BY: M. E. GORDON
I live on a farm—scratch that, I lived on a farm. I was on my way to LA to live amongst the rich and famous, to work for the rich and famous. I did not leave a farm, and a seriously complicated relationship, just to dive back into another one. Yet, there I was, falling for a rock star who was so not my type of man, it was scary. Could I ever truly leave the farm and the man I left behind and start over? Was this new relationship just a rebound from the last?
I had one type of woman all my life. I had this image of her from as young as a boy. She’d be petite, beautiful, long blonde hair, quiet, someone who would stand behind me as I rose to fame with my band mates. I did not see myself with a Southern, loud-mouth Amazon of a woman who drove me up the wall. I didn’t have time to be chasing a woman. They usually came to me. But here I am, trying to win over a woman who wasn’t even my type.
TAYLOR JONES SAYS: In Not My Type by M. E. Gordon, Lexi is leaving the farm behind, along with her abusive ex-boyfriend, and heading off to California to work for the rich and famous—she hopes. Actually, she’s going to LA to live with her brother to look for a job. She doesn’t really care as long as it gets her away from home, and John. But the last thing she expects is to run into Trent from the rock band One Night Stand, who tells her right up front that she’s not his type. So why is he chasing her all over, trying to get to know her?
As with the first book in the series, this one is filled with fun, frolicking, and some spicy sex scenes, along with a few bite-your-nails moments, a perfect companion to curl up with on a cold winter day.
REGAN MURPHY SAYS: Not My Type by M. E. Gordon is the second book in her One Night Stand series. One Night Stand is a rock band just on the verge of stardom, and the last thing our spunky heroine, Lexi, wants is to get involved with a member of the band. In fact, the first time she meets Trent from One Night Stand on the plane to LA, he lets her know in no uncertain terms that she is not his type. That’s fine with Lexi, she just wants him out of her hair so she can get on with finding a job working for the rich and famous in Hollywood. But wouldn’t you know it, the first day on her new job as a waitress (she doesn’t have the experience to work for the rich and famous yet, but you have to start somewhere), she runs into Trent and the band again. She refuses to wait on them and switches tables with another waitress, but that doesn’t stop Trent from pursuing her, even though she’s not his type, no, not at all.
Not My Type is a cute, fun, and clever story, filled with wonderful characters, a dash of humor, a pinch of suspense, and a generous helping of steamy sex scenes—the perfect recipe for a really great read.
“Mom, I’m gonna be fine,” I reassured her for the millionth time.
She practically sobbed as she held me tightly around the neck. “I know, I know. You’re just going to be so far away. It’s not like when you went away to college. You were only an hour away. This is across the country!”
“Come on, Mom, I’m livin’ with Ben, it’s not like I’m goin’ there not knowin’ anyone.” My brother had moved out west as soon as he had enough money. He was a dancer, an aspiring actor. He had it rough in our small town, but he was thriving in LA. And soon I was going to be thriving right along with him.
“Your brother better watch out for ya. If he doesn’t, I’m comin’ all the way to California and bringin’ ya back home with me,” she scolded in my ear.
I rolled my eyes. Southern women could be way too dramatic, and unfortunately that also included me.
“I’ll be fine, Mom. Okay one last hug and I gotta run, don’t wanna miss my flight,” I said hugging tightly onto my tear-stricken mother.
“Call me when you land. If you don’t, I’m gonna suspect you’ve been kidnapped. Then I’ll have to call the police and come find ya myself,” she said, holding my cheeks between her hands.
“Got it! I’ll call ya as soon as the plane touches down.” I heaved my pack onto my shoulder and reached down to my carry-on bag. Dragging it behind me, I proceeded to my gate. I’d admit I was a little sad to be leaving. Virginia was my home and the farthest I had ever gone from there was one state away, when I attended West Virginia University, and that was a cultural shock from the small farming town I grew up in.
I was moving to California to become someone else. I had this dream to work with movie stars and attend red carpets. Sure I had a backup plan, which involved a boring accountant degree that I spent four years getting. I was gonna give myself one year to live the way that I had dreamed. I didn’t want to be famous. I just wanted to work for them. I wanted to be an assistant to the stars. Oh crap, where’d I put my ticket? I searched my pockets frantically. Oh lord!
I finally found my ticket after turning my bag inside out. I wasn’t the most organized person in the world. Now where did I put my phone? Found it! Anyway, I was determined to make it out there, as long as I could keep calm. I knew it was going to be fine. Which way am I going again?
“Now boarding group A,” the older woman at the entrance to the terminal said.
I sat there in the uncomfortable chair weighing my options and wiggling back and forth. I was boarding group C, and I had to piss like a sailor. Do I get up and run to the bathroom now or wait till I’m stuck on the plane and use the tinny weenie bathrooms they have. Glancing around, I weighed my options. Decision made, I’m running for it.
I stood at the mirror in the bathroom and checked my hair, flat. My mother would be so disappointed. My mother had tried to get me to tease my hair from the moment I came out of the womb, but there was no use in it. It was dark brown, long, straight, and had absolutely no body to it.
