Happy Tuesday all!
Excited to celebrate the paperback release for this wonderful romance filled with sizzle and laughter!đ„đ„đ„
About the Book
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âFun, sexy, and full of heartâŠHelena Hunting has done it again!â
âUSA Today bestselling author Melanie Harlow
 Shacking Up
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By New York Times Bestselling Author
Helena Hunting
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They say every cloud has a silver lining, but does that include missing your big acting break because of a bad cold? Maybe, if being actually sick turns into being lovesick. From New York Times bestselling author Helena Hunting, SHACKING UP (St. Martinâs Paperbacks, November 27, 2018, $7.99), is a hilarious, swoon-worthy novel about sex and the cityâand everything in between.
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Ruby Scott is months behind on rent and canât seem to land a steady job. She has one chance to turn things around with an important audition. But instead of getting her big break, Ruby gets sick as a dog and ends up with her tail between her legs. All thanks to a mysterious, gorgeous guy who kissed herâand then coughed on herâat a party the night before.
Rubyâs BFF might have found her the perfect job opportunity: pet-sitting in the lavish penthouse apartment belonging to hotel magnate Bancroft Mills. But when the newly-evicted Ruby meets her jet-setting employer, she realizes heâs the same guy who got her sick. Seeing his role in Rubyâs dilemma, Bane offers her a permanent job as his live-in pet sitter until she can get back on her feet . . . and maybe back into his arms?
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The New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of Pucked and I Flipping Love You, Helena Hunting lives on the outskirts of Toronto with her incredibly tolerant family and two moderately intolerant cats. She’s writes contemporary romanceranging from new adult angst to romantic sports comedy.
CHAPTER 3
SCREW YOU, AWESOME KISSER
RUBY
I eat an entire Listerine PocketPak on the subway ride home to kill any lingering germs in my mouth from Awesome Kisser. Iâm annoyed by the whole thing, but at least he apologized and seemed sincere about the acci- dental tongue invasion. Too bad the hotness of the mem- ory is marred by raging Brittany and the hack in the face.
After getting home, I rinse with mouthwash, down six vitamin C capsules and some anti-flu holistic stuff, and then I go ahead and make myself my customary before- bed, pre-audition nighttime drink of hot honey-lemon water, and pray Iâve done a good enough job of ridding myself of cough germs.
I climb into bed, note my sheets lack a fresh scent, question when I last washed them, then I set my alarm and close my eyes. Behind my lids appears the hottieâ whose name is apparently Banny, or maybe I misheard and itâs Danny. Itâs not really a hot guy name. Iâm going to stick with Awesome Kisser.
Now that Iâm past the shock-and-awe factor I can fully
26 H EL EN A HUN T IN G
appreciate that manâs hotness in the shouty caps sense of the word. Itâs unfortunate he dates vapid, self-absorbed model-y types and not starving artists. I have a feeling âdateâ isnât the appropriate word anyway. Itâs also unfor- tunate that he has poor coughing manners.
I consider that he was likely a guest at the engagement party and he very well may be a guest at the wedding as well. If Iâm still dateless by then he could make an ex- cellent potential dance partner, depending of course on how tight he is with Armstrong. If theyâre close friends I donât think itâs advisable to get involved in any semi- unclothed dancing outside of the wedding celebrations, no matter how hot he is. I donât want to run the risk of encountering him again should things not go as well as one hopes.
Eventually I stop fantasizing about whatâs under his suit and pass out.
Iâm about to find out exactly whatâs in Awesome Kiss- erâs designer pants when a repetitive, annoying sound dis- tracts me. I pause just before I smooth a hand over the amazingly prominent bulge while he tilts my head back, his soft lips brushing mine, his hot tongue sweeping . . .
The wisps of the dream fade and I crack a lid. The fantasy breaks with the obnoxious sunlight screaming its wake-up call, along with my stupid phone. Sometimes Iâm slutty in my dreams.
I reach for the phone, remembering that Amie prom- ised me a morning call, just in case I messed up my alarm, which has happened in the past. I was on the ball last night, though. I set three alarms, all within five min- utes of each other so I wouldnât have an opportunity to fall back asleep.
âRise and shine, Ruby! Iâm your wake-up call!â How
SH ACK I N G U P 27
she manages to sound so damn chipper at seven-thirty in the morning after her engagement party is beyond me.
A seal-like bark comes out when I attempt to grum- ble hello and tell her off for interrupting my dream.
âRuby? Are you there?â
I make a second attempt at speaking but all I manage is another bark.
âDo you have a bad connection? I told you not to go with the cheap provider. You know how terrible the re- ception is.â
I clear my throat and immediately regret it, as it feels like knives are traveling up my esophagus.
âRuby?â Amie asks again and then sighs. âIâm hang- ing up and trying again.â
Once the line goes dead I immediately hit the video call. Amie picks up right away. Sheâs wearing a white robe with her wavy hair pulled up into a ponytail, look- ing as fresh as baked bread out of the oven. I on the other hand, look like yesterdayâs garbage based on the small image in the corner of my phone.
âOh my God. Are you okay?â
I motion to my throat and shake my head. I give speak- ing another shot, just in case my inability to make more than random, audible sounds is a result of waking up. I usually donât have to use words until after my morning coffee. All I get is another one of those squeaky moans and more sharp pain in my throat.
Amie sucks in a gasp and slaps her hand over her mouth. âYou have no voice!â
I nod.
