Ok, no… it does NOT. Factually speaking it's September 21, but for me, releasing my first new book in a long time feels like the end of summer, so I’m going with that.
Have you pre-ordered yet? If not, do it now! Get Never Date the Minister in 2 short weeks…
Accidental poisonings. Unexpected tidal waves. Jealous stepsisters. Brides caught cheating in the coatroom at the reception.
Just a typical day at work, when you’re a wedding protector.
And Nessa Martini, the newest and youngest member on staff, is doing her best to fix it all.
Starting with her own chaotic life.
A one-night stand with a hot bodybuilding social media influencer who turns out to be a minister is not Nessa’s idea of personal growth, no matter how much she enjoyed it.
She’s trying so hard to be mature, grounded, responsible, and to get ahead in her career working for Wedding Protectors, Inc., where they guarantee your perfect day – whatever it takes.
But when she ghosts on Mr. Perfect after one night of pleasure and he turns out not only to be the TikTok sensation known as “God’s Gift,” but is also the minister at the wedding she’s assigned to for work, all of Nessa’s careful plans go out the window.
She can’t date a man of the cloth.
Or can she?
Matt Draper knows he’s a study in contrasts. A bodybuilder who makes sweaty, shirtless weightlifting videos for millions of followers – and a minister? He didn’t pick the nickname “God’s Gift,” but he’s stuck with it now.
And he’s stuck on gorgeous Instagram influencer Nessa, too.
It may have been only one night, but it was a phenomenal night, and Matt wants more. Way more. When coincidence works in his favor and they meet at a wedding rehearsal, he takes his chance. She’s slow to warm, and so mysterious, yet social media perfect.
Too perfect.
For a guy who is all about depth and connection, can he break through her surface and find more?
Read Chapter One Right Here
Here’s a preview of Ch. 1:
Nessa
"Truffle," Nessa murmured, rousing a bit but not opening her eyes. "Good boy."
Her family's chocolate brown standard poodle was snuggled against her back, breathing steadily in her ear, one paw resting on her hip. She should probably get up and get ready for school, but she was so warm and cozy under the covers...
Behind her, Truffle stirred.
Wait a minute.
"I don't have any truffles," said a sleepy male voice behind her. "I could make mocha coffee, though."
Someone kissed her ear, and that definitely wasn't a poodle tongue.
Uh oh.
"Ah," she squeaked, "good morning."
Right–the fundraiser. Last night. Boston Animal Rescue Society–BARS. Black tie dinner and dancing, silent auction, handsome guy, really fun, great dancer. Even better kisser.
She turned her head the tiniest bit to peek over her shoulder.
Yep, that was him. Handsome guy, for sure.
"A good morning indeed," he replied. "Here you are in my bed, and all is right with the world."
It was a lot of enthusiasm for this hour of the morning. The paw–no, no, the hand–on her hip pulled her closer, and she felt the hard proof of his enthusiasm. He kissed her neck, slowly, lips lingering. Breathing in the delicious scent of his skin, she began to feel rather enthusiastic herself.
"I really have to get going," she whispered reluctantly. "I'm spending today in the library. I have a paper due on Tuesday."
Instantly, he was a foot away from her, no part of his body touching hers, the covers twisting away.
"You're in college?" he asked, voice now filled with consternation. "I thought–I was sure–last night, you said something about events management or–?"
"I'm just taking a class, that's all," she said quickly. "I'm not in college. I mean, I graduated. Four years ago! I'm… in social media."
"Social media? Like, you work for Meta?"
"No. I'm kind of like… a brand ambassador."
There was a brief, confused silence.
As cute as he was, and sweet, and obviously well-connected enough to have been invited to the fundraiser last night, the reality was that she didn't know this guy. One-night stands perhaps did not demonstrate the best judgment; she'd lucked out here. He seemed perfectly respectable, but there was no need to supply him with any personal information.
If she told him where she worked, he could show up at Wedding Protectors, the boutique wedding firm, a place where she was trying to create an impression of maturity and impeccable judgment.
And besides, it was true. She was in social media–in her spare time.
"You mean, you're an influencer?" He was sitting up now, his broad, muscled back to her as he pulled on pajama bottoms, and his tone was annoyingly amused. Did he not believe her? Or was being an influencer somehow beneath his standards–like, did he only date public defenders, or geneticists, or something?
