1.Get over my best friend’s brother.
2.Remember that I’m over him.
3.Prove I can date other people.
It should be easy.
It’s not.
Setting up a dating website with the guy I’ve been in love with since I was five wasn’t my smartest idea.
Especially since he’s my best friend’s brother—thankfully, she’s okay with the fact I’m pulling a Sandy and I’m hopelessly devoted to him.
Which is why it’s time to get over him.
So I do something crazy and ask Dominic Austin to find me a date. He does—if I find him one, too.
Since we own Stupid Cupid, it should be easy, right? And it is.
My date is perfect. His date is perfect. Everything is perfect.
Until he kisses me…
Three dates.
One kiss.
And a big-ass mess…
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This is the second book in The Experiment series. It could be read as a standalone, but I
suggest you read them in order. You do
get Chloe and Dom, fights and all, in the first book also.
Dom and Chloe have been in love with each other
forever. But neither knows how the other
feels. They actually think the other
hates them.
They fight like cats and dogs.
Dom is constantly losing things.
Chloe can be a little high strung at times.
A bet started the experiment in the first book. For this book, Chloe knows she hast to get
over Dom and move on. So they match each
other up. Since they do own Stupid
Cupid, a match making company.
There are a lot of funny parts in this, so be prepared to
laugh.
I really enjoyed reading this.
By day, New York Times and USA Today bestselling New Adult author Emma Hart dons a cape and calls herself Super Mum to two beautiful little monsters. By night, she drops the cape, pours a glass of whatever she fancies—usually wine—and writes books.
Emma is working on Top Secret projects she will share with her followers and fans at every available opportunity. Naturally, all Top Secret projects involve a dashingly hot guy who likes to forget to wear a shirt, a sprinkling (or several) of hold-onto-your-panties hot scenes, and a whole lotta love.
She likes to be busy—unless busy involves doing the dishes, but that seems to be when all the ideas come to life.
“The fuck are you doing here?”
“Elliott said you needed help. Here is your help.” Peyton gestured extravagantly to herself before she shut the door behind her. “And I know it’s about Chloe and her date, so cut to the chase.”
Girl-talk. Of course she already knew.
“I need to fill out her application,” I told her. “But I’m stuck.”
She rolled her eyes. “And you can’t ask her to do it?”
I stared at her flatly.
“Right, no, of course,” she drawled, a tiny hint of her New Orleans drawl twanging at every word. “Why would you ask the woman you’re in love with to fill out her own dating record?”
“Can you shut the fuck up and help me?” I threw my hands out to the sides. “I found her a match. Help me out here, Peyt.”
My sister stilled. “You found her a match?”
“Of course I did. I said I would, so I did.”
“Wow. You’re actually going through with it. Kudos, bro.” She rounded my desk and perched on the arm of my chair.
I glanced at her. “Can you put your chest away?”
She tugged at the neckline of her shirt and pulled it right up. “Put away. Let me see what you’ve written so far.” She snatched the mouse out of my hand and scrolled. “Jesus, Dom,” she said after a minute. “This is basic. This won’t get her laid.”
I didn’t want to get her laid. I wanted to get her a good date, not a fucking orgasm.
“Whatever. Can you make her attractive to a random stranger?”
“You can’t?” Peyton quirked an eyebrow and looked at me. “You’ve been attracted to her for at least ten years. Surely you can do better than this.”
“Peyton. I want your help, not your bullshit.”
“Good luck with that,” she muttered. “All right, move your ass. Let me do this for you.”
“Don’t make her sound too attractive.” My voice was no louder than hers had been as I stood and made way for her to take my seat.
She snorted, deleting everything I’d written except the first couple of questions. “I’m gonna make her so attractive that she has every eligible bachelor in New Orleans clambering for her attention.”
“I just—I don’t get it.” I threw myself onto the sofa and almost sent the box of donuts flying onto the floor.
