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The smoking hot YJNTM third chapter
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I’m listening to Bad Love by RY X which is absolutely on the You’re Just Not My Type playlist. Smash that pink button to get it now so you can listen to it while you read this smoking, fiery third chapter of You’re Just Not My Type, Postmate.
I’m a little tired, a little wired and a whole lot of grateful for ALL THE FUCKING love you’ve given this book. Thank you! Thank you!
So, I’m dropping by to remind you that the 99c intro price of You’re Just Not My Type disappears in a little more than five hours. Get it now if you do not read on Kindle Unlimited.
KU peeps, y’all are awesome and continue reading on there from the links below :)
Tropes in YJNTM are grumpy/sunshine, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, secret cinnamon roll hero, only one bed, fake-ish dating, boss/employee, he falls first but doesn’t know it, NO third act breakup, and slow burn spice.
You’re Just Not My Type country-wise links are here:
Here are four reasons I, Niva, know Max is not for me no matter what my sweet delusional family thinks!
1. He pairs brown sweater vests with glasses like a nerdy engineer.
2. He likes boring dal rice. I'm obsessed with spicy tandoori chicken.
3. He is now (kind of) my boss at the gaming company where I work. And his first order of business? Fire the staff.
4. I actually maybe like this other guy I'm chatting with on the game boards 'for research' even though we've not met yet IRL.
Then I'm forced to work with Max to launch our new game. I begin to see the hot, sweet introvert under the joyless, uptight clothes. In a moment of weakness, I ask him to be my fake date at my frenemy's wedding.
And he agrees!
Between the launch, fake dating, and the tension simmering between us, I uncover his heartbreaking secrets.
But, this doesn't mean I'm falling for my nemesis. Okay?
Because, sorry Max, you're just not my type.
You're Just Not My Type is a feel-good standalone romantic comedy with delicious desi food, gamertalk, a well-meaning interfering family, and angsty MCs who are total opposites with a guaranteed happy ever after.
Chapter 3 - You’re Just Not My Type
“I’m going to kill you,” Mom muttered while she arranged the truly yummy varan (Maharashtrian-style lentil soup) in a copper bottom serving bowl in the kitchen. She gave me a withering look. “What possessed you to do this to your face while greeting that poor boy!”
She pointed at me with a shaking ladle. Her rage was uncontained by the poor utensil.
“I showed up for dinner, didn’t I? And it is self-care Sunday for me, Ma. You know that.” I shrugged and continued chopping the cilantro/coriander for the Indian-style salad – the raita – Mom was most famous for.
“Besides.” I tapped the drying French mud mask on my face. “This is ninety-dollar organic French mud. It’s supposed to be good for my pores.”
“You are doing this on purpose. Just to embarrass me and your dad. And I…”
I laid a calming hand on her wrist. “I wasn’t,” I lied through my teeth. Widening my eyes in earnest. It was a trick that had gotten me out of getting grounded during middle school. “Why would I do that, Ma? I know you want what’s best for me.”
Even if I know it’s not the best for me.
She shook her head. “Sometimes, I think you do these things just to see how far you can push me, Niva. And I don’t know…I blame myself for being so free and open with you. Maybe I should have done what Patel aunty did with Riddhi.”
“What Patel aunty did with Riddhi caused her to run away to Japan, get a buzz cut and live with a girl named Sakura to save the dolphins, Ma,” I shot back, stung.
There was only so much emotional blackmail I could take on self-care Sunday.
Mom pulled out the big guns. Mom tears. She sniffed delicately and wiped at her eyes with her thumb. “Fine. You’re right. I’m the one at fault here.”
I felt the guilt pit open up in my gut and the acid begin to churn out. Leaking and burning my insides. Fuck.
“God, you’re such a drama queen.” I kept the knife down. “I’ll go freshen up and become presentable.”
“And don’t forget to wear the kurti,” Ma called out, all bright eyes and brighter smiles.
Now it was my turn to glare at her. “Do not push it.”
She subsided meekly and went back to arranging the food in our best silverware.
I went back to my room on the upper floor, making sure to bypass the parlor where the ‘young man’ sat in horrified, awkward silence with my dad. Stuffing himself full of the yum food mom made so well.
I sketched the guy, Max’s face in my head while I washed the mask off my face.
He was tall-ish, maybe clearing six feet. He had facial growth, which I normally did not approve of. But maybe his stubble hid a weak chin and jaw under the lean cheeks. And he wore glasses. The Dumbledore ones – round, half-moons. Like an old-timey professor.