âHow are you going to audition?â
The final dregs of sleep slip away. I mouth oh God. A mime is the only part I can audition for with no voice, or one of the dancer roles with no lines. They donât make
28 H EL EN A HUN T IN G
nearly as much money as central, or even secondary character, rolesâwhich is what Iâm hoping to score. The pay scale for that is far higher than for a lineless role. It definitely wonât cover the basics, like rent and food, let alone the minimum payments on my credit card. Iâve been banking on this audition to get me out of the hole Iâve dug for myself over the past few weeks.
The phone conversation is pointless since Amie canât read lips and I canât respond. She tells me sheâs coming over. I try to tell her not to bother, but again, with the lack of words itâs impossible to convey. I wait until she hangs up and text her to tell her itâs not necessary. Besides, this thing I have is clearly contagious since I mustâve gotten it from Awesome Kisser, and I donât want to pass it on to her. Damn Awesome Kisserâruining the already ques- tionable state of my life.
I roll out of bed, the full-body ache hitting me with the movement. I must be dying. And Iâm not just being dramatic. Every cell in my body hurts. I drag myself to the kitchen and fill the kettle. Maybe a lemon-honey hot water toddy will help restore my voice. Based on my re- cent unlucky streak, I have my doubts.
I shuffle to the bathroom, turn on the shower, and root around in the medicine cabinet for some decent drugs. All I have is regular-strength Tylenol, so itâll have to do. I climb into the shower without checking the temperature firstâit takes forever to heat up and then fluctuates be- tween lukewarm and scalding. I step under the spray during a scalding phase and huddle in the corner until itâs bearable.
Iâd like to say the shower helps me feel better. It does not. The warm water also does little to help my voice. Although Iâm past just squeaking to barely audible one- word phrases, such as âow.â Iâm praying to the voice-
SH ACK I N G U P 29
miracle gods that the honey-lemon combo will further improve my ability to speak.
Once out of the shower I doctor up my water, adding extra lemon and honey. Not only do I burn the crap out of my tongue, it feels like serrated blades coated in acid sliding down my throat. Still, I get dressed in basic black tights and a black tank with a loose, gauzy gray shirt over top. I dry my hair and put on makeup in hopes that ap- pearing put together will make it so. I have to double up on powder when the effort to prepare my face causes me to sweat.
I take a second hot lemon-honey toddy with me on the subway and arrive for my audition half an hour early. Not that my promptness matters. Iâm still unable to speak above a whisper. My despair balloons like a marshmal- low in the microwave at the mass of people performing voice warm-up exercises around me.
I make an attempt to do the same, but the hoarse, croaklike sound is drowned out by the crystal clear voice of the perfectly gorgeous woman standing next to me. As I listen to the sound of a thousand soaring angels spew out of her mouth, I shiver with what I fear is the begin- ning of a fever. Sweat breaks out across the back of my neck and travels down my spine, along with a violent shiver. As if today could be any worse than it already is, my stomach does this weird, knotting thing.
âRuby Scott.â
I glance at the director, whoâs thankfully still looking fresh, and not beaten down by hundreds of craptastic au- ditions. Those are yet to come. I shoulder my bag and follow him to the theater.
âYouâre auditioning for the role of Emma today, cor- rect?â He doesnât give me a chance to confirm. âIâd like you to start with the song at the beginning of act two.â
30 H EL EN A HUN T IN G
âOkay,â I croak feebly, cringing at the raspy sound. At least I can speak, even if I sound like a prepubescent boy with his nuts caught in his zipper.
The director looks up from his clipboard, his frown an omen.
âI seem to have lost my voice.â He has to strain to hear me.
He heaves a frustrated sigh. âYou canât audition if you donât have a voice.â
âI didnât want to miss it. Maybe I could audition for a dancer part?â Fewer words are better.
He purses his lips. âAuditions for dancer roles arenât until later in the week.â
âI understand, but Iâm here and if you canât hear me sing, at least you could see me dance?â I fight the gag reflex as another wave of nausea hits me.
He sighs and relents, gesturing to the stage. I thank him, then drop my bag at the edge of the stage and get into first position. My brain is foggy and my body aches horribly, but I canât pass up this opportunity for a mod- est, yet steady income for a few months. I canât afford to rack up additional credit card debt, and I donât want to ask my father for more money, because that will make him aware of how much of a struggle this is. Then heâll make his case for me to come work for him, as is his mas- ter plan. I know I can do this.
The music cues up, and as I start to move my stom- ach does that rolling-heave thing again. There isnât any food in it, but all of a sudden the honey-lemon water I consumed this morning decides to stage a revolt. Iâm in the middle of a spinânot the best idea when nauseousâ and the next wave hits me; violent and unrelenting.
I attempt to keep my mouth closed, but the intensity of the spasm forces it open. I spray the stage with par-
SH ACK I N G U P 31
tially digested honey-lemon water, and what appears to be last nightâs shrimp tarts and mushroom canapĂ© appe- tizer dinnerâin an Exorcist-like dramatic flair.
And thus ends my audition.
For the price of a Subway sandwich you could read this book, it is quite fabulous! Beritâïžâš
From New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Kylie Scott comes a new story in her Stage Dive seriesâŠ
Kylie is a New York Times and USA Today best-selling author. She was voted Australian Romance Writer of the year, 2013 & 2014, by the Australian Romance Writerâs Association and her books have been translated into eleven different languages. She is a long time fan of romance, rock music, and B-grade horror films. Based in Queensland, Australia with her two children and husband, she reads, writes and never dithers around on the internet. You can learn more about Kylie from 
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