Texting With the Enemy

Release Date: April 16, 2021

“I was giggling and laughing so hard that I was glad I didn’t drink or have to pee beforehand…” Goodreads Review

 
BLURB

She’s texting him her heart. But she’s got the wrong number….

When Isabel “El” Watson applied for a sales job with her company, she had no idea a jelly donut would explode on her blouse, or that her grumpy boss would practically laugh her out of the interview. Accountants could be salespeople, she was sure of it, even if that jerkface didn’t think so. 

So when a lady at the local wine festival offers her a sales job on the spot at a new boutique winery, El jumps at the chance. She also jumps at the chance to text with the guy who danced with her at the festival. Life was finally looking up.

Boston’s friend, Chad, never should have given Boston’s number to the girl at the wine festival as a joke, but the damage was done. When El sends Boston a text later that night, believing he is Chad, he’s too nice to hurt her feelings by telling her the truth. But there are a few other truths Boston might have thought about: 

Truth #1: He’s her boss

Truth #2: She just accepted a job at his mother’s new winery

Truth #3: He’s always had a crush on her

Even though Boston is no longer El’s grumpy boss, they still work together at his mom’s winery. And while sparks are flying as they get to know each other for real, El’s kind of sweet on the guy who always seems to know just what to say via text too. 

Obviously, things will come to a head. 

Will Boston come clean about the flirty texts being from him? Or will El figure out on her own that she’s been Texting With the Enemy?

GOODREADS LINK: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/57539231-texting-with-the-enemy

EXCERPT

“Now let’s run through a mock tasting. Pretend I’m a customer who just walked in.” Boston strode toward the front door of the tasting room. 

That sounded like an awful idea, but I couldn’t help how my gaze ate up the way he filled out those suit pants to perfection. Had he been a soccer player in another life? Maybe a weightlifter? A cyclist? Not sure that kind of leg muscle came from sitting behind a desk all day.

Boston walked toward me with an actual smile on his face and I lost my train of thought, not that the leg muscle thought train had been a good one in the first place. Boston had never smiled like that at me before. I didn’t even know his face could do that. It was disconcerting how much it made my insides feel like a scoop of ice cream on a hot sunny day.

“Nope. That won’t work. You have to smile at the customer, El.” Boston clapped his hands and made me jump.

I guessed it also made me inhale sharply because the next thing I knew, one of the buttons on my polo decided enough was enough and shot straight toward Boston, pinging him on the chest before falling to the floor.

“Oh!” I gasped, one hand going to the gaping hole on my shirt, the other covering my gaping mouth.

Boston made a noise that sounded an awful lot like he was being strangled. He bent down and picked up the button, putting it on the counter and looking away. “Maybe you should just unbutton it and put that last button out of its misery.”

My face flamed a thousand degrees. I looked down to see the remaining button sweating bullets. I took pity on it and unbuttoned it, which saved the button from popping off, but gave a wider expanse of cleavage than I preferred in a work setting. In a stroke of genius, I remembered a tool that would save the day. Spinning around, I took the clip off the cute bulletin board behind me that housed all the laminated wine menus, clamping it onto my shirt instead. A little bulky with a clip holding my polo shirt together, but it would do in a pinch.

“Hi and welcome to The Cunning Ham!” I said brightly, ready to get back into the role play. Probably came off a little too brightly, but I had a wardrobe malfunction to overcome.

Boston inhaled through his nose sharply, scrubbing a hand over his face again before turning back to the bar. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here with me, the hot mess he’d told me I was when I interviewed with him previously.

“What kind of wines do you have here?”

My hands shook, but I was able to slide a plastic menu toward him. “We have quite a few. You look like a red wine kind of guy to me. Am I right?”

A hint of a smile appeared around his mouth and I mentally high-fived myself for keeping my cool. “I am, yes.”

