Let's Talk About Sext

  Let’s Talk About Sext is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2019 by Evie Claire

  Excerpt from I Wanna Sext You Up by Evie Claire copyright © 2019 by Evie Claire

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from I Wanna Sext You Up by Evie Claire. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  Ebook ISBN 9780525621065

  Cover design: Caroline Johnson

  Cover photograph: PeopleImages/iStock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v5.4

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1: Brody

  Chapter 2: Phebe

  Chapter 3: Phebe

  Chapter 4: Brody

  Chapter 5: Phebe

  Chapter 6: Brody

  Phebe

  Chapter 7: Phebe

  Chapter 8: Brody

  Chapter 9: Phebe

  Chapter 10: Brody

  Chapter 11: Phebe

  Chapter 12: Phebe

  Chapter 13: Brody

  Chapter 14: Brody

  Chapter 15: Phebe

  Chapter 16: Phebe

  Chapter 17: Brody

  Chapter 18: Phebe

  Chapter 19: Brody

  Chapter 20: Phebe

  Chapter 21: Phebe

  Chapter 22: Brody

  Chapter 23: Phebe

  Chapter 24: Phebe

  Chapter 25: Brody

  Chapter 26: Phebe

  Chapter 27: Brody

  Chapter 28: Phebe

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Evie Claire

  About the Author

  Excerpt from I Wanna Sext You Up

  Chapter 1

  Brody

  “What. The. Hell?”

  A low feminine growl stopped Brody Cantrell cold. Rubber hose in hand, feet planted on cement, he felt his spine bristle against the verbal assault he assumed would follow such a warning. Slowly, his uncaffeinated brain chugged to life and his muscles tensed. Until now, he’d been alone on the early morning sidewalk, cleaning the bar front of spilled booze and cigarette butts. Carefully guiding the murky runoff into a nearby street drain specifically intended for such things.

  So really, what the hell? he thought to himself. The morning had been blissfully peaceful so far and he was perfectly within his right to clean the damn sidewalk in front of his building. Hose still in hand, he spun on his boot heel, ready to shoot a “What the fuck?” right back at the she-tiger who was apparently ready to pounce on him.

  Until she stopped him cold. Again.

  “Seriously?” Her next word was more of a mumble, uttered through gritted teeth. A horrible attempt at anger management, if Brody was reading her right. Standing in profile several yards away, she closed her eyes, gripped her phone tightly in one hand, and tossed the bags she held in her other onto the wet cement. “What. The. Fuck?” Each new word grew more pronounced than the last. When the woman opened her eyes and refocused on the phone held in white knuckles instead of him, Brody realized the assault wasn’t coming his way at all. Judging by the flex and release of her jaw muscle, that was a good thing. She was a tiger preparing to pounce and he wasn’t ready to be anybody’s prey. It was way too early for that.

  He had work to do. Other people’s problems weren’t his until they poured across his bar top like the liquor they sought to solve them. She might be on the sidewalk outside his bar, but she was clearly in no need of the liquid amnesia he sold. Nope, from the looks of her, she could handle her shit just fine.

  Back and forth. Back and forth. The methodic movement of the water hose helped ease Brody’s fight-or-flight response back to normal. The spray hit the sidewalk, sending a fine mist over his face. He wiped it on a shoulder and inhaled deeply out of habit. Homelessness, industrial hustle, and soured hops—the distinctively downtown Atlanta smells that filled his mornings. While some might find it offensive, it only settled Brody further. Familiarity always did.

  At the end of his block, the first rays of sunshine peeked around a cement monster of a building in licking flames of gold and pink. It would be noon before the sun was high enough in the sky to eclipse the headquarters of Burton Holiday Inc., a commercial real estate developer hell-bent on “gentrifying” Brody’s sleepy little corner of the city. The small building that housed The Twenty-One Guns Saloon was the last old man standing in the area. The only building that hadn’t been razed in the name of progress. Not that they hadn’t tried. Burton Holiday, it seemed, didn’t see merit in familiarity the way Brody did.

  Brody grabbed his coffee cup from the bar’s windowsill and took another sip as he continued to clean. Traffic was increasing, along with the number of people on the sidewalk. Best to get the job done before foot traffic got too heavy and he risked accidentally spraying down one of the conservative suits headed into the cubicle farm down the block.

  Or the woman who still lingered on the sidewalk, phone in hand, her state of rage growing and making her oblivious to his presence. She hadn’t looked his way. Not once. Like whatever she saw on her phone gave her tunnel vision. It made Brody wonder what could be awful enough to ruin such a perfect morning. It wasn’t even eight o’clock. The city was barely awake. Yet she was nearing meltdown mode. Anger like hers was that palpable.

  He was almost finished cleaning, almost ready to give the morning’s peace over to the city’s hustle when the woman stopped him cold. Again.

