Maddie and Mo Get Married

By Rachel Abugov

In this corner: Madison "Mad Dog" Bennett: Venture capitalist. Runs on instincts and caffeine. Fearless (unless it's love).

In this corner: Maurice "Murderface" Mayfield: Former MMA fighter, Eternal optimist. Has a collection of designer sneakers. Also collects crazy exes.

Sparks fly between Maddie and Mo when she invests in his MMA-themed gyms. But Mo is known for his flavor-of-the-month romances. Maddie thinks she's watching the clock run out on them when Mo's ex drops off a package - the son he never knew he had.

When Maddie and Mo's wedding is interrupted,  Maddie has to choose between flight or fight. Fighting is in her comfort zone, but love? Not so much. Working things through? Even less. It won't be an easy trip down the aisle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rachel's Kissing Books
• Release date: Feb 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781777282608

Rachel Abugov

Hello reader! I'm Rachel Abugov and I write kissing books. Some are pure romance, some are rom-com and others are women's fiction, but they are all kissing books.   I'm a cat lady, a foodie,a feminist and a recovering standup comic. I've been reading romance since the bodice-ripping days. I hope you love Freddie and Mike as much as I do. I also hope you'll check out my other books.  Last but not least, go to my website, rachelskissingbooks.com, and sign up for my newsletter. I'll have spoilers, giveaways, exclusive content and cat memes, some with my own cats!

Book preview

Chapter 1

There’s a little sign above my coffee maker that says Rise and Grind. That’s not only my motto, it’s also my coffee maker’s. It grinds the beans fresh every morning and brews a pot of coffee. It works with the precision of the Swiss railroad, unless there’s a power failure, in which case you don’t wake up to the delicious aroma of fresh coffee. Your cat thinks that you’re dead and since dead people can’t serve kitty kibble, it’s okay to start eating your face.  Not today, Satan. Not today.

I finally got to the office, takeout coffee in hand. I was ready to dive into the mountain of work ahead of me when Nic, my assistant, came into my office with a distressed look on his face saying, Maddie – I mean Ms. Bennett...  Then, he stopped. Didn’t bother finishing his sentence. He didn’t even breathe, because behind him was the guy who was my first meeting of the day.  He’d been waiting for thirty minutes. Thirty-five minutes actually, because he came early, which is a sign of respect.

We shook hands and introduced ourselves, somewhat redundantly. 

Maurice Mayfield. Call me Mo.

In my head, he was Meeting Dude. Not a real person with a killer smile whose handshake made me feel something before I’d even had my coffee. 

Meeting Dude took a look at my takeout coffee cup. The Latte Factor? I know the owner.  Before he could launch into a description of how, why, and how long he’d known her, he plunked himself down in my visitor’s chair, the one I draped my jacket on as opposed to the empty one, and looked at me expectantly.

My prospectus, he said. We’re here to discuss...

Your prospectus. Of course. That’s all I had time to say before the cuff on my shirt winged the edge of the coffee cup, knocking it and its contents all over my desk, my tablet, and my lap, in decreasing order of importance.

Not a good look.

Meeting Dude grabbed a roll of paper towels and started swabbing up the coffee from my desk. I was tempted to squeeze the paper towels into my mouth. That’s how badly I needed the caffeine.  Then, our hands brushed again as we were mopping up. I felt a jolt. I tried to blame it on the static in the carpet. Nice try, Maddie.

Meanwhile, Nic had procured two cups of fresh coffee. One for each of us, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to bogart that second cup. I was that desperate.  After my caffeine fix I could change into my gym clothes, which were dry and didn’t smell of Moka Java. Life would be good.

Then, I could print a fresh copy of the infamous prospectus. Briefing notes for the meeting would have been helpful. Like who was Maurice Mayfield and why did he find it necessary to sit on the chair with my jacket draped on it when there was a second visitor’s chair? Was this the kind of person I wanted to do business with? He was just another hot guy with a custom-made suit and matching attitude. But I prferred to go into meetings as a tabula rasa. Mad Dog Bennett trusted her instincts.

Enough with the Mad Dog stuff, Maddie. Time for a Mindful Moment Take a deep breath. Enjoy the aroma of the coffee, the rich, dark brown color, the curlicued curdles of cream floating on the surface like tadpoles. The what?  Aww, hell no. This wasn’t happening.

