The Love Plot Read Online Samantha Young

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Contemporary Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 100277 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)

There's a magnetic attraction when a happy-go-lucky gig worker agrees to a fake relationship with a rich, uptight New Yorker in this steamy romantic comedy from New York Times bestselling author Samantha Young.

Star Shine Meadows is all about freedom, thanks to the hippie parents who raised her. Juggling her jobs as a professional costume character actor and a line sitter, she believes in no expectations, no stressful ambitions, and no-strings-attached relationships. So when she meets a birthday girl's grumpy uncle while working a princess party, she can't help but needle him. She'll never see him again, and honestly, he's pretty hot.

Rafe Whitman may be a veterinarian with a great bedside manner, but that doesn't mean his patience extends to anyone with opposable thumbs. His family will not stop nagging him about finding "the one," so when he runs into obnoxiously cheery Star again, he makes her an offer: He'll pay her more than she would make doing her odd jobs if she'll pretend to be his girlfriend at family gatherings. She can stop sitting in line waiting for someone else's new phone, and he'll get his family off his back.

When the tension between them heats to a breaking point, Star's desire for "no strings" is tested against Rafe's staunch stability. They say opposites attract, after all.

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Chapter One

I’ve never been one to swoon over a man.

I’d felt attraction to gorgeous guys and had pretty good sex in my twenty-eight years on this planet. But swooning?


In many ways, I was like the character I’d donned for the eight-year-old’s birthday party that day. My strawberry-blond hair wasn’t the right hue, so I wore a wig of tumbling, riotous bright red curls that were vivid against the teal velvet fabric of my medieval-style gown. I had a bow (fake weapon) looped over my shoulder and a brown belt slung across my hips, with a quiver holding plastic arrows attached to it.

It wasn’t too hard to guess that I was Merida from Disney Pixar’s Brave. This was a new character for me. I’d dressed up as many a Disney princess for parties, but it was the first time someone had paid me to play Merida. This character meant practicing a Scottish accent, and I didn’t think mine was too shabby. Och, ah was quite proud o’ it, so ah was.

The birthday party was hosted in the fanciest Upper West Side apartment I’d ever set foot inside, and I was feeling pretty connected to wee Merida because we were both independent women who had no intention of settling down with a man as a way of finding fulfillment in our lives. Merida would never swoon.

I was pretty damn annoyed that while I was in that moment, really feeling the character, making the kids laugh with my boisterous boasting and brogue, my gaze lifted for a second from the birthday girl and I saw him.

The sight of the stranger struck me in a way I didn’t understand. But it was like all the air fled my lungs. It felt like that time I got mugged when I was nineteen and I tried to fight the guy instead of letting him take what little money I had. He’d punched me so hard in the gut, I couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation. It was discombobulating.

“Merida!” The birthday girl, Charmaine, tugged on my dress. “You were telling us about the Loch Ness monster!”

I blinked, dazed. Thankfully, I was a great multitasker, because I launched back into my story of being sent to kill the Loch Ness monster to protect my people only to discover that he was a hilarious big softy that I needed to protect from my people, and all the while I kept throwing glances at him.

Who was he?

What was he doing at a children’s birthday party?

Whoever he was, he was a wondrous mix of male beauty and primal masculinity who just the sight of—once I got over the horrible breathless moment—made me tingle delightfully between my thighs.

Tall, very broad-shouldered, and from the thick forearms revealed by the pushed-up sleeves of his sweater, it was more than obvious he worked out. You could see the man’s biceps shaping the fabric. I’d never been into working-out types. However, he was a very fine specimen, with his tapered swimmer’s waist and long, long, long legs. What was also puzzling about my physical response to the stranger was the fact he hadn’t smiled once the entire time I surreptitiously eyed him up. I was into happy, funny guys. Not brooding, surly types. Usually, they were a hard pass. A frown marred his strong brow, and his full lips flattened into a grim line. That face. Boy, was that a face that could launch a thousand ships. All chiseled angles. I couldn’t discern his eye color from across the room, but it didn’t matter. He was just . . . sexier than a night in with hot chocolate and Netflix’s The Witcher.