Insta-Bride (Contemporary Bride Book 1) Read online

  Insta-Bride

  Contemporary Bride Book One

  Erin Fox

  Insta-Bride

  Contemporary Bride Book One

  By Erin Fox

  Copyright © 2019 by Erin Fox Books

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Contents

  1. Vivienne

  2. Blake

  3. Vivienne

  4. Blake

  5. Vivienne

  6. Vivienne

  7. Blake

  8. Vivienne

  9. Blake

  10. Vivienne

  11. Blake

  12. Vivienne

  13. Blake

  14. Vivienne

  15. Blake

  16. Vivienne

  17. Blake

  18. Vivienne

  1

  Vivienne

  I never planned on becoming a romance author. It just so happens that I used to have a grandmother who loved to read. In the summers, my family and I would visit her in her Florida home. As a kid who liked to scrape my knees when playing, I found grandma’s house a little tedious — and, if I remember correctly, boring. I wasn’t close with grandma, and she didn’t even bother getting close with me either. She was rather busy reading all the time — in the mornings, afternoons, and evenings.

  Grandma always had a Georgette Heyer paperback in her hands — editions that were published back in the 40s and 50s and 60s. I’d been curious on what she was reading so I asked her, without really expecting an answer, what the book was all about.

  Her eyes shone and she smiled at me, finally giving me her full attention. “It’s a romance, Viv,” her voice cracks. “The hero is an arrogant gentleman named Dominic Alistair, who likes to shoot people and drag young ladies to France.”

  “Shoot people?” I repeat, my face aglow.

  She nods. “He plans to leave for France after shooting a man in a duel and take a commoner as a mistress. But he takes the wrong girl with him, and after he gets shot on the arm —”

  “He gets shot?” I gasp.

  “Yes, dear, now let me finish. Alistair gets shot in the arm by the woman, whom he took to France, and falls in love with her. And because he’s a gentleman, who has ruined Mary’s reputation — by the way, Mary is the name of the heroine, Viv — Alistair offers to marry her.”

  It was a strange love story, and ever since then, I’ve been in love with Georgette Heyer’s Devil’s Cub and Dominic Alistair, who’s the model for every hero I write about.

  My recent novel, The Heartthrob, is not excused from my Dominic Alistair obsession and I have certain specifications on how the hero must look — dark, waving hair, blue, piercing eyes, an aquiline nose, and a pouty, arrogant mouth. My heroes aren’t modeled after Fabio, the male model used in 80s and 90s romance paperbacks. My heroes are modeled after Dominic Alistair, whose face that cannot be captured by any male model, no matter how hot or attractive they may be.

  Dusty, my agent, has been sitting with me for almost three hours now. He’s a stout, balding man who always says my taste in heroes are of the classical kind — no modern male can ever be what I imagine my gentlemen are.

  On this project, I am adamant and determined to find my Dominic Alistair!

  “Viv,” Dusty sighs and runs a hand over his face. “We’ve had at least eight guys with the same description as your Dominic Alistair model — black hair, blue eyes, and etcetera etcetera.” He taps the blunt of his pen on his notebook. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound reminds me of the raindrops that pitter-pattered on grandma’s roof, while she read False Colours, another Georgette Heyer novel, to me. “And still you haven’t chosen the right guy for your book cover.”

  “I know, Dust, and I’m sorry.” I mean it. Every time I release a new book, picking the right model has been a challenge for Dusty. The men are always handsome, pretty even, but none of them fit the mold of Dominic Alistair. “To be honest, I’m getting tired, too.” Not tired, exhausted! “Let’s just check this last guy out, alright, Dust? After this model, let’s call it quits and let the publisher choose the model for the book cover.”

  Dusty nods his head, goes to the door, and calls for Blake Williamson. I read the list of models and this Blake is number 37 in the list. Holy! We went through 36 models and I still haven’t decided on any of them. I bet it’ll be 37 models after this interview.

  The door shuts and Dusty sits beside me. “The model’s here, Viv.”

  I glance up and, in surprise, whisper, “Alistair?”

  It is as though my imagination has been brought to life. Dark, waving hair, blue, piercing eyes, an aquiline nose, and a pouty, arrogant mouth! Dominic Alistair is standing in front of me, wearing a V-neck shirt and tight denim jeans and a pair of worn chucks. He nods his head and says, “Hello.”

  His voice cause ripples and shivers in my entire body. He moves fluidly and offers me his large hand. He lifts one corner of his lips as I reach for his hand and give it two pumps.

  “Hello, Blake,” I say, or perhaps swoon. I am not too sure on how I did sound. Maybe I sounded as lovestruck as I picture myself to be, like a teenager in the throngs of a puppy love. Who knew that listening to Dusty’s suggestion we look to Instagram for our next romance novel cover model could actually.

  He runs his hand over his too long, black, waving hair; and I catch my breath at how lithely he does so and smiles at me with his eyes. He introduces himself again: Blake Williamson, 26 years old, been modeling since he was 17. This is his first casting call for a romance novel, he’s glad we checked out his Instagram.

  Yeah, I’ll be scrolling through that feed later… alone.