I’m so sorry, I said, grabbing the coffee from my guest before he had a chance to ingest the noxious brew.  We don’t usually serve spoiled dairy to guests.

Good to know. He glanced at his watch pointedly. Time was money, and I was wasting both. 

Let’s discuss what you want out of this arrangement, I said, steepling my fingers and leaning back in my chair.

Cold hard cash, he said, deciding whether to mirror my posture or not. He didn’t.

I want to expand my business, and it seemed like we’d be a good fit. I had my financial team draw up the prospectus, which should probably be recycled if you can’t salvage it, and here we are.

Yes. Here we are. 

Pardon my fugue state, I mumbled.  This is what happens when I don’t have my coffee.

Okay, he said. I thought he’d laugh sardonically, or at least chuckle, but he wasn’t feeling it.  If things went any worse, I’d lose my job, my apartment, and everything I possessed by noon. That’s what had happened to the woman who owned my favorite coffee shop, and it took her a while to regroup.  I could handle it. I could handle anything. But I didn’t want to. Not when I’d worked this hard to get here.

I did what anyone would do in my position. I texted the producer of Raven’s Roost and arranged for Maurice Mayfield to be on the show, taping the day after tomorrow.  That got him out of my hair and gave him a lengthy list of urgent Things To Do to prepare for the Big Day.  Once he’d been dispatched, I chugged a black coffee, changed into my gym clothes, and got to work.  Rise and grind, Maddie. Rise and grind.

Chapter 2

On the set, things were going swimmingly. Literally. The first pitch was for a set of state-of-the-art floaties for kids.  After hearing the stats about childhood drownings, Daniel LeVine was ready to invest. He was the Nice Raven, and I would have been surprised if he passed on this deal.

That segment took up half the morning because of the time needed to set up the inflatable pool and fill it with water, then drain it and mop up the spillage. There’s a lot of hurrying-up-and-waiting when you’re filming a TV show.

Next, we had the owner of a chain of MMA gyms. I knew nothing about MMA except for the fact that it was Big Business, the pay-per-views netted millions of dollars, and I hated everything about it. When you’re clobbered as a kid, you can either develop an affinity for it or you can run in the opposite direction. No prize for guessing which camp I fell into. 

And as our theme music, along with the sounds of flapping of wings and cawing, filled the studio, the doors opened, revealing none other than Meeting Dude, a.k.a. Maurice Mayfield. Did I mention he was wearing boxing trunks and a Mayfield MMA Gym t-shirt? Did I mention that he had more muscles than my fellow Raven Kenya Hawkins knew influencers? The self-proclaimed Queen of Skin Care was looking at him as if he was the most delicious snack she’d ever seen!

This is insane, I said, hoping the comment would be edited out of the segment when it aired. I’d gotten to see this guy in an office setting, and if I’d had the slightest inkling as to what was lurking under the conservative gray suit and tie, I would have just thrown All. My. Money. at him, without batting an eyelash.  Every instinct in my body was telling me that I had to make this deal or it would be the death of me.

Then, he smiled straight at me. I thought at first that it was the studio lights, but nope. It was his smile that was blinding me. Uncharacteristically, I was smiling back. What the hell?  I never smiled on camera. I was known for my RBF (Raven Bitch Face). It was a meme.

He stepped forward on cue and launched into his spiel.

Hello, Ravens. I’m Maurice ‘Murderface’ Mayfield and I’m here to ask for $500,000 in exchange for 10% of my chain of MMA gyms. We want to help everyone awaken their inner warrior. I’d like to give you a demonstration. I need someone with the heart of a champion. Mad Dog, would you like to join me?

I kicked off my shoes and sprinted to the display, where an octagon had been set up.  Maurice ‘Meeting Dude’ ‘Murderface’ Mayfield was gentlemanly enough to hold the ropes so I could climb in with ease. Thank goodness I was wearing a pantsuit.

I could only imagine the wardrobe malfunctions (stressing the plural) that would have happened if Kenya in her skin-tight cocktail dress had been invited to join him.  She was drooling so much that I was about to reach for the One-der Mop– the One Mop You’ll Ever Need! - but we’d finished shooting that segment earlier in the day.