And what was up with that brown sweater with the white shirt collar tucked over the v-neck? Did this guy not watch internet fashion videos at all? Although his watch looked like an original Audemars Piguet, I couldn’t be sure. I’d not taken more than a quick peek at him.
My mom, bless her well-meaning heart, did not know what I wanted at all. Not from my life and certainly not with a guy.
“Who cares, Neevs?” I muttered, using my foam face wash to remove the last of the mud. “Just get the dinner over with. We have bigger problems to figure out.”
With the mud shenanigans, my rainbow-coordinated set was not fit for dinner company. So, I changed into more respectable boyfriend jeans and a comfy sweatshirt, zipped up to hide my boobs. And, after tying my stringy hair into a sloppy bun, I went back downstairs.
Determined to be the good daughter my parents kept hoping I’d be.
Conversation was stilted as I entered the parlor again. This time, making a detour to the kitchen to bring the salad platter out.
“Aah, Niva.” My father looked at me fondly. “Come here. Let me introduce you properly you to Jack’s son.”
“Uncle Jack?” I knew the story of how Jack Rose and my father had hit it off when they got lost on a tour bus to Amsterdam and backpacked through Europe together on two hundred euros, in their misspent youth.
Although it was hard to imagine my staid, Polo shirt and pressed shorts-wearing dad doing something so irresponsible as partaking magic mushrooms in Amsterdam!
“That’s so nice.” I aimed another smile at Jack Rose’s son with the dorky glasses.
He didn’t smile back. But extended one hand – the one with the platinum Piguet watch – and said quietly, “Hi, I’m Max. Cavil-Rose. Nice to meet you.”
I shook his hand, firm grip, dry palm. Points in his favor. “I’m Niva. And it’s nice to meet you too.”
Max took his hand back a second later. But held eye contact. He had black eyes, pitch black with no discernible iris. And long lashes.
I felt a tiny burn in my stomach. What the fuck?
I tucked my hand back to the salad platter and sailed on to the dining area with what I considered aplomb.
I had just finished placing the salad in the middle of the table where Mom indicated I should when she announced, “Dinner’s served. Max, please come.”
Max sauntered over to the dining room. I wasn’t wrong about his height. He was definitely above five-twelve, which put him about eight inches taller than me. But his shoulders were deceptively broad against the sweater-shirt combo.
And it didn’t matter, anyway, because I was not interested in Max Cavil-Rose. Not if my mom thought he was the right man for me.
Also, what the heck kind of name was Max Cavil-Rose, with the hyphenated middle? Pretentious much?
Max gave the spread an appreciative-apprehensive glance. Adjusted his glasses farther up his nose. “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble for me, aunty. I don’t know if I’ll be able to do justice to it all.”
I grudgingly gave props to him for not going the Mrs. Pandit route.
“Oh, it’s nothing.” My mom preened under his praise. “You’ve come home for the first time. I had to make it memorable. Besides.” Mom squeezed my elbow. “Niva helped. A lot.”
I had chopped the veggies for the salad and boiled the rice and cried over the freaking onions for the pakoras. But I was damned if this man thought I slaved over for a hot stove for him. Better to nip this idea in the bud right away.
I smiled sweetly. “Mom’s giving me way too much credit. I barely did anything. It’s self-care Sunday so I was…” I trailed off when Max turned his pitch-black gaze on me. “Self-caring.”
I will not blush even though that sounds dirty. I will not blush.
I looked down at the lacy crochet tablecloth Aajji, my grandma, had sent over from Mumbai a few years ago before arthritis had gnarled her hands. The swan pattern was gorgeous. And it swam in front of my eyes.
Dad laughed nervously, breaking the awkward pause. “My daughter is very modest. Did you know she won the regional debate championship back in high school?”
I could feel red creeping up my neck and over my cheeks. Why was my father encouraging my mom’s matchmaking crazy? Next thing I knew, Mom would jump in and ask me to wear the fucking ghungroos and dance for Max-I-Don’t-Smile Hyphenated Last Name. And I would be forced to do something even more drastic than smearing on French vanilla mud mask.
Max gave him a smile that was just short of polite. “That’s awesome. Good to know.”
I almost snickered in sympathy. My folks were a lot to handle on a good day. Considering they wanted Max for a son-in-law (our opinions be damned) they were laying it on pretty thick.
He looked like a hunted deer with the glasses. So, I took pity on his stiff shoulders and folded arms.
