Hot Mess (Messy Love Series Book 1) Read online

  Other books by R. Linda

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Join the Squad

  Connect with R. Linda

  Excerpt

  Chapter 2

  R. Linda Novels

  www.rlindanovels.com

  Editing: Spell Bound

  Cover Design & Formatting: Pink Ink Designs

  ISBN-10:

  Copyright © 2019 by R. Linda.

  All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: May 2019

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business

  establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  The Scandalous Series:

  Bailey and the Bad Boy

  www.books2read.com/bailey

  Indie and the Brother’s Best Friend

  www.books2read.com/indie

  Harper and the One-Night Stand

  www.books2read.com/harper

  Kenzie and the Guy Next Door

  www.books2read.com/kenzie

  Audrey and the Hero Upstairs

  www.books2read.com/audreyhero

  Christina and the Rebel Affair

  www.books2read.com/christinarebel

  Stockholm Syndrome Series:

  Twisted Love

  www.books2read.com/twistedlove

  Wren Keller

  SOME PEOPLE LIKE to think they’re a tall glass of champagne. Take Antionette for example. She was stunning. Tall, legs for days, blonde. But once you got to know her, you realized she was nothing more than a plastic cup full of warm pee. She hovered over me as I scrambled on the cold marble floor of The Buchannan Hotel’s lobby to collect all my art supplies.

  “I told my father he was wasting his time hiring you. That you didn’t have the vision required to create a monument for this lobby. But, no. He felt sorry for the pathetic orphan princess and wanted to give you a chance.” She scoffed and toed my barbie doll, the inspiration for my design, with the tip of her designer leather stiletto.

  I stood up and dusted off my trousers as though the pristine gold-flecked marble floor was dirty. It wasn’t, but I knew it would irritate her nonetheless. The Buchannan Hotel was far from a dirty place. If they awarded over 5 stars, then The Buchannan was a 10-star hotel. It was exquisite. Only the elitist of the elite called that hotel a home away from home.

  Hoisting my bag of supplies over my shoulder, I stared at her, wanting terribly to say something about her father’s stuffy hotel and how I didn’t need his charity anyway, but I knew it would be a lie. I needed this job more than I needed air, but luck was never on my side.

  “Just hurry and collect your junk before you cause any further embarrassment on this establishment.”

  Embarrassment? I’d have her know while unconventional, my designs, my art was exquisite. She was the one who lacked creativity and any vision. “If only closed minds came with closed mouths, the world would be a much happier place,” I muttered as her eyebrows twitched, unable to pull together in a frown due to the excessive Botox between them. It was practically oozing out of her pores. And she didn’t even comprehend my comeback.

  I turned on my heel and stormed out of the hotel into sweltering sun. The air was thick and stifling. Pulling on the collar of my shirt did little to cool me or my anger down. How dare she speak that way? Calling me a rich orphan princess was a low blow.

  Yes, I was an orphan. But I wasn’t a princess, and I certainly wasn’t rich. I dropped my art bag into the backseat of my white convertible before falling into the driver’s seat with as much grace as a baby giraffe trying to stand on its ridiculously long, lanky legs. I angled the diamond-encrusted rear-view mirror to check my reflection.

  Okay, so maybe I was rich.

  Was being the operative word.

  I wasn’t so much rich anymore as I was attempting to keep my lights on and my shower running. Growing up with wealthy parents was great. Being left to fend for myself since they died two years ago… not so great.

  The money I had in my bank account was running dry and the trust fund my parents lovingly set up for me when I was young was something I couldn’t touch until I turned 25. Two years away. I had barely $200 in the bank and no money coming in for two years, unless I could secure employment soon.

  That word alone caused chills up and down my spine. Job.

  I shuddered.

  Taking orders from anyone was far from appealing. But being able to take a hot shower every day outweighed the negative. I was counting on this job and Mr. Buchannan to save my ass, my home, and my hot water. I needed a shower every day. Though, it seemed dear Antionette worked her way into his ear and changed his mind. Mr. Buchannan had the vision, the eye for design and great art. Antionette, well… she had an eye for bulging biceps and well-endowed men, or so the rumors would have you believe.

  I pulled out of my parking spot and headed to my home in the hills overlooking both the center of the city and the ocean to the right. The gated community was peaceful. The houses, all white, floor-to-ceiling windows, lush, sprawling green lawns, tennis courts and infinity pools. There was absolutely no personality to our neighborhood from an outside look, but inside… Inside was an entirely different story.

  I refused to park my car in the garage next to my father’s row of vintage cars. They were his pride and joy and even though I wouldn’t dare drive them, I also couldn’t bear the thought of parting with them. Once a month a guy came out and cleaned them for me, so they stayed pristine. He’d also take them for a drive around the neighborhood just to ensure the engines didn’t cease up. But with yet another job falling through, and the bills piling up, I was afraid I’d have to cancel Nelson’s services.

