One night stand romances and why we love them
Or, why Grey's Anatomy set the standard in Episode 1
I remember the first time I discovered Grey’s Anatomy. The show was brand new, in 2005, and I think I stumbled across the 5th or 6th episode. It’s hard to believe, but back then you had to search to get your hands on earlier episodes in a new series, or wait for reruns. Fortunately, Episode 1 came along via re-runs (remember those?) and I got to watch the whole season, then fell in love with Season 2, until… the finale (DENNY! NO!!!).
(Excuse me while I go get some ice water and tissues as my “LIZZIE CUT THE LVAD WIRE” limbic system trigger calms down).
Okay. I’m back.
Anyhow…. In Episode 1 of Grey’s Anatomy, we are treated to a very lovely shot of a man’s bare butt as the episode opens. Meredith Grey is about to start her internship as a physician, and she has a one night stand with a dude she picks up (or did he pick her up? Who knows…) in a bar.
If you’re groaning already, then congratulations! You’re a romance reader who understands trope. You win an unrelenting supply of professors who magically -bleep- their students by accident, bosses who shtup employees the night before their first day, step siblings who’ve never met until their sixty-something parents decide to get married and they stay in the same hotel before the rehearsal dinner where they have a brief encounter before discovering to their horror that they are practically Greg and Marcia Brady, and business interns who sleep with billionaires because we all know there are thousands of lovely, grumpy billionaires in need of people who only love them for their tormented soul.
Never their money.
Back to Meredith and Derek.
Hot Butt Dude turns out to be Meredith’s boss (or one of them…) at the hospital where she’s starting her internship. It’s an oops. A big oops.
Especially because Derek gave her multiple oops the night before. ;)
In romance, the “one night stand” trope is supposed to start with either the moment two people meet and insta-lust has them ramming it hard on a pool table in a bar or in an alley, or — more traditionally — with the Meredith approach.
You wake up to a stranger in your bed, only they’ve had their mouth between your legs for so long they need a chiropractor for their sexually-acquired TMJ.
Are they really a stranger at that point?
:)
I’m in the middle of my SECOND one night stand book, actually. I wrote one (coming soon!) and had so much fun I had to give this a try again.
Both open with the morning after, with completely different situations. In one, the guy is in the woman’s apartment and leaves while she’s in the shower. In the other, he’s more of a golden retriever type (you know, fun, happy, up for anything, long tongue…) and wants to make her breakfast and chat, but she’s embarrassed and runs away.
In both cases - SPOILER! - ok, not… the guy turns up shortly after in a role in her life that she didn’t see coming, and that leads to unintended consequences.
Hot, sweaty, unintended consequences.
I don’t know why it took me so long to write a one night stand book. Now that I have, I plan to write more, because they’re so deliciously awkward.
And if I love anything, it’s making my characters squirm.
Clark and I sat down and had a little talk about One Night Stands. Technically, our relationship started as one — but not really :P .
You be the judge after you listen to us (the audio quality is NOT professional, but that’s because we’re amateurs):
BOOK EXCERPT! All New Sneak Peek
Speaking of one night stands, here’s a promised look at a book you know nothing about. We’ll call it ONS#1. This is UNEDITED, copyright Julia Kent 2023, not for reproduction or copying.
Have fun reading:
UNTITLED ONE NIGHT STAND BOOK BY Julia Kent
Description:
Who accidentally has a one-night stand with her yoga instructor?
Yep. Me.
How did I accidentally sleep with someone, right? I know what you’re thinking. Whoops! I slipped and inadvertently inserted Tab A into Slot B.
That’s not quite how it went.
But my yoga instructor is really, really skilled with Tab A, if you know what I mean.
Slot B never had it so good.
What am I supposed to do now, as I walk into my yoga class and find the guy I ghosted on this morning… there, in front of the class, perfectly aligned and grinning at me like he remembers touching all my chakras.
