The Fling Thing

By Maggie Le Page

When it comes to love, Becky Jordan’s had some spectacular disasters, but all those Mr Wrongs haven’t put her off. One day she’ll find Mr Right. She just needs to be more . . . selective.

For example, she’d never get involved with Mickey Madden. He’s cute, and funny, and knows how to warm a girl’s . . . ahem. But he’s a workmate, and all their flirty sex-talk is just talk.

So when that talk whoopsies into something rather more active, Becky’s left confused. Is this as real as it feels, or is Mickey just another disaster in disguise?

Warning: contains one sexy Santa suit, one cheeky Rudolph, and plenty of heat in the middle.

(This book is intended for readers aged 18+.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maggie Le Page
• Release date: Dec 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9780473345877

Maggie Le Page

Maggie Le Page lives in Christchurch, New Zealand (aka QuakeZone) with her partner, two children, and a snooty cat who thinks they're all her slaves. Her days are spent running around after kids or doing one of her 'real' jobs, so her writing generally happens in the dead of night. (Morning? Ha! She's a third-generation night owl. Enough said.) Maggie loves chocolate, hates being cold, and is ever fascinated by the possibility of time travel. Obviously, her ideal experience would be to wake up on a tropical island eighty years into the future, with an endless supply of chocolate on hand. There's nothing Maggie loves more than a good chat (except perhaps a good chat and chocolate--see the theme here?). So don't be shy--get in touch! You can find her on Facebook http://www.facebook.com/MaggieLePage and Twitter http://www.twitter.com/MaggieLePageNZ, or visit her website http://www.maggielepage.com.

Book preview

THE FLING THING

By

Maggie Le Page

When it comes to love, Becky Jansen’s had some spectacular disasters, but all those Mr Wrongs haven’t put her off. One day she’ll find Mr Right. She just needs to be more . . . selective.

For example, she’d never get involved with Mickey Madden. He’s cute, and funny, and knows how to warm a girl’s . . . ahem. But he’s a workmate, and all their flirty sex-talk is just talk.

So when that talk whoopsies into something rather more active, Becky’s left confused. Is this as real as it feels, or is Mickey just another disaster in disguise?

(Warning: contains one sexy Santa suit, one cheeky Rudolph, and plenty of heat in the middle.)

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For Master Eleven and Miss Six

For your smiles, your hugs, your jokes, your energy—

All that special stuff that makes you both You.

Without you, it’s true, my days would be ordered, my nights uninterrupted,

my house tidy(ish), and my writing fast . . .

But none of that matters.

Because I have you.

And that makes me absolutely the luckiest person alive.

(PS And if I catch either of you reading any of my books in the next two decades – you’re toast! In the most loving way, of course.)

Chapter One

The clock ticked over to 12pm and cheers went up throughout the office.

And that, said Mickey Madden, senior travel consultant and Beacon Travel’s funny guy, is a wrap.

He leaned back in his chair, looked at me across our back-to-back workstations and winked. Get it, Becs? Wrap? Christmas?

I pretended he was neither hot nor funny and gave him a long-suffering look. Yes, Mickey, I get it. But as far as Christmas jokes go, it’s bad. Really bad.

You’re killing me. He clapped his hands over his heart, as if I’d just stabbed him. Where’s your Christmas spirit?

I shut down my computer and stood.

"I’ll have you know I am all about the Christmas spirit. See? I reached for my Christmas party outfit, a cute little Mrs Claus number, and held it up for him to see. Is that Christmas spirit-y enough for you?"

Mickey leaned back in his chair and wolf-whistled. "Well, hel-lo, Mrs Claus. Come to papa."

I grinned, ignoring my fickle pulse. There was nothing I’d love more than to go to papa, but as far as he was concerned we were just workmates so . . . this was the way we rolled. Sexual innuendoes, flirtatious fun, great buddies. Nothing more.

And what about you? I pinged back at him. "Where’s your Christmas spirit?"

His mouth tugged up at one corner. His voice dropped an octave. Come back to my place and I’ll show you.

If only. My cheeks—and other secret places—burned at the thought.

I bet you say that to all the Mrs Clauses, I retorted, then turned on my heel so he wouldn’t see my blush. Party outfit in hand, I made for the ladies’ room, and if my hips swayed a little more than usual he deserved it after a comment like that.

Once in the ladies’ I did an excited little skip. My first ever Beacon Travel Christmas party! Everyone said it was Not To Be Missed, and in just a few minutes I’d be there, experiencing it all first-hand.

I did a quick mirror check and groaned. As usual, my hair had devolved into a defiant mess. Liz, my best friend, loves what she calls my drunken bridesmaid look, but seriously? Who wanted to look like a half-cut bridesmaid at work? I tried to flatten my curls into something less . . . Me-ish. Gave up with a sigh. Luckily the costume came with a Santa hat.

Oh no! Pimple alert. I leaned in for a closer inspection—not pretty; extra makeup required—then hastily stepped back as I realised I wasn’t alone.

Oh! Hi, I said.

Someone was making like a contortionist in the corner, trying to fight their way into something green.

They gave me a muffled ‘hi’.

I looked at the holdall next to her. Is that you, Trudy?

Yep, she grunted, then paused, breathing heavily. Think you could help me out, here?

I giggled. Don’t move. This needs a photo.

Don’t you dare.

Just kidding. Here . . . I hung my costume on a handy hook. If I pull here . . . and you shove that arm there . . . no, not there; the other hole . . . yep, now straighten . . . done!

She emerged, looking very Christmas elf-ish and rather overheated.

You look fantastic! I clapped my hands, checking her out from all angles. Please tell me you have an elf cap.

I have an elf cap.

Brilliant! Don’t you just love Christmas?

Trudy grinned at me. Steady on. It’s still three weeks away.

I know, but it’s so close I can sniff it.

That’ll be the air freshener. She wrinkled her nose.

"Not literally. Well, actually, at home it is literally, because— I clapped my hands like a little kid —I’ve bought a real tree this year! And it’s decorated, and it’s got gifts under it, and now we’ve got the work do, and before you know it, bam! It’ll be Christmas."

Trudy groaned. Don’t. I haven’t started shopping yet. She noticed my costume as I picked it up. "You’re going as Santa? Aren’t you a bit . . . female for that?"

Hey! Girls can do anything. I stripped off my work clothes and shimmied into the dress.

Wow! breathed Trudy. You look amazing.

You think? I looked at myself in the mirror. Sucked in my tummy. It doesn’t make me look huge?

Oh, Becs. Stop it. You have curves. Like Marilyn Monroe. You’re really lucky. I’d die to have boobs like yours. She heaved a sigh, looking down at her own flat chest.

I looked at her in surprise. But Trude, you’re so slim. You’d look good in anything.

She laughed. Maybe we all just want what we don’t have.

Which had me immediately thinking of Mickey. And my outfit. And what he’d think of it. Not that he’d likely even notice. All the same, my sucked-in stomach did a nervy little flip.

I turned back to my reflection. Can you believe that today, of all days, I’ve broken out in a zit?

What zit? All I see is sexy Mrs Claus.

I looked again, and this time forced myself to ignore the blemish and focus on the dress. Stop-sign red, figure-hugging, and trimmed in white fur, it gave Mrs Claus a whole new sassy