  “I don’t give a fuck, Josh. You promised—you signed a contract—you agreed to have the plans on my desk by close of business Friday. It’s Monday. I have a meeting with the Zoning Department tomorrow and nothing to show them but a fucking kindergarten sketch on a cocktail napkin. You tell me how the fuck you think that’s going to go over.”

  Brody’s head whipped in the direction of the one-sided conversation so quickly his neck muscles locked. The edge of his mouth twitched, unsure if he should be amused or disturbed. Taking her in more fully when she turned toward him, amusement won out and he tucked his body into the door alcove to watch the fireworks her reproach promised.

  It wasn’t unusual to hear harsh words on the sidewalks of Atlanta. But hearing that kind of sailor talk tinged with a woman’s distinctively southern drawl—a woman who obviously gave zero fucks about using such language in public, no less—was one of the more amusing things he’d heard lately. And he heard a lot across his bar top.

  She was a tiny thing with dangerous curve appeal. Blond hair flowing over her shoulders, a few strands blowing in a gentle morning breeze. Something he found oddly alluring, and she obviously found annoying, given the way she shoved it behind her ear with her free hand. Dressed in a well-tailored gray suit and heels as tall as the BHI building behind her, one he assumed she belonged in, Brody couldn’t help but stare. God,
she had nice legs, but given the sheer grit darkening her face, he was certain she was the absolute last woman in the world who would appreciate such a compliment. Because while she looked as sweet as peach iced tea, she carried herself in that distinct don’t-fuck-with-me manner big city women often do. A phone jammed to one ear, she punched a hand wildly in the air like it somehow eased the anger flowing through her.

  “No.” Her hand splayed into a stop sign and then perched on her hip. “I’m doing you the favor here. You’re the one who begged for a chance to play big-boy ball. I went out on a limb. I gave you that chance. And if you can’t meet a simple fucking deadline—one clearly spelled out in a goddamn contract—you should’ve never picked up that bat, buddy. You are not a proven commodity. I am. My projects always happen. On time…” It was at that point in the conversation that the woman’s head snapped over her shoulder like a bullwhip.

  Brody sank closer to the door, fearing he was about to be discovered. Holding his breath, he followed her gaze as it passed over him and landed instead on a young woman who had joined them on the sidewalk. One who juggled a diaper bag, a briefcase, and an infant in a car seat. Dressed in a suit as well, the young mother struggled to catch the handle on the back door of an SUV that had pulled to a stop several yards from where Brody stood. Had he not been so engrossed by the scene playing out before him he might have noticed the woman needing assistance.

  Before he could move to help her, the ballsy blonde strode over to the car and reached for the door. She held the phone to her shoulder, halfway muting the new interaction.

  What happened next made Brody take a step closer just to be certain he was seeing what he actually saw. As if some internal switch flipped inside her, she offered the young mother a smile as genuine as the sun breaking over the buildings and held the door open. Once she was sure the mother and child were handled, she took one step farther up the sidewalk and knocked gently on the front passenger window.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  It was soft, gentle almost, and the blonde cleared her throat to speak. A man sat in the driver’s seat. On a phone call himself. Once she had his attention, he merely raised his eyebrows in a question mark—didn’t even bother pausing his own call or rolling down the window. Her eyes flared. She looked incredulously from him to the woman and child that he presumably shared some sort of relationship with, and then back again. She gave an exaggerated shrug and waved an accusing hand in his direction, implying he was beyond ridiculous for such inattention. After all this, she fixed him with a shameful glare and mouthed one word—Really?

  Obviously, in her mind, helping a sister out took priority over phone calls. A sentiment the driver didn’t seem to share. Instead, the guy turned back to his call, looking out the other window to avoid the blonde’s dagger-eyed glare, which could have ripped holes right through him. The mother said her thank-you and slipped into the car.

  The blonde simply shook her head, mouthed another word—asshole if Brody’s lip-reading was up to par—and stepped back onto the sidewalk as the SUV pulled off.

  Again, a switch flipped, and she was right back in beast-mode.

  “One day, Josh. You’ve got one fucking day. If the plans aren’t on my desk in twenty-four hours, consider yourself in breach of contract and our attorneys will be in contact.” With that she ended the call, threw the phone in her bag, took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and started off down the street toward the Burton Holiday cement behemoth.

  Brody stood in The Twenty-One Guns doorway, hose in one hand, coffee in the other, frozen and half-hoping she did discover him. A full-on smile now twisted his lips, one encouraged by growing admiration for the woman. As he watched those beautiful legs of hers walk away, all Brody Cantrell could think was—Good god, what a fucking tiger.

  Chapter 2

  Phebe

  Phebe Stark had an uncanny ability to make the impossible happen. And she wasn’t about to let some else’s inability change that.

  “Maddie Jones, please.” Phebe smiled into the phone as she spoke. People could hear your attitude through the phone, and Phebe needed a miracle if she was going to salvage the day.