“Hey, Max.” I plonked on the seat next to him at the dining table. Smiled conspiratorially. “Why don’t you try the tandoori chicken? Mom’s marinade is to die for.”
I wasn’t lying about that. Whatever else her issues, my mom’s cooking was legendary. Especially when it came to yummy Mughlai.
Max blinked and then shook his head in slow motion. “No thanks, Niva. Actually.” He took the palaver of Maharashtrian-style lentil soup – the varan - and poured it on his empty plate.
“I’d love some of the daal rice, if you don’t mind.” He smiled blankly, rebuffing my olive, tandoor, branch.
Mom smiled sickly at him. “Niva thinks only boring people eat daal rice. Thank you for proving her wrong, Max.”
I straightened my chin and bit into the juicy chicken marinaded with the right amount of yogurt and spice. Resisted gnashing my teeth like a troll.
Nice job, Mom. Talking me down in front of the new guy.
Max poured more lentil soup on his generous serving of rice. “Nothing beats excellent, homecooked simple fare, you know.” He even sounded enthusiastic and life-like now.
“Sure. Yeah. You’re right,” I agreed mechanically.
Mom laughed. The woman laughed, delighted at my discomfort. “I never thought I’d see the day. Niva agreeing that bland daal rice is yummy.”
The whole table erupted with laughter at my expense. Even Max Cavil-Rose gave a toothsome smile as he wolfed down the food. But he kept his teeth by wisely keeping his mouth shut and focusing on his bland food.
The burn in my tummy, I attributed to the spicy chicken.
“Let’s get one thing straight mister,” I said ninety minutes later, following him to the grated lift. As soon as Mom urged Max to accept a Tupperware set full of leftovers as a farewell gift and he exited the apartment.
He held the Tupperware close to his chest, his laptop bag slung sideways on his chest. Straining against the sweater-vest combo, outlining his thighs in his pressed trousers.
“Before you do, can you press the L for lobby?”
I gritted my teeth at his polite, ice-like tone. It had been like this the whole torturous dinner.
Max was polite. He complimented mom’s cooking genuinely enough. Even talked baseball scores with my dad. And was polite to me.
No, Niva. I don’t need more raita.
Thanks, Niva. Yes, I don’t want the tandoori chicken.
Here’s the salt.
I would have stomped my feet if I wasn’t actively afraid of my mom’s reaction.
I had never met a less uninterested man in my life.
I mean, I wasn’t a troll (sorry if trolls are your thing) but the way Max pointedly shied away from me had me rethinking my appeal to the opposite sex. Even the opposite sex I actually did not want to appeal to.
God, I was losing it.
I stabbed the L button and shut the grated door. The lift started its slow descent, rattling in the cage as the gears whirred loudly.
“What was the one thing you wanted to get straight?”
We both looked straight at the curlicued iron grill.
“I don’t like you. This setup wasn’t approved by me.”
I gave him a disbelieving side-eye. “You can’t actually believe I’d dressed to impress.” I waved disparagingly at his outfit. “You know, you.”
His lips twitched, as if he wanted to laugh.
I hated that smirk. The man owning it. Entitled, privileged man with a pretentious last name. I didn’t know what he did but I bet it was something to do with making the world a worse place.
“I did not believe that at all. Not when I saw that shit on your face. Nice touch that, by the way. Way to scare off prospective suitors.” He sounded almost approving.
I turned on my toes at his condescending tone. Glared way up at him. I should have worn my six-inch thigh high boots. “First of all, I was in the middle of my self-care Sunday routine when Mom dropped the news that you were coming to dinner.” I ticked off my reasons with my fingers. “Secondly, if I knew you were…” I waved in his general direction again. “You. I’d have not come out of my room. Thirdly…”
“There is a third part to your rudeness?”
Max looked down at me.
He had owl-eyes behind the glasses. And the beard looked a lot more appealing than it had five minutes ago. Bringing out hints of tan in his skin. His lips were pillowy against all that facial hair. And he had a rather nice nose, all straight and unbroken.
I did the most shocking thing I could think of, then. Both to prove him wrong and to prove myself right.
That my lady parts were in working order.
I went on my toes and kissed him. Just straight up pressed my lips against his.
He took a sharp breath.
My stomach stuttered, as if the lift had slightly tilted off axis. His lips were pillowy but unresponsive. I mashed mine closer to his, aggressively getting in his space. I just couldn’t let this man think he was better off without me.
