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The Last Guy
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The first rule of office romance is don’t do it—especially if your dream is to hold the anchor spot on the nightly news and your boss is trying to get you fired.
But one look at Cade Hill, the sexy new sports director, and uptight reporter Rebecca Fieldstone is daydreaming about other things.
Sex in his office…
She can’t stop thinking about the former NFL quarterback and how perfect he’d look between her sheets—except he’s an arrogant jerk with a huge… ego.
He’s the last guy she’d ever have a one-night stand with.
Cade Hill draws a thick professional line on office romance—until it comes to the hyper-focused Rebecca. He wants her, and he gets his wish when a chance encounter has them having the hottest sex of their lives.
It’s just a hook-up, she says.
With Rebecca determined to keep Cade in the friend zone, it’s going to be an uphill battle for Cade to convince her he’s the last guy she’ll ever want.
THE LAST GUY is the first white-hot CONTEMPORARY ROMANTIC COMEDY from Wall Street Journal bestselling author Ilsa Madden-Mills and Tia Louise. It features Fireball-fueled hookups, Doritos Locos Tacos, attack monkeys, toddlers in tiaras, and one fabulous drag queen. Prepare for frantic clicking (or page flipping!) and smoking-hot sexytimes all the way to the out-of-this-world happily-ever-after.
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SCRATCHY PINK TULLE hits me square in the face, and I jerk away as a shrieking tornado of blonde curls bolts past me. I am in hell, more specifically pageant hell, the deepest and darkest level.
“Petal Boo Bishop! PETAL BOO BISHOP!” A large woman stomps after the child, shoving me as I dodge to avoid being tackled. “Get back here and put your tutu on this minute!”
My camera-guy Kevin snorts as I regain my footing. He gets a brief, snappy glare. Let him try interviewing tiny humans in the middle of chaos.
Clearing my throat, I smile and hold the mic down to the four-foot beauty queen I’d been addressing before the interruption. “And what will you do if you win Miss Planetary Princess, Kaitlyn?”
She pushes her helmet of golden-brown hair away from her face. It’s bigger than her head and strong enough to withstand any climatological distress. My hair, by contrast, is completely wilted and flat in the Houston humidity that blasts through the room every time a door opens.
“First, I wanna eat chicken nuggets then pizza with pineapple and a Coke—oh, and some taco bells. I haven’t had a taco since I was three years old. Mama says tacos are bad for business.”
Mama gives Kaitlyn a warning look.
“That sounds like my kind of fun!” I laugh, giving her a fist bump and then winking at the camera. The wink is my trademark, along with my pencil skirts.
Kaitlyn’s mama charges me, putting her hand on the mic alongside mine and giving it a tug. I tug back—while pretending I’m not—as I smile through clenched teeth. I refuse to let go, and she hunches in front of me to speak.
“After we win here, we’re heading to Little Miss Galaxy at the San Francisco Zoo,” she states. “We’ll go straight to catwalk training and poise. The girls in Little Miss Galaxy come from all over the country, you know. Their bodies are streamlined and toned—no baby fat. We’re on a healthy but strict diet.”
I blink in horror as I absorb her speech. Think about the anchor job, Rebecca. Smile. “Wow. That seems rigorous for a five-year-old.”
Mama rakes her eyes over me. “I’m sure you wouldn’t know anything about it.”
I jerk the mic away, ignoring her body shaming. “Kaitlyn, how do you feel about being Miss Galaxy?”
“Little Miss Galaxy,” her mother corrects.
Huge brown eyes gaze up at me. “I’ll be Princess Leia!”
Mama bursts out laughing. “With that honey-bun hair! You are not Princess Leia. Except for maybe those chubby cheeks, but we’re working on that.”
The child’s eyes land on her shoes, and I swallow the knot of anger in my throat. I might be a hard-boiled newswoman, but I’m fighting a deep desire to steal this little cutie and give her a normal childhood—tacos and all.
Looking straight into Kevin’s lens, I do the wrap. “There you have it, folks. Miss Planetary Princess is just the latest preschool pageant feeding into the Miss USA circuit. Catch all the taco-worthy drama tomorrow night at eight, right here at the Houston Expo Center. I’m Rebecca Fieldstone, KHOT News.”
I hold the smile a beat longer until Kevin gives me the signal. “We’re clear.”
He lowers the camera, and my shoulders drop. This assignment is soul sucking.
I need to get back to the station and edit the story, but I can’t help sneaking a last look at Kaitlyn. Her shoulders are also slumped, and her mom steers her in the direction of the Channel 8 news team set up in the corner across from us. I hope she gets a taco soon.
“You ready?” I tuck the mic under my arm and pick up my bag.
“Miss? Excuse me, miss?” The large woman who had almost knocked me down earlier touches my shoulder.
I don’t stop walking.
The woman keeps my pace, breathing heavily as she jogs. “Sorry about earlier, but you haven’t talked to Petal Boo. We’d really like to have her on camera for her résumé.”
Not another one, I groan inwardly. “I’m sorry. I can’t guarantee what goes on air—”
The lady shoots out a hand and grips my arm, stopping me. “Oh, you’ll want to talk to Petal. She’s not like the rest.”
My eyebrow arches, and she releases me. Still, her face is pleading. “Just take a look. Please?”
Something about her gives me pause. Maybe it’s the sweat lining her brow—I can totally relate. As per usual, it’s a steamy late-September day in southeast Texas, and I left my blotting papers back in the news van. I’m sure my face looks like a red Solo cup right now.
Giving Kevin a quick nod, we follow her. My mic is out, the light goes on, and Kevin points the camera at a fluffy little girl in a white-blonde wig styled with long ringlets around her oval face.
“Hi, there,” I say with a smile. “What’s your name?”