  It saddened me to realize the condition of my father’s prized car collection would slowly deteriorate until they were nothing more than rust buckets. I wasn’t responsible or careful enough to care for them the way my father or Nelson did. I nearly had a panic attack every time I parked my car next to them over the years, out of fear I’d accidentally drive into one. My track record proved there was an extremely high chance of that. Just last week, I nearly reversed into the fountain in the center of the driveway because I got a little over-excited when my favorite song came on the radio and stamped my foot down on the accelerator as I jammed along to the drum solo.

  I’d ne
ver get an award for best driving, but my drum skills kicked ass. I could totally start a band. And it would rock the socks off everyone.

  Tiptoeing between the cars, careful not to even breathe in their direction, I made my way inside and dumped my bags and keys on the floor. My stomach rumbled, and I realized I hadn’t eaten yet. The leftover pizza in the fridge was calling out in a sultry voice, almost a breathy whisper, ‘Wren. Wren. Eat me. You know you want to. I’m delicious.’

  And I craved to.

  So, so bad.

  Nothing could keep me from those heavenly slices of pure pizza-ry satisfaction. We were made for each other, pizza and me. I dumped the pizza on a plate and put it in the microwave to heat as I kicked off my shoes and flung them out of the kitchen. The stack of bills on the counter was teetering like an unsteady house of cards; one wrong movement and they’d come crashing down. I was a sore loser, hence why I hadn’t touched the pile yet. They tilted precariously to the left, unopened, angry red stamps across the front shouting ‘Final Notice’. But if I took the top one off, they’d all fall and that was a bad omen. And bad omens meant no power, no water, no gas, and no… No!

  I slapped my hands to my cheeks and my mouth dropped open in a silent scream as the microwave beeped.

  That meant no pizza.

  I grabbed my pizza out and eyed it sadly. I’d die without pizza. I mean, if push came to shove, I could survive without water, gas and power. I could live like a homeless person with a roof over my head. The beach had shower blocks, drinking fountains, and public toilets were everywhere too. It didn’t get dark until late up here anyway, so light was no problem. Neither was gas because I shouldn’t be allowed to cook with gas anyway, or so the local firefighters liked to tell me on a near monthly basis.

  But pizza? That was a basic necessity. The number one thing required to ensure the survival of humanity. And I would lose it if I didn’t get money soon.

  Lifting a warm cheesy slice to my lips, I sniffed back the tears threatening to spill and whispered, “I’ll fight for you. Nothing will keep us apart.”

  I could sell things. Items from my mansion. We had books and furniture I didn’t need. It was only me here, why did I need six beds, eight sofas, three dining tables with matching chairs and five televisions?

  But I couldn’t sell things. These were my parents’ belongings, and I’d rather die than watch them being taken away in the back of a truck to someone else’s house who wouldn’t appreciate them.

  I paced around my kitchen, cradling the pizza to my chest, not wanting to finish it in case it was the last slice I ever had. My gaze drifted out the window and fell on the pool house where I used to live until my parents died. I had wanted the privacy and a space I could call my own, and I loved it out there. I felt like a real adult, doing real adult things, even if I came into the main house to eat every day because I couldn’t feed myself.

  But then they died, and I wished I’d never moved out to the pool house. I wished I’d stayed in the main residence, closer to my parents. I wished they’d never gone on that sailing trip. I wished their yacht never capsized. I wished I’d spent more time with them.

  To feel closer to them after the accident, I’d moved back into the far-too-big-for-one-person house. I missed my cozy pool house. I missed my parents.

  But I knew what I had to do. I knew what they would want me to do.

  I needed to rent out their house.

  It was the only way to ensure my love affair with pizza would survive.

  Wren

  SWALLOWING THE LUMP in my throat, I opened the front door to my family home for strangers again for the sixth time in a week. I was inundated with calls from potential tenants within hours of advertising my house for lease. And while I knew I needed to do it because my job search was providing no results, the idea of people I didn’t know living in the house my parents cherished hurt my heart, and no one who had shown any interest so far was good enough. Maybe because deep down, I didn’t want to open my home to others. It was my private sanctuary and sharing it didn’t appeal in the slightest. But, a week of not being able to afford food, and the debt collectors blowing up my phone—at least until the phone company cut it off—made me swallow my pride.

  Plastering a fake, bright and cheery smile on my face, I greeted the couple standing on my front step.

  “Hi, I’m Wren.” I reached my hand out for the man to shake and just about wet myself.

  Tate Montgomery.

  The Tate Montgomery.

  Model. Bad boy. Hot as, well… a hot potato.

