Page 1 of Forked (Frenched 2)
“Frenched is perfectly paced, elegantly written, and deliciously sexy.”—M. Pierce, bestselling author of the Night Owl trilogy
“One of my favorite romances ever, Frenched has it all, from the sexy charming hero to the clever dialogue to the dreamy Parisian setting. And it has the most delicious treat of all—sweet, scorching, passionate, toe-curling, fan-me-with-palm-fronds sexy scenes.” —NYT and USA Today Bestselling Author Lauren Blakely
“Frenched was a fun, sexy romantic escape!! I read it in one sitting this afternoon and it was just a wonderful little getaway to a beautiful city with loveable characters, steamy hot sex and a whirlwind romance!!”—Aestas Book Blog
“Frenched is FLAWLESS. I can be extremely nitpicky, and there isn’t one single thing I would change about this book. Nothing. It was expertly written, with the perfect level of humor, charm, romance, whit, and heat (my God, the HEAT)!”—Kyleigh Jane, Smut Book Club
“I love Melanie’s writing...everything about it. It’s light and has a great flow, her tone is spot on for me and has this fantastic blend of happy, fun, and flirty with emotional, powerful, and sexy.”—Lisa, True Story Book Blog
A heart which has loved as mine cannot soon be indifferent.
We fluctuate long between love and hatred before we can arrive at tranquility, and we always flatter ourselves with some forlorn hope that we shall not be utterly forgotten.
Heloise d’Argenteuil
This moment called for some whiskey.
I pulled out the bottle of Two James Grass Widow Bourbon I kept stashed in my bottom desk drawer and poured myself two fingers. It was only three o’clock, but it was Friday and I had no clients coming in this afternoon, so I took a sip for courage and crunched the numbers.
Sixty-two thousand dollars. That’s what I needed if I wanted to put twenty percent down on the house and get a mortgage payment I had a prayer of making. Fuck. I took another sip.
Thirty-one thousand dollars.
That’s what I needed if I wanted to put ten percent down and struggle each month. Goodbye lattes, La Mer, and Laphroaig.
Then there were closing costs, bank fees, taxes, and moving expenses. Plus the arm, leg, breast, eyeball, elbow, and ass cheek it was going to cost me to renovate the hundred-year-old place.
I took a third glug of bourbon and propped my forehead in one hand.
Twenty bucks.
That’s what I needed to buy a hammer at Sears and pound my head in, which was going to happen if I didn’t get out of my parents’ house soon. I’d moved back home eight months ago to save some money for a down payment, but living with your parents and Lebanese grandmother at age twenty-eight is a special kind of torture. They were perfectly nice people, but they had an opinion about everything, from my wardrobe to my hair color to my love life, and they weren’t shy about sharing it.
That skirt length isn’t really right for you, is it?
Why is your hair blue at the bottom? Was there an accident at the salon?
Don’t worry, habibi. Plenty of girls don’t get married. In my day we call them old maids, but I bet there is nicer name now.
I cracked open the whiskey a little early that day too.
Tucking one side of my bottom lip between my teeth, I checked my savings account balance. The crazy thing was this flutter of hope I had in my belly, as if maybe it had grown overnight on its own, magic beanstalk style.
Nope—less than fifteen grand.
I released the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, my shoulders slumping in defeat. There was no way I could afford this house. And yet there was no way I could let go of the idea of living there, either. It was my house, dammit. I knew it the moment I walked in, even if it did smell like cat pee circa the Kennedy administration.