And what did he do, that was so much more substantive than her?
As she opened her mouth to ask him exactly that, he stood up and turned to face her, and she got her first clear morning look at his body.
Now she was wide, wide awake.
Every single muscle, tendon, ligament, and sinew of his torso was developed, sharply delineated, and obviously rock solid. She'd dated some guys who were in exceptional shape–Bullseye had been a self-defense consultant and, like, a military hero, for Pete's sake–but she had never seen anything like this in real life. Maybe in those videos that pop up in your feed, but not in person.
Impressive didn't even begin to describe it.
Okay, then. What was his job? Patriots fullback? No, he'd have a bigger apartment. Personal trainer? If so, he took his job very, very seriously. Outdoor corporate retreat leader? Hmm.
Her eyes traveled up, slowly, to his face.
She already knew he was almost action-hero handsome, with ice blue eyes and faint dimples. The dimples made you want to say something clever, make him smile somehow, just so you could see them appear. His hair was thick, wavy, and sand-colored, not long and not short. But the thing was, he had a familiar look.
If I'd met him before, I would definitely remember, she told herself, but yet… oddly familiar. And no, it was not because this was love at first sight, a phenomenon in which she absolutely did not believe. Nessa was a very pragmatic person when it came to that.
"What about you? What do you do, when you're not sniping silent auction items away from innocent bidders who think it's safe to walk away from the bid sheet and get a cocktail?" she joked.
The dimples appeared–good. She sat up and looked around for her thong, and his smile did not disappear as he watched. In fact, it got broader.
"Are you sure you have to go? Let me make you some breakfast. You can't think on an empty stomach, and the library's probably not even open yet."
Note to self: he dodged the question.
"Probably not, but I have to go home and change first." With two fingers, she held up her dress from last night. There wasn't much to it. Over the course of the semester, she'd seen students in the library in every state of dress and undress, but she'd never seen anyone in the stacks wearing a bronze sequin slip dress and four-inch heels at ten in the morning.
Hesitating for a second, she considered the great Insta photo that might make–the dusty old books, the sparkly dress–but no. She needed the librarians to be her friends. She gave up looking for the tiny thong and pulled the dress over her head.
"Coffee, then,” he pressed. “I take coffee very seriously. Let me impress you with my skill."
"You already have," she said, and there were the dimples again. "But maybe you're good at other things, too. Sure, I'd love coffee. Black, please."
"Coming up," he answered, and disappeared.
The bedcovers were all over the place. Picking up a corner, she shook it until her thong appeared. It was La Perla, too pretty–and too expensive–to abandon. Now to find the bathroom, and fast. The only other door in the bedroom obviously led to a closet; the bathroom must be accessed from the hall.
His furnishings were modern and cool, but sparse: the bed, two bedside tables, a chest of drawers, a simple chair. Adjustable reading lamps. A huge map of the world hung on the wall; books were piled on the lower shelf of one side table. A quick glance at the spines showed her the names of writers she recognized but hadn't necessarily read, like Nietzsche and David Foster Wallace, and some she'd never heard of. Daniel Dennett? A Path Appears by Nicholas Kristof. Rest is Resistance by Tricia Hersey. Deep Work by Cal Newport.
They’d engaged in some deep work last night, for sure.
None of these books were what she expected, and she had the grace to be embarrassed at her own judging. A twelve pack was not an indication of taste in reading material, or the lack of it–was she secretly hoping for a pile of bodybuilder magazines?
Interesting, but it was time to go.
In the back of her mind, she began rehearsing possible exit lines, but pulled up short before she reached the door. His name was Matthew, right? Matt? She was pretty sure, but not one hundred percent–it definitely started with an M–but what if she had it wrong? If she said, for example, "Bye, Matt, let's get together soon," but it was actually Max/Malcolm/Milo, well, that was the very definition of cringe.
Some kind of confirmation was required, but she didn't have enough information to Google him, and even if she did, her phone was in her bag in the other room–at least, she hoped it was. An envelope addressed to him, or a note, that was what she needed, but opening his closet door would be crossing a line. Maybe the books held a clue? Even if he came in and caught her, studying someone's bookshelves was fair game.
Flipping through the top two volumes yielded nothing, though adrenaline made her heart race a bit as she worried about being caught.