His hand, cupping the Tupperware containers protectively, shot up and into my bundle of hair. It was a large palm, cupping the back of my head. All authoritative and confident. His skin was warm, alien against mine.
But it didn’t feel wrong. FUCK.
He clutched me in place and my stomach swooped down. Straight to my toes.
His lips opened and his teeth scraped against my inner lips. Oh god. He kissed good.
The kiss was hot, perfect…
Over before it began.
His hand dropped from my hair, leaving it all loose and waving over my cheeks.
I dropped to my toes slowly, feeling gravity keep me in place, while I shook inside.
“Thirdly, as that kiss just demonstrated, we are completely incompatible with each other.” My voice, to my credit, was brisk. Emotionless.
Max cocked his head. “Incompatible?”
I nodded, triumphantly. “I don’t date polite icicles.” I scored a hit when his eyes widened behind the glasses. “Only bad boys who wear leather jackets and drive ridiculous excuses for sports cars. And,” I added with special spite. “Who like the same food as me.”
His hold tightened protectively on the leftover daal rice. “You smell of tandoori chicken. All garlicky and spicy,” he commented.
“So?” I jerked my chin up. My heart rate tripled in indignation; I was positive.
“Maybe if you didn’t, I wouldn’t be a polite icicle when I kiss you next.”
The lift stopped and Max opened the grille efficiently, one-handed. “Goodbye, Niva. It was…something.” He nodded at me in dismissal and strode out.
I stuck my head out the lift and yelled at his departing back. “There’s not going to be a next time, Max.”
He didn’t even turn around. Just kept on walking. The hand he’d used to touch me flexed once, as if I was abhorrent to him.
The ice-cold jerk!
I gnashed my teeth and smashed the button for the fifth floor.
My mother was never going to hear the end of this particular dinner disaster. Or set me up. Ever. Again.
And if my lips tingled from being in contact with Max’s beard, I swiftly dismissed the possibility of it ever happening again.
Writer Gal’s Writer Pal Present
Gwyn McNamee and Christy Anderson have a total freebie in store for you! It’s a royal romance (kind of like Renegade but without all the bloodshed, violence and angst!) fun and funny and all sorts of steamy. Check out Royally Complicated’s blurb and then smash that freebie button, mmkay?
Sex on the beach with a smoking hot stranger…
I blame the tequila.
And the way he rode the waves like he owned them.
And the delicious way the water trickled down over his washboard abs and the V thingy.
And the fact that I’m on the trip that was supposed to be my honeymoon until I caught the bastard cheating.
Yeah, I’m going to blame it on all that.
Because reckless behavior is so not usually me.
But surfer god Fyn is a breath of fresh air I so badly need.
A break from reality of the world around me.
One he seems to need, too.
It’s a single wild moment in my otherwise structured life that seems to be crumbling.
A perfect snapshot in time…
Until the royal guard shows up looking for him.
Turns out the king of the waves is actually a prince.
A real one next in line for the throne.
And I just banged him on the sand.
People say a one-night stand can be good for you, especially after a break-up.
I’m starting to question that advice.
Because finding my prince is only the beginning…
Things are about to get royally complicated.
Royally Complicated is a stand-alone royal romance with a bad boy prince and good girl commoner, forbidden love, opposites attract, intrigue, deception, and tons of steam that will leave you wanting your own prince from USA Today Bestselling Authors Gwyn McNamee and Christy Anderson.
Next up is S.C. Prinicipale’s hot and sweet Rumpeltstiltskin retelling. Which, I admit, has been a hot button hero for me. But SC had me reading monster tentacles so I am determined to give this one a shot! Check out My Name on your lips.
Jan Stilz has a curse on his family. It’s preventing him from hearing the sweetest sound in the world… his name on the lips of the woman he loves.
Jan has given up on love. It’s hard when a family curse identifies your one true love—and then won’t let you introduce yourself. Diana needs a place to hide, and cozy Pine Ridge seems perfect. Not only can she restart her life in safety, but she might even have a chance at a real future with a wonderful man who appreciates her.
When Diana learns that magic and mayhem lurk under the surface of this sleepy little town, will she turn her back on her mysterious suitor, or will she be brave enough to risk everything for love?
Enjoy this contemporary retelling of Rumplestilskin, complete with a twist of spice and a happily ever after!
That is all the news I have for you, Postmate. I am now going to sleep for a week. (Not really, but I would like to imagine I can :D)
Till next time,
Read on and shine everywhere