He's perfect. Too perfect. He's so perfect he's ruining my job.
I'm an undercover reporter, working on spec for an article for a national magazine, and my job is to find all the ways this yoga chain is corrupt.
The only thing criminal here is that I can't have him in Slot B ever again. And I would. I'd turn myself into a paper doll book if that's what it took for more of that action.
I want him. He wants me. Nothing I do will make him back off, because the chemistry is off the charts.
Except for one pesky little thing:
We’re at cross purposes.
I need my expose to get the job of my dreams. He needs to sell his stake in the yoga chain before I expose the corrupt current owner.
That makes him my enemy. My nemesis. The guy I have to get around to get ahead.
And now we hate each other.
But who ever let that get in the way of love?
Chapter One
Sarah
It's 5:44 a.m. and there's a naked man in my bed.
His name is... um...
His name is...
He told me to call him...
Let's just call him by his initials.
N.M. for Naked Man.
Or for Never Mind.
Because in ten minutes, we're going to pretend this never happened.
Pretend I didn't go to a bar last night and have three glasses of Pinot Grigio, violating my strict two-glass limit.
Pretend I didn't let my friends talk me into jumping up on stage and singing “WAP,” complete with properly-choreographed dance moves.
Pretend I did not let N.M. here buy me a drink and kiss him like my tongue had developed magnets that sought out his iron tonsils.
And he most certainly did not kiss me back with a suave, athletic grace that made my body shimmer and my P, indeed, become deeply W.
Oh, no.
While technically, all of that did happen, and I invited him back to my apartment and we did the two-back nasty so many times I am pretty sure we need to invent a new prime number for it, in ten – now, nine – minutes, Mr. N.M. doesn't exist.
My life has firm boundaries.
Speaking of firm –
“Mmmm,” he groans, splayed hand searching for the spot next to him.
I shove Wufflepookie, my teddy bear, under his hand. For whatever reason, Mr. N.M. considers it a reasonable substitute for me.
I really need a good waxing, don't I?
Standing slowly, thighs aching in ways that make me want to never forget, but knowing I have to banish him from my life, I tiptoe into my own bathroom and stare in the mirror.
Sex hair? Yep.
Smeared mascara? Umm hmm.
Raw lips from being kissed out of my mind? Oh, yeah.
A quick look at my nether regions shows chafing marks and – oh, dear.
Is that a bite mark on my inner thigh? I shiver with delight, remembering where that tongue went after the love nip.
The wall clock in the bathroom tells me I have to be out the door in eight minutes. My yoga class starts promptly at six.
And I can't be late.
No, not because I'm a glutton for punishment, or a nama-type-A yoga freak.
It's because I'm on assignment.
Okay. Fine. I'm on spec. My goal is to sell this expose to a major magazine and have my breakout career moment.
My friend Adriana told her friend Merill who told her mother, Janice, that the man who founded Chakroga123, the hot chain of yoga studios that makes Peleton look like a Big Wheel, is a fraud. A liar, a cheat, a dictator, a sexist pig, and –
Well. That is enough to make any recent journalist-wannabee grad like me turn to a puddle of goo.
And grow a backbone of steel.
Prakash Shanti founded the chain, and Chakroga123 is as ubiquitous as Starbucks now, here in Boston. Can't spit without hitting one. There are three hundred locations across the East Coast now, and California, Oregon and Washington are next.
And now I need to get to my class.
First things first.
The shower stings as I jump in, but I can't go to Hot Yoga class smelling like Hot, well...
P.
And a two-minute shower will control my racing hormones. They're telling me to go crawl back into bed with Mr. Sculpted Ass, but if I do that, ghosting on him won't be as simple.
I like simple.
Writing about people for a living is complicated. My complexity cup is full. Hopefully, he gets the hint and leaves.
As I soap up my thigh, the bite mark taunts me.
Let him nibble a little more, some voice inside me whispers.
That's the voice that thwarts Pulitzers, though.
