The Covert Cam Girl: Unexpected Lovers, #2

By JB HELLER

Become a covert cam girl to help boost my self-esteem... what's the worst that can happen?
Apparently, everything.

The idea seems innocent enough at first. Turn my room into an online fantasy world, and hide my identity behind a sexy maid's outfit and cute mask. Everything is going great until Atticus Blaine, the gorgeous single dad who I've been quietly pining over, recognizes me on one of my live feeds.

The epic misunderstanding that follows has me bending over backward to avoid the man. But it's near impossible with us living in the same building. And the little fact that he's determined to hunt me down. It all has to end at some point though, because taking the stairs is really starting to suck.

My roommates say I should just give in and let him catch me. But the decision is taken out of my hands when the sight of his bangin' bod distracts me so much, I end up scalding myself with boiling hot coffee. He swoops in to save me, but his help comes at a cost...

*Be ready for a smokin' hot single father, his cocky teenage son, an endearingly sweet heiress with a questionable hobby and hilariously witty banter that will have you snort-laughing in no time in this opposites attract romantic comedy.*

• Language: English
• Publisher: JB Heller
• Release date: May 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393261964

Book preview

I blink, then blink again, hoping like hell I am not seeing what I think I’m seeing.

However, three seconds later, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt my eyes are going to need a bleach bath—pronto. But first, I need to kick my son’s ass.

Arlo! I boom. What the hell do you think you’re doing?

My sixteen-year-old spins in my office chair to face me, his hand still down his pants and his face the color of his white T-shirt. You’re n-not supposed to be h-home yet.

I arch a brow and cross my arms over my chest as I lean against the doorframe. And you’re not supposed to be jacking the beanstalk to porn in my office. But here we are.

His hand slowly slides out from under the waistband of his sweat pants, then he crosses one leg over the other in what I’m sure is an attempt to cover the remnants of his boner.

Pushing his hair out of his eyes, he clears his throat and has the audacity to say, It’s not porn.

So, what would you call the hottie still parading around on the screen behind you in a slutty maid outfit?

Arlo peers over his shoulder at the video playing on my desktop. I call her Sadie, and one day, I’m going to marry that woman. He sighs dreamily at the screen.

And that’s my cue to close the distance between us and whack him upside the head. You’re not marrying a porn star, son. Now, go wash your hands before you touch any more of my stuff, you miscreant.

He jumps out of the chair and heads for the door, only to call over his shoulder, She’s not a porn star. She’s your future daughter-in-law. Get used to it, Daddio.

I pick up the first thing my hand lands on, which just so happens to be a stapler, and I pelt it in his direction, but he’s already gone. Little bastard knows I hate it when he calls me that. I drop down into my chair and move the mouse to shut down the browser, but something catches my eye.

With her back to the camera, the tattoo on her neck is in clear view, and I just about swallow my tongue. I know that tattoo. I know who this Sadie is. And she lives in our building.

My brain kicks into overdrive. Is this woman trying to seduce my son? As the thought runs through my head, Sadie peers over her shoulder, right at the camera, and bites down on her full bottom lip before she goes back to dusting a bookshelf.

I narrow my eyes at the screen. If she thinks she can get something out of my kid, she’s out of her goddamn mind. I bookmark the site so I can get more information on her operation later, then I close the window. It’s time Arlo and I had a little chat.

I flop down on the couch and kick off my heels. Today was a big one. My feet are aching, and I’m so damn tired I could fall asleep right here. But it’s my night to cook dinner. Damn it. With a dramatic groan, I get up to grab a quick shower before my roommates get home.

Fifteen minutes later, I walk out of my bedroom in a pair of black yoga pants and a yellow tank, ready to tackle dinner, and run into a flustered Emory. Hey, you okay? I ask.

Her big blue eyes blink at me a couple of times before she shakes her head, adjusts her huge glasses on her nose, then says, Yeah, I’m good. Sorry, just wrapped up in this book. She holds said book up in front of her face to show me.

Ah, I see, I tell her, because this is not an unusual thing for Em. I’m about to start dinner. Wanna give me a hand?

She frowns and glances at her book, then back to me. I’m at a really good part. Just let me finish this chapter, mmkay?

I chuckle and shake my head. I’ve heard that before. She doesn’t even hear me, though; her nose is tucked back in her book as she continues down the corridor to her room.

In the kitchen, I bend over, gathering all my hair on top of my head, and use the band on my wrist to secure it in a messy bun, then I get to work pulling out ingredients for dinner. I’ve just plonked the packet of chicken on the bench when Lennon swings open the front door, a scowl on her face.