“Great. Our cabernet has a base of blackcurrant, oh-so-subtle licorice, and a hint of blueberry.” I grabbed a glass and poured what I thought was the right amount for a tasting. I slid the glass over to Boston, who swirled it around before sniffing and tasting.

“Not bad. I think there’s some cherry in there too.”

Belatedly, I remembered he told me that. That had been right around the time I was debating if the flecks in his eyes were brown or golden.

“You have a good nose for this,” I murmured, quickly picking myself up and moving on. “How about trying a lighter-bodied red? This is our pinot noir.”

I poured another glass and slid it toward Boston. I must have hit a knot in the wood because the glass snagged and tipped in the blink of an eye. The red wine splashed out of the glass and onto Boston, hitting basically the same spot on his chest the button had. The glass rolled but didn’t shatter. I gasped in horror while Boston jumped back a split second too late.

He stood there staring down at his ruined shirt, his chest rising and falling like a bull before it charged. I was frozen to the spot, ready to be fired for the second time that night. The blood red wine dripped to the floor, making a mess at his feet. When he lifted his head and met my stare, I felt horrible at the anger I saw there. It was tinged with what I could have sworn was exhaustion. An odd mix considering the guy was CEO of a wine distribution in an up-and-coming area of Napa County. How bad could things be as a rich business owner?

He pushed out a big sigh, leaving only the exhaustion. His shoulders dropped and I burst into action a few seconds too late, grabbing the towel and coming around the bar. I swiped at his shirt, finding solid muscles behind the soaked cotton.

“Here. Let me help,” I gushed. “I’m so sorry. The glass just slipped. The wood is very knotty. Or naughty, depending how you look at it, really. I’ve heard a little hydrogen peroxide will take the stain right out. Or I can buy you a new one. No problem.” I kept pawing at him, managing only to widen the stain and bring back the anger on Boston’s face.

“El!” He grabbed my hands, stilling my manic movements. “It’s fine. Let’s just start over. You have to get this right for this weekend.”

I looked into his eyes, realizing we were mere inches apart and my hands were all over his torso. We were so close the clip on my shirt was poking him in the chest every time I inhaled. I took a quick step back and hoped my cheeks weren’t as red as they felt. I dropped the towel and my gaze, trying to clean the wine off the floor instead. The floor didn’t have distracting muscles. Boston stepped back too, his fancy dress shoes not quite out of my line of sight. His dress shirt hit the floor in a heap and I nearly wrenched my neck looking up so quickly.

Boston stood there in dress pants and no shirt. Thank goodness I’d already lost my buttons earlier, because my lungs required a full inhale to keep me from passing out. Boston Cunningham, my old boss but kind of my new boss, was exquisite. Shoulder muscles blended into pectoral peaks, sitting atop a full plate of abs that shouldn’t have been possible under all those suits I’d seen him in the last few years.

“Whoa,” I whispered, instantly regretting not saying that just in my head.

AUTHOR BIOS
 
Marika Ray is a USA Today Bestselling author of RomComs, spending her time behind a computer crafting stories, walking the beaches of southern California, and making healthy food for her kids and husband whether they like it or not. Prior to writing novels, Marika held various jobs in the finance industry, with private start-up companies, and then in health & fitness. Cats may have nine lives, but Marika believes everyone should have nine careers to keep things spicy.

Delancey Stewart is a USA Today Bestselling author. My contemporary romances run the gamut of settings and setups, but they always deliver humor, heart and heat. It’s a guarantee.

I write from my home in Denver, CO, where I manage a household full of boys and men. Okay, only one man. The hubs. But two boys. I mean, three if you count the hubs. (You see why I do words and not numbers. I was told there’d be no math in this bio. Someone lied.) I grew up in California and have had more jobs than anyone on earth (personal trainer, pharmaceutical rep, copywriter, tech writer, marketing director, wine seller, elementary school teacher… I’m not kidding. The list. It goes on.) But the one I love the most is writing, in part because I get to meet people who love books and stories as much as I do!

 
 
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