on the list.”
“We’ve been over that.” She’d already explained in what she had hoped was a professional, polite tone that she was there as a replacement reporter, that the original guy was in the hospital.
“Yeah, well, you’re going to have to come up with a more creative reason to get back here. Half the people in this line claim that they’re supposed to be on the list but were mysteriously left off. So unless you have a magic wand in your purse to make your name appear, you’re outta luck.”
She resisted the urge to throw something at his shiny head.
“Excuse me,” interrupted a perky voice. Aubrey turned to look at the blonde standing behind her. The girl pinned the bouncer with a sultry gaze.
“I am here to get laid. Does that make a difference?” She tilted her head to the side and somehow implied a wink without actually winking.
The guard gave the groupie an appreciative once over and grinned. Aubrey rolled her eyes. Of course. Apparently, wearing an outfit consisting entirely of leather strips and dental floss was the way to make nice with Mr. Clean.
“Look, doll, I’d love to let you in. But like I told Lois Lane over here, if your name isn’t on the list, my hands are tied. The boys don’t entertain company before a show. Come back after the concert and maybe I can get you in. They relax the rules a little then.”
The girl put a manicured hand on the guy’s chest. “I’ll hold you to that, sweet thing.”
Ugh. The night had turned into the girl with the skimpiest outfit wins. Aubrey huffed and turned to walk away before she was tempted to say something even more unprofessional than she already had.
She didn’t know if it was the smothering heat of the New Orleans summer evening, the putrid smell of the club’s dumpster, or the fact that her plans had been shot to hell, but she was feeling downright combative. She shouldn’t be here. She wanted to get that promotion to head food writer she’d been working so hard toward, but this was more than she’d signed up for.