The other Ravens were familiar with Maurice Mayfield’s career as a fighter and were delighted to have a celebrity in the Roost. Ethan Ellis called him Mo, and I was relieved that I wasn’t expected to refer to him on camera as Murderface.  I would have laughed too hard to be able to continue with the segment.

Okay, Mad Dog. I’m gonna show you a few basic moves, said Mo, motioning for me to walk closer to him. I thought the floor of the octagon would be bouncy like a trampoline, but surprisingly it was much more stable. 

I watched as Mo did a roundhouse kick. I duplicated it to the best of my ability, but my impeccably tailored pants were not built for such efforts.

Should I change into gym clothes? I think we’ll have a much better segment, I offered.

No, Maddie, laughed Chandra, the cameraperson.  It’s much more fun to see you in your business suit. That’s what the audience wants.

Give the people what they want, shrugged Mo as he did another move.  I imitated it, and for a moment I thought I’d end up being flipped on my back, which was tailor-made for great television and would make me look like a good sport. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. Mo applauded my efforts with more enthusiasm than was warranted, the other Ravens followed suit, and he held the ropes again so I could extricate myself safely.

We took a two-minute break so I could chug some water and have my hair and makeup touched up. 

Cameras rolling again, we started the negotiation. That was a lot of fun, I said. Very empowering.

Glad to hear you say that. People need to tap into their power. Too many things can happen to take your power away. Like, let’s say somebody’s day was ruined by a bad cup of coffee.

Smooth move, mentioning bad coffee.  He winked at me and continued his pitch.

The idea is that, even after a bad coffee day, or a bad hair day, they can come to one of my gyms - our gyms - and get rid of their stress.

Daniel Monahan cleared his throat. I’d forgotten the other Ravens were there.

Okay, we all know the benefits of training. But what does MMA have to offer the Baby Boomers?  They were a huge segment of our audience. Smart of Daniel to think of them, and even smarter to avoid suggesting that our viewers could potentially break a hip. We had a bunch of advertisers subtly catering to that market - cruises, luxury cars, nothing overtly geriatric.

They’ll work on balance and core strength, both of which are key components in fall prevention programs.  We’ll tailor our classes to each demographic. College football players need different training from postpartum women.

Kenya giggled. Sorry, guys. It’s not every day that I get to meet a  famous athlete. Then, she wrote something in her black leaher notebook and tore out the page. She’d dated several basketball players and a Russian goaltender. So much for not getting to meet famous athletes. Was this her power move?  To giggle like a fangirl as she gave out her phone number? Hell no. Not on my watch.

I prefer to think of Mr. Mayfield as a potential partner, I said matter-of-factly.  Wouldn’t this be a good time for Mo to put on an oversized hoodie and matching sweat pants? His muscles were distracting me, too.

I’m gonna make an offer, Mr. Murderface. I’ll give you exactly what you asked for. But I want to see the studies about the fall prevention program, and I’d like to offer that part of it to assisted living facilities to make sure that everyone can benefit from it. You’re getting the power of a Raven as a strategic partner, if you agree to my terms.

Whoa, there, Maddie. You’re not the only Ravens who wants to make an offer, said Daniel. I’ll go in with Ethan, but we’ll need 50% equity to make it worthwhile. Two Ravens can really blow this up. And we’d like to involve wounded veterans in some way. Maybe a special training program?

Dominic Catelli was signalling something to Kenya. They were about to pull a power move. Not gonna happen. Nobody got the best of Mad Dog Bennett.  I cleared my throat.

Hey. Mo. I was the first one to make you an offer. It was exactly what you asked for. The question is, do you want to work with me or not? I think Mad Dog and Murderface has a nice ring to it. But it’s entirely up to you. The clock is ticking. I smiled as I glanced at my watch.

I respect a woman who knows what she wants, said Mo, coming over to my chair to shake my hand.  Mad Dog, we got ourselves a deal.

I’d won. At least I thought I’d won. Part of me was triumphant. The other part was wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into.

Chapter 3

After the fatigue of shooting for thirteen hours straight and the adrenaline from making deals, I needed some fortification. The best thing to do was to grab a bite because there was less of a chance of being hit on.