  I don’t ask him any questions or say anything else other than the hello from just a while ago. I let Dusty do the talking and I let myself get to know Mr. Blake Williamson little by little.

  “So.” Dusty writes on his notebook in large, eligible letters HOT AS SIN beside Blake’s name. “This is a simple test. If you pass the auditions, we’ll let you know.”

  “alright. I’m up for any test.”

  “Lift the hem of your shirt. We want to see your abs,” Dusty says matter-of-factly.

  I open my mouth, then slowly, gingerly shut it. I turn to Blake, who smiles at the request and nods. “W-we can wait if you’re not yet ready,” I say to him.

  “No, it’s alright.” Blake lifts his shirt and I salivate. His sculpted, six-pack abs make my heart flutter and my stomach flip. He pulls his shirt down and directs his gaze to me.

  “Alright. Thanks, Blake. We’ll give you a call.” Dusty closes his notebook and leads my Dominic Alistair to the door.

  Oh my goodness gracious! My cheeks are in aflame. Georgette Heyer won’t approve of a hero with that much sexiness oozing from him.

  2

  Blake

  I am not a fan of reading smut and historical romances. My mom loves them though. Probably reading too much of those thick paperbacks is the reason she and dad got divorced. Dad can’t possibly compete with a book that has a male stripper with a six-pack, who poses half-naked and a sexy woman clinging onto him as though he’s the world for a book cover.

  I can’t stand the covers of these smut novels. They’re cheesy, outdated, and, frankly, the very opposite of sexy.

  “You have a casting call for a romance novel,” Nigel, my agent, tells
me over the phone.

  By romance, he means smut. What’s romantic about these books anyway?

  “Are you going to take it?” he says with a bit of impatience in his voice.

  No, I am not going to take it!

  “Y-yeah, I guess I’ll give it a shot.”

  Fuck! I’ve got bills and rent to pay.

  Nigel tells me in minute detail of when and where the auditions will take place — at 1 PM today, in a conference room at a hotel just three blocks from my apartment. “You have to do your best, Blake. I heard the author, Vivienne Cox, will be there to personally choose which model to use.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll charm the hell out of her.”

  It won’t be difficult to flirt a little with an old lady, assuming the author is an old lady. I’ll smile and laugh, compliment her a bit and lie through my teeth how her books inspired me to become a better lover.

  “Charm won’t work, I’m afraid,” Nigel says in a quiet voice. “The author has a certain type from what I heard.”

  “Type? Like what?”

  “Oh — well, that I can’t help you with, but maybe if you Google her previous books and check out the covers you may get an idea.”

  “No time for that. I’ve only ten minutes to get appropriately dressed before I head off to the auditions.” I sigh. I have this today… and tonight, I’m going to put into action the one thing romance novels did teach me.

  Women hate cheating. See, since I went on Instagram I’ve been bombarded. I’m going to do what every woman wishes every man would do, which will ironically get me the privacy I crave.

  I’m going to get married. The plan is to find a willing gal to be my “wife” tonight at some bar. It can’t be that hard.

  Nigel’s voice pulls me back to reality. “Alright, Blake. Do your best, bud.”

  I set off for the casting call in a V-neck shirt, denim, and chucks. I don’t look glamorous, but maybe the simple, bad boy charm will get this author, whoever she may be.

  I am sitting on a bench. The number 37 is pinned on my sleeve. I look around and there is only two of us left. Number 35 is already in the conference room; 36 is playing Wordscapes on his phone.

  I’d roll my eyes, but if they found me on Instagram like Nigel said, well, then they probably found him on Instagram, too. Maybe he’s about to do a live story, #ad, with that app or something.

  The door to the conference room opens and number 35 walks out and passes me by. A stern voice from the door says, “Number 36, please come in.”

  36 quickly pockets his phone and gets into the room. He may get the job. He has the muscles and the physique just like the models on my mom’s books. However, in less than five minutes, the door opens again and 36 trudges out, unsmiling and slow.

  The voice doesn’t call for me immediately. I wait in the empty hallway. After a minute or so, the door opens again and someone says in a tired voice, “Number 37, please come in.”

  I quickly stand and enter the room. A bald man welcomes me and shakes my hand. “Blake Williamson…?” he says.

  I nod. “Just Blake.”

  He nods and heads to the table, where a woman is sitting. She has her hair in a bun and her head bent over a list of names I can’t make out from the distance I’m from. The man whispers in her ear and she looks up.

  She’s hot — bright brown eyes and a cupid’s bow mouth. She has a mole just above the corner of her lip — a very enticing mark that makes me want to lick. She mouths something and I catch the syllables do and dal. She smiles and the placard on the table says she is Vivienne Cox.

  My stomach does a flip. I want to kick myself for assuming the author was some old lady. Vivienne Cox isn’t old — far from it. She’s young, luscious, and a has very inviting mouth she can’t seem to close. I’d like to put something else in it, personally, and then she could wrap her lips around it…

  I make my introductions and Vivienne looks at me as though I am a ghost. She’s pale, but her smile tells me she’s happy to see me. I hope she really is because I am. I’m pleased to see her and won’t mind taking this job if she’ll be the one I’ll be working with. Posing half-naked with her rocking body pressed against mine doesn’t seem a bad idea either.