Caught doing what? Checking out his reading taste?
Yet she hurried. The copy of Nietzsche, bottom of the pile, was clearly old and well-worn; she pulled it out. Bingo! Inside the front cover was a name, handwritten: Marcus Bell. Huh. She could have sworn his name was Matt. She'd been right about starting with M, anyway.
Letting out a sigh of relief, Nessa had two thoughts. First: Thank heavens I checked! And second: I am never, ever doing this again, no matter how handsome and charming he is.
In the kitchen, which wasn't hard to find since it was actually open to the living room, she found him slowly pouring a thin stream of hot water over coffee grounds. It smelled wonderful. She slid onto a barstool at the counter. Her dress was short and the metal was cold against her thighs.
"This is a honey-processed light roast from the Chelbessa washing station in Ethiopia," Marc told her. "You should taste floral notes and a kind of sparkling citrus acidity."
"Wow. Sounds like my perfume."
"Exactly what I thought." Having finished brewing the coffee, he stood in front of the open shelves with a perplexed look on his face.
"If I pour this into a mug," he mused out loud, "you'll stay here longer while you drink it, and it's really excellent coffee, so you might even have a second cup. Could buy me forty-five minutes of your company. But the other option is to give you a go-cup, because you seem like the kind of person who would return it, and then I'll get to see you again. It's too early in the day for this kind of dilemma. Any advice?"
It was impossible to deny this man's charm.
"Good judge of character! I am the kind of person who will return it. You're still taking a risk, though–will I bring it back in person or just leave it on your doorstep with a nice note tucked inside?"
"I told you, I make really good coffee. I can take that risk because you'll probably want a refill."
"You might be right about that," she said speculatively. "I just might want a refill."
Smiling, he slid the go-cup across the counter. "Absolutely any time."
Wrapping her palm around the silver cylinder, she took a cautious sip.
"The water is heated to two hundred degrees, optimum temperature," he said, watching her.
"Are you a barista?"
"No. Coffee nerd."
"Professionally?"
"No, I'm, uh, I work in the nonprofit sector. But I'll take that as a compliment."
"It was meant as one. Do you know every coffee farm in the world and what they produce?"
"Oh, heck, no! I read that on the card that came with the package."
Laughing, she looked at her watch and stood up. "Well…"
"I really wish you didn't have to go," he said seriously.
"I had a great time–" she said, "–Marc."
A quizzical look flashed across his face as he opened his mouth, about to say something, then seemed to stop himself. A look of recognition filled those handsome eyes. “Me, too."
Digging her phone out of her bag, she opened Contacts and pressed the plus symbol, then handed him the phone to add his information. Smiling, he did so. Once she had the phone back, she typed in his name: Marcus Bell.
“Now that we’re ‘Contact Official,’ when can I take you out on a real date?” he asked, hands going to her waist, strong and magnetic. She looked up at him, her palm against his chest, those mesmerizing eyes and his extraordinary body heat making her feel caged – in all the right ways.
“A date?” she squeaked.
“You know. That mating ritual where we consume food and drink together, talk, get to know each other. It’s so 1900s, but...” The one-shouldered shrug made her laugh.
“I — ” Before she could answer, he came in for a kiss, the kind that makes all your skin turn to fire, your blood racing, every nerve firing at once. She loved how he smelled, the scent of sweat and sex and coffee and something unique underneath, all of it heady and brutally messy.
She pulled back.
Messy was the last thing she needed in her life right now.
Starting a relationship – or even a situationship – with some rando she picked up at a fundraiser was going to make her mother’s eyebrows hit a Starlink satellite.
Plus, he was being evasive. What the hell did “I work in the nonprofit sector” even mean? If it was code for stone-cold broke, she didn’t care. If it was a way to obscure “I’m on parole and don’t want to explain myself,” then she needed to run away.
“Look, last night was great,” she began, but he let out a little groan, so faint she barely heard it. More like she felt it in her bones as he gave her space, the magic ending, though her lips still tingled from that kiss.
“Got it. You don’t need to say more. You’ll find me if you want more phenomenal... coffee.” The way he stared at her made the double entendre clear.
“Oh, your coffeemaking skills are stellar. Tops. Five stars, highly recommend.”
“But you’re happy with just one cup?”