Thankfully, Peyton was quicker than the box. She grabbed it and sat back, hugging it to herself. “First, watch the donuts. I got the last two pink sprinkles, and I’m partial to them.” She stroked the top of the box. “Second, what don’t you get? How he doesn’t care about your boobs? I don’t care about them either.”
“You’re not supposed to care about my boobs. You’re a woman, for a start.”
“I care about your boobs,” Chloe interrupted, tucking her blond hair behind her ear. “I think you have great boobs. Bra or no bra.”
“Usually no bra,” Peyton added.
“I’m not afraid to throw something at you,” I warned her. “This is awkward.”
“Ugh! Get over yourself, Melanie!” Peyton snapped her fingers. “You are a grown woman. He is a grown man. He saw your tits. So what? Steven Lawrence saw your tits five times in junior year.”
I snatched a donut from the box. Don’t tell my hips. “We were dating! It’s entirely different!”
Chloe delicately picked up a white-iced donut before saying, “She’s right. It is different, Peyt. They were dating, and Jacob is her boss. You can’t expect her to just get over that. It is partly your fault.”
“It’s just as much your fault,” Peyton reminded her, then looked at me and nodded toward Chloe. “Drunky smurf over here shook her Tic-Tacs like she was in front of a bachelor party leaving a curry house.”
I choked on my laughter. “That’s not the point. You got us drunk. It’s almost entirely your fault.”
“Look, sunshine,” she said, tearing a bite of donut off the ring so her words were muffled. “I didn’t grab your shirt and whip it up like a two-dollar hooker on overtime. You did that, so grow a pair and take responsibility for your actions.”
“You sound like you don’t want to take responsibility for yours.”
“Hey. You’re big girls. You can refuse cocktails.”
Chloe and I shared a glance. “Refuse cocktails?” she said. “I don’t understand.”
“You have us mixed up with your other friends,” I continued. “But, wait. You don’t have other friends.”
“I have plenty of friends,” Peyt said.
“Friends without penises. Or benefits.”
She paused. “We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about your hot boss who knows what your tits look like.”
“You’re not helping.”
“I’m not trying to help. I’m trying to slap your size-eight ass into reality, you idiot.”
“Slap mine into reality and I’m putting yours on a catapult. Right into the middle of the gulf.” I tore my donut in two and gave her boobs a pointed look. “I always wondered if silicone would float.”
“Can I help you?” I asked.
He blinked and met my eyes.
“What the hell are you doing over there?” I pushed to stand up straight.
“Right now?” He capped his water bottle. “Well, honestly… I’m just thinking you’d look better over the hood of that car than under it.”
I unhooked the hood and slammed it down, spinning on the balls of my feet.
Our eyes met properly. I didn’t like what I saw in his—desire, attraction, need. Which was obviously why a shiver ran down my spine.
I cocked a hip, putting my hand on it. “The only time you will ever get me over a hood of a car is if a wiper blade needs changing. So, unless you’re a wiper blade...”
Dex pulled his phone from his pocket and started tapping the screen.
I blinked. “What are you doing?”
He peered up at me through his unfairly thick eyelashes. “Seeing if I can get a wiper blade costume for Halloween.”
“I don’t even know how to respond to that.”
“You can buy wiper blade glasses.”
“What?”
He raised his eyebrows. “And a lady here on eBay will hand-make any costume. There’s my Halloween sorted.”
I stared at him. “You’re not getting me over anything, Dex. Definitely not a car hood. No matter what you think.”
He clutched his chest dramatically. “You wound me.”
“Unfortunately not fatally,” I muttered.
“You also underestimate me.”
“There’s a lot of that going around in this garage.” I put the bottle of coolant away.
“Touché.”
“Thank you.”
“Can I ask you something?”
I sighed and turned to face him again. “What?”
Earnestly, he asked, “Can you stop wearing those tiny shorts? Or yoga pants that make me want to touch your ass every five minutes?”
I looked down at the ripped shorts of my dungarees. “Can you keep your thoughts to yourself? Control yourself, maybe? Not look at me and see someone worth screwing?”