Bzzz.
My phone. I brought it in the bathroom with me, but it's buzzing under the towel. Shoving my hair into a messy bun will have to be enough. I jump out of the shower, towel off, and find myself clean and dressed in four minutes.
Not bad, Sarah. Not bad at all.
The phone beckons with a simple text from a guy whose name I don't recognize.
C.
Thanks for last night. You make Meghan Thee Stallion look like an amateur.
Hmmm. I don't know a C.
Block.
And the clock says I have one minute to get out of here.
Creaking the door open slowly, slowly I peek my head out and – whew.
He's gone.
We were on the same wavelength all along.
Ghost? Meet Ghostess.
The bed is neatly made, all my throw pillows retrieved from the floor, stacked neatly like Zen rocks. Perfectly balanced, carefully aligned.
It's very peaceful.
Graceful.
Beautiful.
Wufflepookie is at the top, looking like he's having the time of his life.
A pang of longing ripples through me, sentimental and yearning. The taste of Mr. Never Mind is still on my tongue, the imprint of his large, muscled hands on my body, the brush of his body hair against my belly a tactile reminder of last night.
You know what else is a reminder of last night?
The wine gong in my head.
Scritch scritch scritch.
I look over in the corner of my studio apartment to find Dumpling, my stray tabby, digging for treasure in the clean litter box. He's a tiny kitten, no more than three months old, named after what I was buying from the Chinese restaurant next door when I found him.
Wide eyes meet mine, then they narrow.
He's judging me.
“It's all the Pinot Grigio's fault,” I inform him with a finger wag as I push the espresso machine's button and hope it pumps out enough energy in time for me to swallow before class.
An image of the last thing I swallowed makes me blush.
Huh. Guess I had a protein-filled middle-of-the-night snack.
Bzzz.
How was he, you minx? Adriana texts me, adding emojis meant to convey sex, but there's a gray horse in there and unless she's gone over to some fetish I don't want to know about, I'm pretty sure she hasn't changed her disposable contacts this morning.
Why are you up so early? I reply, dodging the question.
Early? Haven't gone to bed yet. We're at The Agora having omelettes.
Yum, I type back. Stay there until my yoga class is done. Hold me a seat.
We're in line. The place is stuffed with gray hairs. Maybe we'll still be here in an hour. Check in. We need deets.
He put Tab A in Slot B, I reply.
Those aren't details!! Did Slot B enjoy it?
Slot B gives him a good review. If Slot B were on Yelp, he'd get four stars.
I look at the stacked pillows.
Make it four point five. I swig half the espresso shot.
Four and a half?? Five is marriage material!
I don't reply. Let Adriana sweat it out and wait for me. She's probably there with Luna, my other friend from J school, and Adriana's twin.
I'm the only one writing for a living now. Adriana works as a coordinator for a college internship program, and Luna, well...
Luna makes ASMR videos for a living. She's a TikTok sensation. You know who she is. The one with the tie-dyed Frenchie bulldog?
Yeah. That one.
Who knew a dog smacking its lips could make so much money for a fresh-out-of-school Zoomer?
Luna knows.
Because she's the only one of the three of us who paid off all her student loans.
“Bye,” I say to Dumpling, who is in her habitat and ignores me completely. Kittens are one step up from being electric wires covered in fur. She sprints under the heating register and cowers.
As I lock my door, it hits me:
Mr. Never Mind left without saying goodbye. Not even a note.
As with all things adult, I teeter for a moment, checking my reaction. Is it good he just... disappeared? Or should I be hurt? Outraged? Offended?
Wasn't I about to do the same to him?
Can we find a new word for the feeling you have when you're simultaneously relieved and taken aback?
How about Relieveaback?
Indignaphew?
Hmm. Let's work on that one.
I jog down the three sets of stairs to the outside door, bursting onto the sidewalk, my espresso drained within half a block, the tiny cup tucking easily into my workout bag. It's a misty morning, a little dewey, so not washing my hair is fine. It would be a frizzed mess regardless.