It may sound egotistical, but when you’re on TV, people think they know you and then they want to get to take up hours of your time based on your on-screen persona. Especially if they have lame-ass ideas for terrible products that they’re sure you’d be interested in.

Some people just don’t get the concept of private lives.  #eyeroll

And now that we’ve covered occupational hazards, let’s talk practicalities. A girl’s gotta eat. And what goes better with extreme hunger than fried chicken? I took a car service to my favorite spot in Brooklyn and was about to dig into a crispy, golden wing when I heard the chair opposite me scraping as an uninvited guest sat down.

The occupant of the other chair gave a small harrumph. I looked up to see Izzy Walker-Zelman, whose company I’d partnered with on Season Two. She’d started making hair products in her kitchen. Now, Izzy’s Frizzies was going global, distributed anywhere there were women with curly hair.

Hey, Maddie. I was beginning to feel invisible, she said.  We stood up and did the two-cheek kiss. I’m just waiting for my takeout order, she said. We’re having a working dinner at the salon, and I needed some air, so I decided to pick up the food instead of having it delivered.

I was about to give her a little speech about delegating, but I knew that Izzy had it all together, so I didn’t bother.

Add anything new to your portfolio?

I wiped my face with my napkin before I answered.

Yeah. I just invested in a chain of MMA gyms. Some guy named Murderface. I think I’m investing in him more than the actual concept. He’s kind of -

Maurice Mayfield? Don’t. Just don’t, said Izzy. He’s my husband’s cousin’s husband’s brother, so we’re family.  He’s also a founding member and president of the Flavor of the Month Club.  You should know this so you can protect yourself.

I pretended that Izzy’s speech was drowned out by the crunch of my fried chicken. 

I’m not interested in him. Just the concept, I said. MMA fighting is very much on-trend, and if I can monetize a trend, I’m all over it like nobody’s business. Not nobody’s business. My business. A ten-percent share, if the deal goes through.

I hope you know what you’re doing, said Izzy with a sigh. Oh. My food’s ready. Gotta jet.

Grabbing two huge bags, Izzy sprinted towards the door, not an easy feat. It had almost escaped my notice that she was very, very pregnant, and I hadn’t even wished her congratulations or asked for a gender reveal. I’d have to work on my people skills. In the meantime, I had a drumstick and a biscuit that needed immediate attention. Priorities, Maddie.

The next morning before dawn, I was ready to hit the ground running. Literally. Rocco was coming over and we were taking our cardio to the streets.  He liked to run before the cars were all out, and I liked to watch the sun rise. After a quick three-mile loop and some stretching, it was shower time and then it would be coffee time. Blessed, blessed coffee time. 

I scooped a generous log of poop from Satan’s litter box, under his watchful eyes. His fur was jet black and glossy, and he was a low shedder and a high purrer. The perfect cat! He had a bad habit of knocking the remote off the coffee table, because he abhorred clutter. It helped me keep a Zen-like environment. I was naturally messy, so we were complementary in our nature.  Plus, he really liked olives, so if I ordered pizza and there were too many olives, there he was, ready to snarf them up.  We made a great pair.

I wondered if Satan was really my soulmate. And now that I read that, I hope that particular phrase is never taken out of context.  But I’d never met a man I could really, truly get along with. Either they’d be too turned on by my money or too turned off by the fact that I’d earned the nickname Mad Dog.  I’d never achieved balance in my life. I don’t think I wanted balance, so no harm, no foul. But I could sit for a long time listening to Satan purr and stroking his soft, silky fur.

I checked my agenda. No meetings today. Just a pile of paperwork the height of the Chrysler Building. So much for the myth of the paperless office. People still liked hard copies, especially the people I worked with. We killed trees with reckless abandon, while I made generous donations to tree-planting charities to try and mitigate the bad karma of wasted paper.

Nic was the Designated Tree Slayer, and he plopped another bundle of files on my desk before I’d even had a chance to plug my phone into its charger.

I’ve sequenced them in order of importance, he said proudly, failing to indicate whether they were arranged in increasing or decreasing importance. It mattered. A lot. I didn’t want to waste my time reading an entire document that could be summed up in