I fixed my tank top and unbuttoned, light, flannel shirt. Turned to the side, checked my fine ass and attempted to tussle my flat hair. Looking good, Lexi.
“This is the last call for boarding group C flight Six-Twenty to California. Once again, this is last call for boarding group C, Flight Six-Twenty to California.”
I ran out of the bathroom, practically knocking an old lady over, and booked it to the terminal. How the hell did everyone board so fast?
“Wait, please wait, I’ve got a ticket!” I yelled from about twenty feet away as the woman was closing the door to the gate.
Breathing heavily, I handed her my ticket.
“Cutting it close there, darling.”
“The important thing is that I made it, right?”
“Sure is, you have a nice flight. It’s a full one,” the lady said, winking at me.
I was really wishing I would’ve remembered to check-in to my flight the night before. I made sure to take a mental note for the next time I had to fly. Don’t wait till the last minute to check in, or pee!
I was the very last person to board. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it wasn’t a five-and-a-half-hour–with my luck, six-hour–flight across the US, and it also wouldn’t have been so bad if every loving seat wasn’t filled. Yes, I found one!
“Excuse me, is anyone sitting there?” I asked, crossing my fingers and praying to the Lord Almighty that the little old lady said no.
“Oh, I’m sorry, dear. My husband is just using the restroom. He’ll be right back,” the sweet lady said, holding her purse in her lap like I was going to steal it.
“Okay, thanks,” I grumbled sadly.
“I think they’re all taken back here. You should go back up to the front,” the flight attendant who managed the back of the plane said while gesturing in the other direction.
I knew exactly which seat she was talking about. The one with the two men in the front row, the middle seat between them was empty and apparently waiting for my ass to fill it.
Oh, how I wanted any other seat on that plane to be open. I glanced down at the man sitting next to the window in the third seat of the first row. He was a red mohawked, tattooed, character, who was tapping his fingers on the book that lay across his lap. I eyed him up and, for the life of me, I had no clue how he was sitting in the skinny, tight ass jeans that he had on. I was pretty sure they wouldn’t even fit over my calves, and I have nice defined calves. He smiled up at me from under his sunglasses, letting them fall down the bridge of his nose. Who wears sunglasses on a plane, at night? Good grief, he just winked at me. I had decided then and there that that flight was going to test all of my patience, another thing to add to the list along with my dramatic flair, a very short fuse. Not all Southern women were demure, patient, and proper. I happened to be a part of the loud, ornery, and short-fused breed of Southern women, or so I’d been told.
After cringing at the clown near the window, I took notice of the man sitting in the first of the three seats. The best way to describe him would be ex-con, biker gang member, and possible steroid user. He was huge. His long legs almost touched the cockpit wall his broad shoulders completely covered the back of his chair and at least a few inches of the chair that I was being forced to sit in. He had a beanie hat on so I couldn’t see his hair, but my guess? He was bald. He had a five o’clock shadow, just the right amount of scruff to make a girl swoon. I couldn’t tell what color his eyes were because he refused to look up at me, or acknowledge I was standing right next to him. His large fingers were intertwined and resting on his lap. His dark gray shirt hugged his large muscles perfectly. I was going to need to be splashed with a bucket of cold water to keep from staring. Lucky for me, I was distracted.
“Excuse me, ma’am, we need you to take a seat,” the flight attendant said through a fake-ass smile.
“I’m workin’ on it. There wouldn’t happen to be any other available seats…anywhere?” I asked, pointing to the back of the plane.
“No, I’m sorry it’s a full flight and this is the very last seat. You should be happy it’s a front row seat, lots of leg room,” she said, gesturing to the larger amount of space between the seats and the front wall.
“Lovely.” I smiled back, tossed my pack in the seat, and went to grab my carry-on bag so I could toss it into the above cargo slip. You would have thought that maybe one of the men would have offered to help. “Oh, don’t worry, darlings, I’ll get it myself.” Damn Yankee assholes, no manners!
The clown near the window pushed his sunglasses up his nose and settled into his seat. Patience, Lexi, patience. Of course the only open space available in the cargo was right above the steroid-using heap of muscles. Now I wasn’t no frail, whiny woman. I grew up on a farm. I knew how to lift hay barrels, move a cow. I had my own version of muscles, farm muscles I called them. I also wasn’t no skinny super model, but I was tall, almost six feet, one inch–okay, fine, in heels I was definitely six-foot-one. I was proud of the way I looked, but that sure as hell didn’t mean I wasn’t a little self-conscious in front of sexy, biker, muscle man or the somewhat dashing clown.
“Looks like you’ve got it just fine without our help, Zena,” the heap of muscles said from below me.
I had just lifted my bag up and was trying to stuff it in so the flight attendant could close the hatch when I heard his smart little comment. Oops.
“What the hell?” he roared, standing from his seat.
My carry-on fell off his lap and onto the floor.
“Oh my! I’m so sorry. It must have just slipped from my Zena grasp,” I said, drawing on my Southern accent and placing my hands on the curves of my hips.
© 2017 by ME Gordon