Chakroga123 has a steady stream of people going in and out, with classes offered every hour, on the hour, 24 hours a day. Prakash Shanti says everyone's inner organ rhythm must be honored with yoga at the right time for synchronization.
I think they just love to attract high achievers.
Given the steep cost for a monthly membership, I know I'm right.
The magazine I'm writing for only pays on acceptance, so I'm footing the bill for Chakroga123, hoping the combination of my payment for selling the story and my long-term increase in income from selling a high-profile expose will be worth the investment. Considering a month's membership is more than my student loan payment, this better pay off.
At least it’s a deductible business expense.
As I walk into the high-ceilinged, wood-lined yoga room, all warm tones designed to mimic a womb, I feel emboldened. Brazen. Bold.
Last night I had the best sex of my life.
This morning I have the worst headache in ages.
I'm about to blow open the story of the year.
All my work is about to pay off.
I have a lot riding on this idea of mine.
Nothing's going to stop me.
Chapter Two
Case
Nothing's going to stop me.
Staring out at the sea of faces and bodies, people finding spots to roll out their yoga mats, I'm filled with an impenetrable wall of confidence.
I've done it.
This is it.
Victory is mine.
Prakash may have founded Chakroga123, but I've perfected it. I bought this franchise three years ago. Put every ounce of time, energy, and mental space into this place and the three others I've opened in Boston. I've got a buyer ready to pay top dollar for it all, and after I sell, I get to pursue my next-level dream:
Nothing.
That's right – nothing.
I get to retire early. Live off my assets. Be my own man, manage my own time. Do whatever I want.
Parasail around the world? There's an idea.
Binge watch old 1970s television shows while eating gelato out of a gallon container for a year? If I want.
Grow my legally-allotted marijuana plants here in Massachusetts and get blitzed every day? I could.
That's the thing.
I can do anything I want. Anything.
In three weeks, once the sale goes through.
Being out of the rat race before thirty-five was my goal for years, and I'm achingly close.
Speaking of aches, my glutes are a little stiff from last night.
Thinking about last night makes other places a little stiff, too. Better watch that. No one needs to see wood on their yoga instructor.
The regular instructor, Maisie, is out on maternity leave, so I'm filling in for the next three weeks. She made it to thirty-six weeks with twins, but the laws of gravity apply to everyone equally, whether Maisie agrees or not.
One of the students walks past, wearing the same perfume as the woman I slept with last night. Sarah. You know the kind. Uptight, out with her looser friends, the quiet, bookish one in the corner of the big booth who looks like she'd rather be reading Austen than out sharing pitchers of Sangria.
But get that third drink in her, and a long, thick piece of fun she can grip in her hand and put up to her mouth, and she comes unglued.
Undone.
Unrecognizable.
I don't do one night stands.
But I did last night.
And if I keep thinking about Sarah, I'm going to look like a paper towel holder while doing child's pose on stage.
Something about the way she sang, hair in her face, cheeks pink with fun, her eyes shining and sharp, made me want her.
And the sex... oh, my.
Never underestimate the smart, quiet ones, They're always wild in bed.
Always.
Sneaking out of her place this morning was the right thing to do. Unbuttoned at night, she's the type to freak out in the morning, and who needs that kind of tension at the crack of dawn?
While she showered, I left. Cleaned the bed quickly, gave her a cute Zen pillow stack, and whistled my way down the three flights of stairs, jogging on over here.
I own the studio. Might as well shower here and keep everything nice and simple.
Campsite rule, right? Leave the place nicer than it was when you found it.
Hope I did the same between her legs.
Nah. I don't hope.
I know.
“Why do you have that weird porny smile on your face, Case?”
Rory, our studio assistant, nudges me with a yoga block as she walks by.
“Porny?”
“Like you got laid last night.”
