#Spotlight on Rumor Has It by Jessica Lemmon

Rumor Has It 
(Real Love #4)
by Jessica Lemmon
Kindle Edition
Expected publication: May 15th 2018 by Loveswept
ASINB075HZ72RB

This is one bad boy who’s fit to print. A notorious jock tackles life—and love—after football with a type-A journalist in this sexy standalone from the author of Eye Candy.

Barrett: As a former pro football star, I’m used to playing the field. After injuries cut my NFL career short, my second act as a broadcaster ended on live television when a hot mic picked up a little verbal . . . indiscretion. But this latest publicity stunt might just land me back on top—much to the chagrin of Catarina Everhart, the prissy, beautiful journalist who’s been assigned to date a bad boy (i.e., me) and write about it. Catarina swears I’ll never touch her, let alone kiss those full lips of hers. Based on our chemistry, I’m not buying it. . . .

Catarina: Barrett Fox seems to be doing everything in his power to make me hate him. The cocky egomaniac is infamous for his bad behavior, and now, thanks to my boss’s harebrained schemes, he’s apparently my problem. As one fake date leads to another, I start to see a different side of Barrett. He’s close with his family. He does volunteer work. And, okay, he kisses like a dream. Am I really dating Barrett Fox? Or is he playing me? Because suddenly I’m risking my reputation—and my heart.

AMAZON | B&N 

Excerpt :

“Mind if I take this shit off before I go?” He gestures to his face, painted to resemble a fox. Thick white paint covers his eyebrows and slopes down his nose, ending in a black circle. The artist was very good, choosing colors that complement Barrett’s golden brown facial hair.

“You can’t scrub your face at home by yourself?” I ask, giving him a hard time.

“I can, but I bet you have makeup remover that would cut this job in half.” He arches a foxy eyebrow. “Plus, I can help you take off yours.”

He taps my nose—which is painted bright pink. Since I didn’t have whiskers of my own, my face painter drew them on. I’m a kitty cat. Of course.

“What’s it going to be? You taking him up or am I taking him home?” Our driver, a sixty-three-year-old retiree—he told us—asks with a kind smile. “He seems safe enough.”

“Well, you don’t know him.” But I smile at Barrett. “Come on up.”

“Am I waiting for him to come back down?” the driver asks.

My eyes clash with Barrett’s heated ones. It’s crystal clear what this date is leading to, and even if tonight doesn’t end up with us in bed we both know it’ll end up with us in a knot on my sofa.

“No need to wait,” I tell the driver.

The elevator ride is a quiet one. We press our backs to the wall. Look at our shoes. We do not reenact any of the elevator make-out scenes from any number of books I’ve read or movies I’ve watched.

Inside my apartment, I flip on some lights and toss my purse and keys on the kitchen table.

“Master bathroom is through here.” I lead, Barrett follows. When I flip the light on in the master, he stalks toward me in a way that’s as animal as his face paint.

“Will you do it?” he asks.

“Sure. Sit.” I point to the closed toilet lid and he obediently lowers himself onto it. I shove a brush, a bottle of lotion, and my curling iron into the vanity drawer. Luckily the rest of the bathroom is clean. I grab a pack of makeup remover towelettes and tug one from the packet. Holding his chin, I swipe one over his right eyebrow. “Photo evidence of this will definitely make the column. Mia loves to embarrass me.”

Barrett forked over his cellphone and asked our artists to snap photos of us. Later on he took a few himself, including one of me eating an ice-cream cone.

“I’m so full, I’m no longer buzzed. What a waste of a designated driver.” I’m talking to fill the tense air.

Barrett’s eyes are closed, his reddish-brown lashes shadowing his cheeks, his skin pink from my scrubbing. He looks like a boy, save for the prominent stubble and the masculine angle of his jaw. He’s damn gorgeous.

“All done.” My voice is tight with lust, the innocuous act of removing face paint nearly as sensual as removing clothing. I toss the used towelettes into the wastebasket. When his eyes open I fall into them like pools.

“Anything else?” I clear my throat, suddenly and strangely nervous.

“Your turn.” We trade places and he carefully swipes the paint from my cheeks, forehead, and chin, his eyebrows lowered in concentration. I enjoy the pampering, and the attention.

“Thanks, Fox.”

“You’re welcome, Kitty Cat.” He looks at my mouth with a longing I feel but doesn’t kiss me. I can tell he’s about to leave. I don’t want him to, but it’s the best idea for both of us . . . Isn’t it?

I don’t know anymore.

“I’m going to go,” he says, those four words as distancing as they sound.

“Can I drop you at home?”

“You’re already home, honey. I’m not making you go out.”

“Well, you shouldn’t go out, either. It’ll take too long to get a car,” I argue. Then desperately add, “Hey, we could brainstorm on what we’ll be writing this weekend.”

At that suggestion he grows visibly tired, his shoulders slumping. “No thanks.”

“Guess I’m the workaholic out of the two of us, huh?”

“Depends on what kind of work you’re talking about.” He offers a palm and helps me stand, then he leads me through the bedroom and (I’m guessing) to the front door.

With each footfall we grow closer and closer to him walking out. I’m racking my brain for an excuse to keep him here. The why doesn’t matter any longer. I’m not interested in whys, only my body’s needs.

“It’s our third date. Technically. If you count both golf dates as one,” I say.

He pauses mere feet from the exit and raises his eyebrows.

“How shall we write that it ended? With face paint removal?” I take a tentative step closer to him and then another. “Or a kiss goodnight?”

His eyes darken to navy, his pupils growing with interest.

His fingers feed into my hair, tearing down my ponytail and coming out with the elastic. He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he drops the band on the floor, lips hitching in interest and, I hope, in surrender.

He arranges my hair over my shoulders, leaving it in a big wavy mess around my face.

My beer buzz has long faded, but my head swims. I might be drunk on Barrett Fox.

“This would be a disaster, wouldn’t it?” I mentally fast-forward past the kiss, the sex, and to the morning after.

“A beautiful disaster,” he murmurs.

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About the Author:

A former job-hopper, Jessica Lemmon resides in Ohio with her husband and rescue dog. She holds a degree in graphic design currently gathering dust in an impressive frame. When she’s not writing about super-sexy heroes, she can be found cooking, drawing, drinking coffee (okay, wine), and eating potato chips. She firmly believes God gifts us with talents for a purpose, and with His help, you can create the life you want. http://www.jessicalemmon.com