  “This is Maddie Jones. How may I help you?” A woman’s voice answered after the first ring. If anyone could help Phebe, it was Maddie, the chief zoning officer’s executive assistant.

  “Maddie, it’s Phebe Stark, how are you?”

  “Phebe, I’m good! I didn’t think I’d hear from you until tomorrow’s board meeting.”

  “That’s actually what I’m calling about.” Phebe allowed her smile to fall. She wasn’t a woman who typically used emotion to plead her case. Today, she needed the big guns. “My proposal to the board is scheduled for ten o’clock tomorrow morning, but I’m using a new engineer on this project. He’s not used to such a tight timeline and I cannot be one hundred percent certain that I will have my plans in hand. I would never want to disrespect anyone’s time by showing up unprepared. Is there any chance I can reschedule?”

  There was a pause. Some papers rustled on the other end of the line.

  “Oh, Phebe, I’m so sorry, we’re booked solid tomorrow and the board won’t meet again until next month.”

  Phebe groaned into the phone, a sinking feeling sliding down the length of her. “That won’t work, Maddie. Is there any chance I could switch with someone? Maybe for a spot later in the day? Anything really, my supervisor is already on me about this project. It’s taken so much longer than we had planned.”

  A long sigh. More shuffling papers. Phebe held her breath.

  “Phebe, I know the board has jerked you around over this rezoning. Tell you what. The board has an administrative meeting scheduled for Monday. If you’re here at seven-thirty, I can probably get you ten minutes.”

  “Next Monday?” Phebe half gasped, unable to believe her good fortune.

  “Yes.”

  “Maddie, you are a lifesaver!” She balled her fist excitedly, feeling hope swell in her chest for the first time all morning. “Is your son playing rec league baseball this summer?”

  “Of course. We’re at the ballpark every afternoon.” Maddie chuckled like proud mothers do.

  “I have Braves season tickets and my work schedule is so crazy that I’m not going to make any of the upcoming games. I would love for you guys to use them if you like?”

  “My son wouldn’t like it, he would love it. That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

  “No, thank you. I’ll bring them with me next Monday morning.”

  “We’ll see you then, Phebe.”

  With a smile that probably wouldn’t wipe off her face for the rest of the day, Phebe Stark hung up the phone and considered herself one lucky girl. She played big-boy ball in a grown man’s world. But what most men failed to understand was that female support staff were typically the ones who made things happen. Scheduling meetings, shuffling papers, answering phones. It was a secret sister society of sorts. One into which few men were granted access.

  Phebe pushed back against her padded office chair, swiveling away from the gleaming desktop as relief loosened her shoulders for the first time all morning. From her sleek office on the forty-first floor she could almost see the dilapidated block of buildings that would become her career cornerstone. She strode to the window and shielded her eyes against the warm morning sun, taking a closer look. Getting residential property rezoned for commercial use was an impossible task. Especially in downtown Atlanta, where urban revitalization was meeting some serious resistance lately—thanks to an antiquated sewage system that struggled to keep pace with growth.

  But Phebe wasn’t any ordinary project manager. She made the impossible possible, which is exactly why Burton Holiday’s global CEO had handpicked her for the job. And if she was reading between the lines correctly, once this deal closed, she’d be one ladder rung closer to the C-Suite she’d been working for her entire prof
essional life. Glass ceiling her ass.

  A rescheduled meeting was a small victory. Still, it was a moment worthy of savoring. Until it turned sour in her mouth.

  “Phebe?” From her office doorway a man’s voice clawed into her ears like nails on a chalkboard. “Did I just hear you say the Auburn Oaks Project plans aren’t in? Correct me if I’m wrong, but weren’t those due last week?” It was Steve, her supervisor, and overall bane of her professional existence.

  “Yes, you did. But no worries. I have it handled. I’m meeting with the zoning board next week and everything will be fine.”

  “Why is this taking so long? You should have had preliminary approval weeks ago.”

  “You know how the Zoning Department is. Always asking for a million tweaks before final approval. Especially with a project so large. They’ve asked for a more detailed explanation of how we intend to mitigate runoff. There are watershed concerns for a nearby stream.”

  “Sounds to me like you’re getting the run-around. Why was Emmett able to receive his zoning approved for a property not a quarter mile away?”

  “Emmett’s property was zoned for mixed used already, which only required an amendment. I’m trying to get residential rezoned to commercial and a portion of the property falls within the hundred-year flood plain for Peachtree Creek, which is a tributary for the Chattahoochee River which, as you know, supplies the entire city’s drinking water.” Phebe took a breath to allow him time to catch up. “It’s a bit more involved.” She tried to keep her cool. If Steve hadn’t already ridden her ass every step of the way, she might have done a better job of it. But seeing such smug arrogance roll down his nose and fall at her feet like she was being lazy, or incompetent, was about all she could take. Out of habit, her lower jaw started a slow, steady grind against her upper molars—the easiest way to ensure her mouth stayed shut.