New co-author alert! Sarina Bowen and Sarah Mayberry have teamed up to write Temporary, and you can get a sneak peek with this exclusive excerpt!
About ‘Temporary’ by Sarina Bowen and Sarah Mayberry:
The most beautiful man I’ve ever seen is the one who can ruin everything…
The first time I lay eyes on Callan Walker, I know he’ll be trouble. With his smug grin, hot Aussie accent and thousand dollar shoes, he’s just the kind of rich guy who always gets what he wants.
And he wants two things: a night of sin, and my cooperation as he outmaneuvers his powerful mother to take control of his uncle’s estate.
I can’t afford either one. I’m the only thing standing between my little sister and the foster care system. He may have money and charm on his side, but I have something even more powerful — pure desperation. This temp job at his mother’s company can become a full time job for me. It has to.
But when Callan’s eyes rake over my body, sometimes I forget my obligations. His piercing gaze finds the fun, optimistic girl I used to be and not the tired person I’ve become.
And it works–if only for a moment. Our night together was a mistake. I can’t afford to get sucked into his high-powered family’s treachery. But the closer I get to Callan, the more layers I find beneath those expensive clothes. Though I can’t forget this is temporary. He’s temporary. I have too much to lose.
Too bad my foolish heart didn’t get the memo…
‘Temporary’ by Sarina Bowen and Sarah Mayberry exclusive excerpt:
I’d already been up for a couple of hours when Grace let herself into the apartment at quarter past eight the following morning. She pulled up short when she saw me.
“Hi,” she said belatedly, setting her bag and coat on the Le Corbusier sofa. “You’re early.”
“So are you,” I pointed out.
“I wanted to get a head start on things.”
She frowned and I knew she didn’t believe me, but was too polite—or, more likely, too worried about my status as a Walker—to call me on it.
“Coffee?” I asked. “I managed to work out how to tame Jack’s espresso machine.”
She was pulling a battered laptop out of her bag, but her head came up at my words.
“I don’t think we should be using your uncle’s things,” she said.
“His kitchen is part of the estate now.”
“So are the toilets. You planning on not going all day, too?”
“Trust me, my uncle would want us to be caffeinated.” I gave her an assessing once-over. She was wearing another sleek little suit again today, this one navy instead of black. Same shoes, though, and same neat updo. “Macchiato, right?”
Guessing what coffee people drink is my party trick, and I’m almost never wrong.
“Latte. One sugar, please,” she said. “If you absolutely insist on using the machine.”
I paused, surprised yet again where she was concerned. “Interesting.”
“A latte is a hedonist’s drink.”
“It’s just coffee with milk.” A wash of pink colored her cheeks.
I’d noticed yesterday that she blushed easily, especially when I flirted with her.
“If you just wanted the caffeine, you’d go for a macchiato or a long black. But a latte is about indulgence. Decadence.”
She made a rude noise, her cheeks very pink now. “It’s just because I’m too much of a wimp to have straight espresso.”
It was tempting to keep teasing her, especially because she responded so spectacularly, but I decided to have mercy and headed into the kitchen to make our coffees.
I was steaming the milk when she joined me. I could feel her watching as I tamped the grinds into the group handle and fitted it to the machine.
“Summer job when I was sixteen,” I said.
“You were wondering where I learned to make coffee. I worked at the cafe near home one summer.”
“Right.” One word, dry as dust.
“You don’t believe me? How’d you get so cynical so young?” I asked as I handed her coffee over.
“Practice. Lots of practice,” she said.
For the second time in two days, her sly humour made me bark out a laugh. She took a sip of her coffee, and I watched as her eyebrows went up with surprise.
I make good coffee. Life’s too short for the bad stuff.
“Three months, three hundred coffees a day, minimum,” I said. “Still got the scars to prove it.”
I offered her my left forearm, where a faded burn mark the size of a silver dollar marred the inside of my wrist, the result of a close encounter with the side of a volcanically hot group head.
A small crease formed between her eyebrows as she tried to work out why a trust-fund kid like me had taken a summer job.
“It’s a long story.”
“What’s the short version?” she asked, licking foam off her lips.
She wasn’t doing it deliberately—the gesture was too artless, too unconscious for that—but it drew my gaze to her mouth. Specifically, to her full bottom lip. Despite my determination to focus on the job at hand, I’d had several dirty thoughts about that lip since first meeting her. It fascinated me in a way I couldn’t explain.
“I wanted guitar lessons. My mother didn’t. So I worked for the money to pay for them.”
“So did you get your lessons?” she asked.
“Of course.” I gave her a cocky smile. I didn’t tell her I’d taken them behind Vicky’s back, and that when she’d found out she’d made me give my guitar away. It was far too early in the day for tales of family dysfunction.
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