Title: Fluffy
Author: Julia Kent
Genre: Romantic Comedy/Contemporary Romance
Cover Design: Hang Le
Cover Design: Hang Le
Release Date: April 30, 2019
Blurb
An all-new STANDALONE from New York Times bestselling author Julia Kent
It all started with the wrong Help Wanted ad. Of course it did.
I’m a professional fluffer. It’s NOT what you think. I stage homes for a
living. Real estate agents love me, and my work stands on its own merits.
Sigh. Get your mind out of the gutter. Go ahead. Laugh. I’ll wait.
See? That’s the problem. My career has used the term “fluffer” for
decades. I didn’t even know there was a more… lascivious definition of the
term.
Until it was too late.
The ad for a “professional fluffer” on Craigslist seemed like divine
intervention. My last unemployment check was in the bank. I was desperate. Rent
was due. The ad said cash paid at the end of the day.
The perfect job!
Staging homes means showing your best angle. The same principle applies
in making a certain kind of movie. Turns out a “fluffer” doesn’t arrange
decorative pillows on a couch.
They arrange other soft, round-ish objects.
The job isn’t hard. Er, I mean, it is — it’s about being hard. Or, well…
helping other people to be hard.
Oh, man…
And that’s the other problem. A man. No, not one of the stars on the
movie set. Will Lotham – my high school crush. The owner of the house where
we’re filming. Illegally. In a vacation rental.
By the time the cops show up, what I thought was just a great house
staging gig turned into a nightmare involving pictures of me with a naked star,
Will rescuing me from an arrest, and a humiliating lesson in my own naivete.
My job turned out to be so much harder than I expected. But you know
what’s easier than I ever imagined?
Having all my dreams come true.
Pre-order Links
Excerpt
I watch a
blonde woman talk up Will like she wants to take him home and turn him into her
evening protein shake. She's wearing lululemon tights and Jimmy Choos, an
unusual combination that seems to indicate she's ready for anything.
Clap clap!
A man in a tight, black Lycra shirt, grey fitted slacks, and the most beautiful
Italian leather shoes I have ever seen glides like melting cheese on a raclette
into the center of the ballroom.
“Hello,
hello! My name is Philippe, and I am your instructor tonight. Welcome! Two more
minutes for refreshments, and then we DANCE!” The word DANCE comes out of his
mouth in capital letters.
Philippe
heads straight toward me, eyes meeting mine, his dark, wavy hair slicked off
his face with curls escaping at the nape of the neck, a perfectly manscaped
moustache adding to his rakish look.
“And you
are?” he asks, the words a demand to reveal my soul.
“Uh,
Mallory.”
“Uh,
Mallory, it is nice to meet you.”
“It’s just
Mallory.”
“Are you
Uh, Mallory, or Just Mallory?” he asks, mouth pursing with amusement.
I cannot
tell whether I like him or hate him.
“Mallory.”
Eyeing me
up and down, his expression changes to approval when he sees my shoes. “You
have come prepared.”
Will
chooses that exact moment to walk over, a lemonade in each hand, and offer me
one. I smile a thank you as Philippe watches us like he’s judging a couple on
So You Think You Can Dance.
“You are
here together?” he asks.
“OH, NO!” I
call out, as if it’s the word DANCE. “I’m waiting for my date.”
“Date?”
“First
date, actually. I don’t know what he looks like, but...”
“Was his
name David, by any chance?” Philippe asks, mouth twisted with disgust.
“Yes!”
“Corporate,”
he hisses. “Again!”
Will exchanges
a confused look with me, then takes a sip of his lemonade, choosing to stay out
of this. One hand goes to his hip as he politely looks away, drinking like it's
his job.
“Excuse
me?” I ask Philippe.
“Did you
meet him–this David–on an online dating service?”
“Yes.”
Philippe
takes my hand as if I’m a mourning widow at her beloved husband’s wake. “Then I
am sorry to inform you, Mallory, that David is not coming.”
“Why not?”
“Because
David is a salesman.”
“No, he’s
not! He’s a conversion consultant.”
Will’s
mouth tightens as if he knows something.
“Mallory,”
Philippe says sadly, “David works for the corporation that owns Bailargo. He is
one of their best salesmen.” Anger flashes in his eyes. “Because he toys with
women’s emotions and sets them up for this.”
“This?”
Gesturing
at me, he says, “This. You. The poor, lonely single woman looking for love on
apps.”
“HEY!”
“Watch,” he
says, clapping twice again. “Are any women here for a date with David? First
date?”
Two hands
go up.
“Oh, God,”
I mutter, my hands flying to cover my burning hot, deeply embarrassed face.
“What does this mean?”
“David has
developed a new technique. He goes to dating apps and pretends to be original,
asking women to have a first date at a dance lesson. He is charming and funny
and–”
A feral
sound comes out of my mouth.
“Sound
familiar?” Will asks, reaching up to run a hand through his hair, looking
really sympathetic on my behalf.
Which makes
me feel even stupider.
“And then
the women come here, there is no David, but some of them stay for class,”
Philippe finishes.
“You’re
telling me your corporate headquarters is hiring a guy who goes on dating sites
and convinces single women to come to a dance class with him, then ghosts on
them? On the chance that a certain percentage of us will sign up for dance
lessons and convert to paying customers?” My voice goes higher and higher,
until I start sounding like Mariah Carey the second everyone finishes
Thanksgiving dinner and it's time for her songs to start on the radio again.
“Yes.”
“That's
horrible!” I cry.
“That’s
ingenious,” Will says. My glare makes him add quickly, “And completely
unethical, of course. Some men are disgusting pigs.” His brow drops, eyes
troubled with vicarious empathy, but they move in patterns that tell me he's
processing this information and finds David's business acumen to be worthy of
note.
“If you
will excuse me, I need to find some tissues for those two women who are, like
you, expecting a date with the charming David. Since he started doing this four
months ago, sales have increased eleven percent, but my operating supplies have
gone up 286 percent with all the tissues!” Philippe glides across the floor and
approaches the two women, who are whispering and comparing phone screens.
Bet mine
makes us triplets.
Author Bio
&
No comments:
Post a Comment