Teetering on the brink of giving in, she paused, hating this kind of in-between. It rattled her. If the guy were a jerk, he’d have shooed her out long ago, before she could even buckle her heel strap. And yet, he wasn’t a Stage 4 clinger, begging to schedule dinner with his mother tomorrow night. Smooth and smart, grounded and hot as hell, he was just... nice.
The kind of guy Nessa hoped to settle down with one day, when she had better judgment in men.
“I like this cup very much. And if I want another cup, you’ll be the place where I come to get filled up to the brim.” She did a little involuntary Kegel at the words, then reached for the doorknob, because she was a split second away from getting filled again, all right.
Laughter filled the air behind her as she departed, her steps long and fast. If she didn’t leave quickly, she’d change her mind.
Out on the sidewalk, she called for an Uber and leaned against the warm bricks of his apartment building to wait. Her high-heeled shoes made her feel a little conspicuous in the bright morning light, but at least the sparkly sequins of her dress were hidden underneath her coat. Once home, she would wash her face, change into jeans, take two aspirins, and get back to her life.
Which meant calling her bestie, Liv.
Stat.
Five minutes later, she was on her way home in a silver Toyota Camry, her Uber driver listening to WERS 88.9 FM, Emerson College radio.
"Run!" Liv told her over the phone as Nessa told her all about her amazing sexfest.
"I hate running, you know that. Besides, I'm on my way to the library. I might go to hot yoga later, if I have time."
"No, I mean run as in, do not call, text, or friend this guy."
"Why not?" Nessa was astonished. "I mean, I have no real plans to, but why not?"
"First of all, 'I'm in the nonprofit sector' is code for 'I'm unemployed'–the person not making a profit is him. If you question him closely, it will turn out he volunteers for public radio two hours a month. Or he’s court-ordered to pick up trash by the highway for the next two years. The second clue is, nobody can have a twelve pack and a full-time job, there aren't enough hours in the day. I shouldn't have to tell you this, Nessa."
"No, I know, I get it. There's a lot I don't know about him, like… everything. But, Liv, he's handsome and charming and kind of funny. And he cares about animals and, uh, he reads serious books. And he's SO good in bed!"
"What kind of books?"
"Um, philosophy? And literature, and… I don't know, important writers. Physical print books, Liv!"
“You sure he doesn’t live with his grandma?”
"Not my Mame, she'd never have those books. She's more likely to read whatever Tina Brown recommends in the Times."
"And my grandma is more likely to have some Jonathan Kellerman mystery novels and a ton of romance novels. Her favorite is that Desiree Holt woman. She's in her eighties and writes romance!"
"Good for her," Nessa mused. "But his bookcase was definitely not full of grandma books.”
"Ness, we said we weren't going to do this anymore. No more one-night stands. We swore."
"It's not like I met him on the T, Olivia. It was a black tie fundraiser. Come on."
“Was he a waiter, Ness? Seriously? Or – please tell me you did not screw the DJ. No more DJs. Remember? Taylor Tomlinson makes fun of dating DJs in her comedy routines for a reason.”
“No. He wasn’t working. He was one of the attendees.”
“Whew! You had me clutching my heart for a moment.”
“Stop being so dramatic.”
“It comes with the territory. Being your friend and watching you pick guys is some form of moral injury.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s painful. Your taste in men causes me actual, physical pain.”
“So does the color palette for your living room, but you don’t see me saying anything.”
Liv gasped. “You never said a word.”
“Because I was taught not to be mean,” Nessa said primly.
The long silence on the phone ended as they both burst out laughing.
“Just be careful, Nessa. You’re making all these positive changes at work, and your online following is massive now. Don’t mess it up with Mr. Non-Profit.”
“I won’t. And I do want to point out, it could be worse.”
“Worse? Like what – a convicted murderer? An embezzler? A priest?”
Nessa shuddered as she giggled.
“A priest! You do come up with some nightmare scenarios, Liv.”
Suddenly, the Uber went under a bridge and she lost the call. Then she realized it had nothing to do with the bridge.
Her battery was dead.
Her backup power source was at home.
“Priest,” she whispered to herself as the Uber driver took the right turn toward her apartment building. “Pfft. Who’d be dumb enough to sleep with a priest?”
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The first chapter is amazing!!!
So looking forward to this book 😻