Rory's known for being direct.
“Smiling makes my face porny?” I smile even bigger.
“Ew! Now you look like a serial killer.”
“A serial killer who got laid last night?” I ask, which makes her stick her tongue out at me and walk on by.
Rory is Prakash's niece and a pain in the ass, but she's a whiz at organization and inventory management.
And she knows how to brew lemongrass sun tea in a way that makes people pay $4 for a single glass, so she's good for profit margins.
Not that I'm going to care in three weeks.
The front-of-class students take their places, stretching and looking around, comparing and evaluating. Unlike other, more mellow yoga franchises, Chakroga123 is designed for type-A achievers. We have a leaderboard that tracks attendance. You get one free month's membership to give to a friend when you attend 60 days in a row.
See those six women in the front?
None of them has missed a day all year. Katrina – the salt-n-pepper hippy chick with the tie-dye Grateful Dead tank top – is the leader at 463 days in a row.
I half expect Ivy, the nineteen year old Instagram influencer next to her, to kneecap her in the parking lot so she can jump ahead.
Don't let anyone tell you yoga isn't cut-throat.
Katrina's going to nama-stay in first place if it kills her.
And Ivy's ready to kill her.
But notice how they're smiling at each other, chatting away about glutathione levels and heat yoga promoting ATP for energy? I hear Katrina mention something about salt cave sessions. Ivy retorts with red light therapy for cellulite.
But none of that matters as a new student enters the room.
Time stops.
She walks in, blue cylindrical carrying case slung over her shoulder, hair in a messy knot on top of her head, cheeks pink. Texting madly, she nearly bumps into John, an octogenarian Maisie warned me was a talker, with a bum knee that goes out whenever he moves too fast.
“Hey there. What's the rush?” he jokes with her. “You're here to relax.”
Polite laughter, genuine and guarded, comes out of her. Slipping the phone into her mat case, she takes a spot next to him, looking around the room.
Our eyes meet.
I press my palms together right at my throat.
I bow, never breaking eye contact.
And then I give her my best porny smile.
Because she's the reason I have one this morning.
—
Julia here: let me know if you want more. I often work on multiple projects at the same time, and will finish this one sooner if readers really want it. Comment below. ;)
A New Meli Raine Book? WHAT?
I publish romantic suspense under the pen name Meli Raine, in case you didn’t know.
And my eighteenth book came out in early 2019. Haven’t released one since.
“Hmmm, Julia/Meli,” you’re wondering. “Why so long?”
Well.
Get ready for a story.
It’s a simple one, though: I just couldn’t write anything too intense, sad, or violent. And while I think Meli Raine books aren’t particularly violent (lots of action off the page, sure…), when you think about my plots, they are extremely suspenseful and gripping.
From 2020-now, I needed more heartwarming and non-intense work. Hence my creation of Love You, Maine - where every day is Valentine’s Day. There are no serial killers in Love You. No international drug lords with armless/legless women fetishes. No corrupt senators with psychopathic wives using their daughters as pawns in a sick game. No double-crossing agents and no shadow governments.
In Love You, Maine, the biggest conflict is over the shade of red used on a business sign in downtown LOL.
This is not how life goes in a Meli Raine book. Hold on to your hats. Clutch your pearls.
Here we go.
Get ready for one of the most intense books I’ve ever written:
I’m stalking her for her own good.
She has no idea who she really is. Lied to since she was twelve, she's turning twenty-five in three weeks, and if I don't find her before her birthday, she may die.
Or worse – be harvested by men with needs.
Needs that involve her being fooled into thinking she faces a majestic, fairytale fate, when in reality – she’s about to be auctioned off to the highest bidder.
She is too beautiful, too spellbinding, too alluring to allow her remain in peril. I’m falling for her, fast, and that complicates everything.
This isn’t just an assignment anymore.
It’s fate.
