THE LINEUP by Meghan Quinn
Release Date: December 5th
Genre: Contemporary Romance
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Want to know a secret?
It’s about that girl over there.
Don’t look, but she’s the one in the power suit—with the long, black hair and the serious expression, the one I’m about to go on a date with . . .
Yeah, according to her, she “accidentally” donated an obscene amount of money to my charity — The Lineup — to win said date but I found out the truth. Miss. Button Up Blouse has a secret, passionate crush on me.
I didn’t know her name until two days ago, despite the friends we have in common.
Was I oblivious? Probably.
Was I blind to it? Definitely.
But I’m no fool, I see it now. The High Heel Harlot wants more than just a date with Jason Orson, she wants to be able to claim the best butt in baseball as hers.
Here’s another secret . . . she has no idea I know.
Admittedly, at first, I didn’t quite know what to think about or how to feel about Dottie Domico. Someone that well put together who knows how to handle being a shark in a male-dominated world works well professionally, but it seems a bit difficult to turn off that overpowering personality in a personal setting. So, it took some time for me to see past her layers to her soft middle, but she definitely grew on me the further into the story I read, and in some ways, she was the perfect counter to Jason Orson’s over-the-top, in your face, hilarious personality. They put each other through their paces, ensuring that when things did come to a head in respects to their chemistry and undeniable feelings for each other that they knew exactly who each of them were and what it would take for this unique but worthwhile pairing to work .
To me, Dottie and Jason’s personalities are acquired tastes, not because they’re seemingly bad people or they don’t know how to interact in social settings; it’s more that they have such dominating traits to who they are that it’s difficult to go beyond what’s blatantly in everyone’s face and see their other genuinely pleasant personality traits. This may come off a bit harsh, but as I was reading The Lineup and listening to Dottie and Jason’s words and witnessing their actions, I realized that they are the type of people who others either accept for all that they are or take issue with because of how different they just might be to everyone else.
I really liked how Meghan Quinn set up the plot line of The Lineup…the fact that they were acquaintances and were in the same friends’ circle, but never truly connected, establishes a baseline for the hero and heroine, and she amps it up just a little bit more by having Dottie crushing on Jason back then and after bringing them together when Dottie’s over-the-top donation peeks Jason’s interest and offers them an opportunity to get to know one another on a much more personal basis.
It’s clear that Meghan Quinn has a vibrant and bubbly personality because those qualities are infused in her books, showcasing how life doesn’t have to always be so serious and that there are times and places where humor is exactly what’s needed. But even though comedy is a big part of Quinn’s books, she also delivers the perfect amount of angst, the torturous slow burn, and the swoon worthy moments that show just how multifaceted she is as a writer.
4 Poison Apples
It isn’t in my nature to cry over burnt ham, but here I am, tearing up like a jackass, because the meal I’ve been reluctantly slaving over for the past four hours is two shades away from charred dust.
I had it all planned out. The timing was right, the recipes perfected, the table decorated with impeccably folded napkins that impersonated angelic swans, and polished silver that I scrubbed for an hour until I could see my balls in the reflection. Nothing says polished silverware like a spoon that gives you a clear upside-down view of your gonads.
But even with countless hours of preparing this feast, naked as the day I was born with only an apron to cover my man-loins, I still ended up with a scorched ham doused in fire extinguisher agent because somehow, the damn thing caught on fire.
Imagine this, a grown-ass man—no, not just a grown-ass man, but a man at the fresh age of twenty-eight, built like a linebacker with buttocks you can bounce rocks off . . . thanks to squatting for a living—dancing around the kitchen on his twinkle toes, arms flailing with pink and white potholders attached to his hands, screaming like a banshee, as flames light up the Jenn-Air double oven where the brown sugar and pineapple ham resided.
Are you seeing it?
Add the imagery of said man naked, dick and balls harmoniously bouncing in panic while the apron his “girlfriend” got him that says Eat my food, Lick my dick, unravels in the fit to unleash the fire extinguisher.
That was me . . . a minute ago.
Frantic, screaming, and all in all losing any last shred of my man card I had left.
It’s why I’m currently weeping like a nitwit into the flaps of my apron, wondering where I went wrong.
If we’re going to be honest with each other—and I would like to establish honesty with you—I’ll admit, I’ve always leaned toward the sensitive side. You know, the cuddly grizzly bear. Big and intimidating but a fucking gooey butterball heart on the inside.
Tell me a love story. I’ll listen the crap out of it.
The Bachelor? Why yes, that’s one of my favorite shows.
Do I smile when sharing a candlelit dinner with myself, followed by a nice long soak in a bubble bath while Enya—the fucking goddess of all voices—plays in the background? I sure as shit do.
But if some ignorant asswipe gets in my face on the ball field, stirring up trouble, I’m the first to lay a fist across his jaw and the first to be thrown out of a game.
And I’m not even sorry about it.
People are arriving in an hour. I’m vulnerable as fuck with my bare ass resting against the cold white-oak floor of my girl’s apartment, while a lonely tear streams down my freshly shaven cheek. I have no main dish, and the apartment smells like burnt rabbit turd.
Why am I in this hopeless predicament?
Because of one person.
One single person who flipped my life upside down.
A bombshell in a suit, a ravenous sex-fiend in the sheets, a classy and sophisticated tight-ass in the boardroom. She’s a knockout who’s always on my mind. She’s the girl you do things for, that you never thought you’d ever do . . .
Like cook a fancy-as-fuck four-course meal for her and her business associates while practicing interesting conversational starters to ensure the night flows smoothly.
Back in college, I might have been referred to as the mother hen of the boys. I might have cooked at least two meals a week for the guys in the loft, and yeah, I was the ironing wizard, the one everyone turned to, to get out the most stubborn wrinkles. The title has carried on over the years, but my creativity in the kitchen has dwindled with the lack of time, my ironing is now done by my apartment keeper once a week, and the fresh flowers scattered around my place? They’re more dead now than alive.
My point—I’m not the lady of the house I used to be. But I’ve been getting back into the swing of it.
So when my girl asked me to perform the impossible feat of an intimate dinner for four, I should have ordered in, tossed everything in serving dishes, and called it a night.
But nooooooooo, I had to attempt to be a goddamn hero and try to cook everything myself.
And all for what?
For one girl?
No. Not just one girl. The girl who owns my balls, who has a grip so tight on them that if she asked me to bellow out my ABCs in soprano while swirling my finger around my belly button . . . I would.
Who is this girl that has brought me to the brink of boo-boo smush bear insanity and caused me to weep like a schoolgirl in the corner of the apartment?
There’s only one lady with more than enough ovaries to buckle the knees of the mighty Jason Orson.
The one and only Dorothy “Dottie” Domico.
About the Author
USA Today Bestselling Author, wife, adoptive mother, and peanut butter lover. Author of romantic comedies and contemporary romance, Meghan Quinn brings readers the perfect combination of heart, humor, and heat in every book.
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