  “Lift up your shirt,” the balding man says.

  I happily comply. This is my opportunity to show off to Vivienne my six-pack. Her face flushes and she looks away. I pull my shirt down, not knowing whether she’s pleased or not.

  “We’ll give you a call,” the man says and leads me to the door.

  A chair scrapes and Vivienne shouts, “Wait!”

  I turn around and watch her walk toward me in a lithe, graceful manner. The shy nymph quickly evaporates with each of her steps. She sways her hips and stares at me with glittering eyes. She touches my arm. The warmth of her touch sends me reeling.

  “Nice muscles,” she whispers, and I swallow hard. “I want you to pose for me. Now.” She pulls me to the center of the room. “Take off your shirt and put a hand over your stomach.”

  Her husky voice makes me shiver, and I do what she tells me to. It’s cold in the room, but Vivienne’s eyes make me hot all over. I flex my muscles, arch my back, stretch my arms, and follow her every order.

  “Take off your jeans, too,” she says. She’s far from shy now. She unbuckles my belt and wraps it around her hand.

  I want to grab her by the hair and pull it free from that bun. I pull my pants down and wait for her command. Her eyes rove me from head to foot, an impish grin hovers on her lips.

  “I like what I’m seeing,” she says.

  What she’s seeing is the tent I’m sporting, but under her dark, gleaming eyes I’m not ashamed of it. I want her to know what she’s making me feel right now: horny as fuck.

  Suddenly, that whole meet some random woman at a bar plan seems…

  Fuck. I don’t know. I can’t even think clearly. I can’t stop thinking about anything except how much I want Vivienne.

  3

  Vivienne

  His body is hard and hot under my touch. I lift his arm, feeling the sinewy muscles and smiling at how much his body matches well with the main character of The Heartthrob I have in mind. He grins down at me and says as though he isn’t sure of what he’s even telling me, “So, do you read Stephen King or — ah — Margaret Atwood?”

  “Both, but I am partial to Margaret,” I reply. “You can put your clothes back on.” I nod to the pile of clothing at his feet and watch him pull his lips, as if he’s disappointed I am not salivating over his sculpted abs.

  “So,” he trails on as he pulls on his pants. “This is just my observation. It doesn’t necessarily apply to every romance novel author, but was your first love Mr. Darcy or any of Jane Austen’s heroes?”

  It’s not everyday someone, especially a man, asks me about the books I’ve read, authors I like, and book characters I rave about. This is, in all honesty, a surprise. “No, I’m afraid you’re wrong to assume I love Mr. Darcy. My first love is Dominic Alistair.”

  “Dominic Alistair?” he echoes and puts on his shirt. “Who’s he? I don’t read much Austen, save for Pride and Prejudice, but I haven’t heard of a Dominic Alistair in any of her novels.”

  “Because he isn’t from any of her novels. He’s a Georgette Heyer character.”

  He smiles and runs a hand through his too long, dark hair. I want to twine my fingers around his black, luscious curls. I bet his hair feels silky and smooth.

  “I should check Georgette Heyer in my spare time. You think she has books that’ll pique my interest?”

  “You can try her mysteries,” I say. “They’re not as good as her regencies, but I suppose you’ll like them.”

  “Suppose?” he echoes and laughs. His voice sends shivers around me.

  Dusty clears his throat behind me and pats my shoulder, effectively dismissing my conversation with Mr. Blake Williamson. “Thanks, Blake. We’ll give you a call,” he says in a cheery note.

  Blake pumps our h
ands all business-like and formal. “Hope to hear from you, Ms. Cox,” he says in a low voice.

  I bite my lower lip once Blake turns away from me and watch him walk to the door. His tight ass is a bonus for the book cover I have in mind. Dusty eyes Blake too with a grin plastered on his face.

  “You like him,” he says in a sneaky, cheery note. “The question is: do you like him enough for the cover or just for between the sheets?”

  “What?” I exclaim. “Dusty, we’re professionals here. Come on.”

  He raises his hands in surrender, but that stupid, conspirator-like grin is still on his fat face. “Granted that we are professionals, you have to admit, Viv, Blake Williamson is H-O-T-T.”

  “H-O-T-T? Dust, we’re not in high school anymore.” I roll my eyes and dart to the table. I pick up the list of male models we interviewed earlier and chew on my lip. “Number 35 — Andrew Andrews — huh! I didn’t even notice how strange his name was.”

  “His parents must have hated him,” Dusty mutters behind me. “It’s a no for Andrew Andrews for me, Viv. He is hot, but he isn’t Blake H-O-T-T Williamson hot.”

  “Dust, seriously, stop with the double T’s.”

  The door squeaks open and Charlene, my PA, bounces into the room, bringing along three, tall orders of lattes. “Guys,” she squeals. “Please tell me you’re going to choose number 37!” She passes me my order as she prattles on how she met Blake by the hallway and saw his number still pinned on his shirt.