Rich, powerful men will go to great lengths to buy whatever they want, and when three rival billionaire dynasties want her – and others like her – for their own sick purposes, it's my job to find her.
Save her.
Help her.
Then move on to find and save the next woman like her, before it's too late.
But there's one problem: she thinks I'm the bad guy.
And she might be right.
I Will Find You is the first book in USA Today bestselling author Meli Raine's new Bloodline romantic suspense series, a woman-in-peril psychological thriller story with an unreliable narrator, double-crosses galore, questionable bodyguards, a very public auction, scheming billionaires, shadow government agencies, a hero with a secret goal, and a heroine who is stronger than she thinks.
Featuring a world of corrupt networks where money talks and the dead tell no lies, the new Bloodline series will keep you in taut suspense on the edge of your seat.
But most of all, every twist and turn leaves you wondering who to trust.
Full disclosure: I Will Find You ends on a cliffhanger. Hang on for dear life.
Read all three books in this trilogy:
I Will Find You (Bloodline series, Book 1)
I Will Save You (Bloodline series, Book 2)
I Will Earn You (Bloodline series, Book 3)
Pre-order it on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Google Play, Apple Books, and Kobo.
Release day is June 13, 2023.
More Shopping Series Cover Fun!
Shopping for a Billionaire’s Fiancee is the next book in my big cover overhaul, and it’s been such a blast. It all starts with a long form I fill out for my cover designer, Qamber Designs.
Then we get the first sketch.
It’s always soooooo exciting to get these, because I am not visual. At all. I am the least visual person you know. My mind is filled with nothing but words. When I write, I “see” the characters like they’re in a movie, except I am in the movie, too. Like I’m on set, and one of them (except… not LOL).
It’s hard to explain. In some ways, it’s like I’m all-powerful, or even invisible, because I get to have them repeat something in a different way, move them from a couch to a bar, and generally re-imagine whatever first came into my mind, to make the story better.
Does that make me a voyeur? Hmmm….
And as we re-cover the Shopping series with these new illustrated covers, the artist is bringing Shannon and Declan to life in a completely different way. We take the initial sketch and make suggested changes.
The illustrator then colors in all the details, and the cover designer creates the first drafts of covers, typically with 3 to 4 color combinations.
So that sketch became this, which is the final version:
See the honking huge diamond on that ring? Given that Shannon swallows it by accident in the book… ouch.
And the print cover:
So much fun! So, so much fun.
All these new covers are slowly coming your way, so stay tuned.
Obligatory Walter No Picture
Because God made him cuter than me, so of course you want to see more pictures of him.
And no, that is not Jesus on the pillow. It’s Keanu Reeves. Walter has become so, so attached to that pillow that I am no longer the rightful owner. :(
Here’s a fun, short video of my doggo if you need more Walter in your life. He’s a 2 year old Havanese and a fabulous addition to our family. <3
Fun Stuff You Need To Know About
Some of this isn’t exactly “fun” but it is important LOL. I spend my days going down some super-eclectic rabbit holes. Some are deep dives, some are shallow. Have fun running around on the Internet with me!
Facebook Class Action Lawsuit: if you used Facebook between 2007 and 2022, you could get a small settlement. I’ve been on Facebook for years, so I filed my claim. FYI.
National Parks and Federal Lands Access Pass: people who are disabled (including children in your family) can get a lifetime FREE pass for all National Parks and Federal Lands! Details at the link.
Radio Paradise: Maybe you already know about Radio Paradise, but I didn't until today! It's an Internet radio channel, around for 22 years, and completely user supported. It's an "old style" radio channel, where DJs actually choose the music (most radio stations now are corporate run and controlled), and no ads of any kind. You donate what you want (and can listen for free even if you don’t donate).
I've been listening for a while and absolutely love hearing so much new-to-me music!
Loving One Night Stand so far. Looking forward to more chapters.
The One Night Stand book is awesome so far! Not surprised!! I think you could write a cereal ad and make it compelling.