  “Hi, I’m Tate,” he introduced himself, though he didn’t need to. His grip was strong and warm and… He was holding my hand.

  Tate Montgomery was holding my hand. My breath caught in my throat.

  I opened my mouth to speak but words failed me. So, instead I stood there with a starry-eyed expression on my face and nodded.

  Yes, he was Tate.

  The man I enthusiastically admired in the tabloids, and every social media site under the sun. The only man who warranted post notifications switched on. The man who I may have dreamed about once or twice sweeping me off my feet and confessing his undying love for me.

  I think I squeaked. And judging by the way he smiled, he heard it too. His lips pulled wide, flashing his oh so perfect white teeth and the dimple in his cheek, just barely visible under that short, scruffy beard I so desperately wanted to rub my cheek against. His eyes crinkled in the corners with silent laughter.

  Tate Montgomery thought I was funny. I didn’t even care he was laughing at me acting like a complete fool. He thought I was funny. Taking a breath, I pulled myself together and gave him a real, genuine, albeit slightly star-struck smile before running one hand over my hair, trying to smooth the flyways in my messy bun.

  “And this is Rachel, my girlfriend,” he said releasing my hand and gesturing to the woman I had forgotten was standing right beside him.

  My smile fell and my nose crinkled as I took in Rachel Eastman’s appearance. Oversized designer sunglasses, obnoxious fedora hat and off-the-shoulder black maxi dress, stretched tight across the plastic watermelons she called breasts. Her long, fake blonde extensions hung down her back in loose waves.

  She was the It Girl. The woman every guy wanted to date, and every girl wanted to be. Every girl except me. She looked hungry and over-inflated. Pretty sure I could safely use her chest as a life raft should we ever get hit with a Tsunami up here.

  She tilted her nose up and took a step closer to Tate, wrapping one hand tight over his bicep as though trying to show me he belonged to her. I would not roll my eyes. I needed to be friendly and courteous.

  I needed Tate to want to rent my house out, because I lacked the funds to survive, and he had it in spades, and also because I’d be foolish to turn Tate Montgomery down for anything.

  “It’s lovely to meet you,” I said, getting lost in Tate’s twinkling eyes, before letting my gaze drift over to Rachel briefly and adding, “both.”

  I stood to the side and waved them in. “Please have a look around, and if you have any questions, I’ll be in the kitchen.” I closed the front door behind them and left them to it. It had been my experience in the past week that showing a house to people was awkward. I didn’t like standing there and watching strangers go through my house and inspecting every little detail. And they didn’t like when I hovered watching them like a hawk, so it was best to leave them to it. That way they could discuss things privately and I wouldn’t get offended when they didn’t like the artwork on the walls, or the sculptures in the recesses of the hallway.

  I made my way into the kitchen and sent a silent prayer up to anyone listening to not let the power be cut off before Tate moved in.

  I knew he would. I could feel it in my bones. He needed the security and privacy of our exclusive gated community because when you had one of the most recognizable faces in the world; it was a necessity. Also, because rumor had it, he’d been told to lie low after a nasty inc
ident during a recent photo shoot in which he picked up the photographer’s state-of-the-art camera and threw it at his face.

  So, Tate Montgomery may have had an attitude problem. Who wouldn’t when your entire life was on display for the world to see?

  The tabloids liked to call it anger issues, and his agent had apparently strongly suggested he take a break from the limelight and seek ‘help’.

  Anger management.

  That was why he was here in the hills. And as long as he didn’t take out his anger issues on my house, I’d happily let him… and Rachel lease the property.

  “You said in your ad,” Tate’s gravelly voice sounded from behind me. I spun to face him and tried not to show how startled I was that he appeared out of nowhere while I was lost in thought. “The pool house was occupied?”

  “That’s right.” I folded my arms across my chest, before realizing that made me appear closed off, so I placed them on my hips. But that made me look too open, like I was showboating and wanting his attention on me. I snorted, unattractively. Like he’d give me any attention. I dropped my hands to my side.

  Tate’s eyebrow lifted, and he ran his hand across his jaw, scratching his strong, stubbly chin.

  “I like the house. I want the house, but with my…” He winced and bit his lip trying to find the words.

  “Anger problems?” I offered helpfully.

  His eyes narrowed and jaw clenched. Maybe that wasn’t what he was going to say. I pressed my lips together to stop myself from helping any further.

  “Need. For. Privacy,” he ground out through gritted teeth. Five minutes in the hills and he was already making progress; he was seething but trying to reign in his anger.

  I tilted my head to the side and smiled. “Of course, sorry.”

  “Would I get to meet the person who’ll be living in the pool house? I want to ensure they are…”

  “Not a crazy fan or something?”