She throws her keys in the silver bowl on the small table by the entry, kicks off her boots, then stomps over to me. Why are men such dicks? she asks.

I scrunch my nose. I don’t know. Maybe because they have one, so they assume they should behave like one? I offer while grabbing a knife from the block beside the oven.

How many times do I have to say no for them to take the hint? I’m a one-and-done kind of girl. They know that before we get down and dirty, but no. There’s always that one guy who tries to push for more. Then he gets all butt-hurt when I throw his roses in the trash and acts like I’m the biggest bitch in the world.

My head bobs as she speaks; this isn’t the first time I’ve heard this speech or a version of it. So, I do the good-friend thing and let her get it all off her chest without interrupting or reminding her that it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to, maybe, give one of these guys a chance someday.

You want wine? I need wine, she says, opening the fridge and snatching an unopened bottle from the door.

When have I ever said no? I throw back.

Lennon smiles and goes about getting the glasses then pauses midway and yells, Yo, Emory, you want wine?

The sound of Em running down the corridor is our answer. Her socked feet hit the tiles in the kitchen area, and she slides in, stopping at my side. Heck yes! she says to Lennon, then pushes the sleeves of her oversized sweater up her arms and faces me. Where do you need me, chef?

You can slice the chicken for me? I ask, hope pouring from every part of my being.

She cringes then glances at the packet of chicken breasts. "Umm, how about I do the crumbing and you can cut the chicken?"

Lennon shoves Emory aside with a roll of her eyes. You guys are such babies, she says, handing us our glasses of wine then snatching up the knife I laid out earlier. I’ll cut the nasty, slimy chicken, and you two can do the rest.

Thank you, Em and I chirp in unison then take hearty swigs of our wine.

Only a true friend would offer to take on the disgusting task of touching raw chicken.

I quickly set out the bowls of flour and crumbs then make the egg-and-milk mix. The three of us stand in a line. We become a chicken-crumbing machine, each of us with our own task.

So, I shared the elevator with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding this morning, Lennon announces as we work.

Em sighs. Oh my God, that man has provided the inspiration for a good chunk of my jill till.

I snort and bump her with my shoulder. I’m surprised you have room for him in your stoke files, girl. I thought all the space was taken up by those book boyfriends of yours.

"There will always be room for that man in my fantasies," she fires back.

Anyway, Lennon speaks up over our giggles. He was wearing a new suit, jacket open, navy blue, and a matching vest and tie with a crisp white shirt. So. Freaking. Hot. Yo.

I swear we all let out a lusty sigh at the same time at the image Lenny’s words just conjured in our minds.

What I wouldn’t do to see that man naked …

I sip my coffee while Arlo chomps away at his cereal—with way too much exuberance for this early in the morning—when I bring it up. So, how long have you known this Sadie?

He pauses with his spoon a mere inch from his open mouth then grins at me. You kept watching after I went for a shower last night, didn’t you? You dirty old bastard. I’ve already called dibs.

I scoff. I did not. And thirty-six is not old, you little prick. Now answer my question.

His eyes sparkle, and all I can do is hope that she hasn’t sunk her claws too deep into him, or he’s going to end up hurt when I tell him she’s scamming him for his money.

Placing his spoon back in his bowl, he laces his fingers together then sits back in his seat. I’d say it’s been about three months since I first saw her. Isn’t she the sweetest thing you ever did see?

A scowl flashes across my face. Three months? You’ve been going behind my back for three freaking months, Arlo? What the hell? I thought we had a pretty good open line of communication going.

He shrugs and reaches for his spoon. We do. Don’t stress, old man. You and I are solid, he says as he chews.

I cringe. Don’t talk with food in your mouth. It’s disgusting.

Arlo rolls his eyes and keeps on chomping. Once he’s done, he speaks again. Look, what I do with Sadie isn’t something we need to talk about. Ever. But especially over breakfast. Now I’m going to have a chub on the way to school. Thanks for that, he says, then he pushes out his chair and takes his empty bowl to the sink.

Slamming my eyes shut, I rub my temples with the hand that doesn’t have a death grip on my coffee. Arlo, we need to talk about this.

He scoops his backpack off the kitchen floor then wraps a hand over my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. No, we really don’t, he says, and he walks out the door. Later, he calls as it closes behind him.

I curse under my breath as I glance at the time on the wall clock. I should already be at the office, but I couldn’t go in without at least trying to talk to my son about whatever the hell is going on with that woman. I’m the best damn divorce lawyer in the city. I talk to women about their scumbag husbands’ sexual exploits all damn day, but do you think I can have a frank conversation with my own son about sex? Apparently not.

That