The Foreplay: Hemsworth Brothers Book 2, #2

By Haleigh Lovell

From the New York Times & USA Today bestselling author, Haleigh Lovell, comes a sexy new rom com.

 

"You must pick up this series if you know what's good for you." ~ B. Wise, Zon Top 1K Reviewer

 

"I swooned and caught myself smiling almost through the whole book." ~ Becki D, GR

"If there is one word that describes The Foreplay as a whole, I would say flawless. Ender and Adelaide will give you life! I was laughing so hard, I cried, but my heart was oh so warm. I'm just so in love with their story! Their relationship is one for the books, and that's saying something considering this is a book." ~ Eb's Dirty Diary

"A delicious masterpiece of a story." ~ M. Michelle, GR

"Once again, Ender and Adelaide stole my heart." ~ R. Smith

 

THE FOREPLAY

BY HALEIGH LOVELL

 

An athlete. A scientist. A love story. 

I'm addicted to her; she's the real deal and every woman other than her would be a placebo.
Her name is Adelaide and she's a scientist with a brilliant and in-depth mind that analyzes and dissects everything.
Yep. She knows things. A lot of things.
What do I know? 
I know I need to make her mine.

Note: THE FOREPLAY is a sequel to THE SLAM but it can also be read as a standalone.
 

REVIEWS:

"Haleigh blesses us with the realness that is this couple and brings you back into their world effortlessly with the same quick banter, unexpected laughs, hot naughty bits, and sweet moments that you may have missed between the first book and now." ~ Mells View
 

"This was my first book by Haleigh and it was phenomenal!" ~ Tracy. G, Goodreads

"Perfection! I am sold on this author. I will read anything she writes. She is a SURE BET. She is able to incorporate everything in this book: sweetness, hotness, angst, humor, wit, seriousness, playfulness, and realism at just the right times throughout this book." ~ Konnie, GR

"An addictive must read." ~ Ofelia, GR

"This is a beautiful story of love. The story grabs the reader from the first page and I was unable to put it down." ~ Lori, GR

• Language: English
• Publisher: Haleigh Lovell
• Release date: May 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386998129

Book preview

Chapter One

Adelaide

LIFE IS A SERIES OF what ifs.

What if I hadn’t left my home to study abroad in California?

What if I hadn’t moved in with Ender and Edric?

What if I hadn’t fallen in love with Ender?

What if Ender hadn’t turned pro and joined the ATP World Tour?

What is the ATP? you might be asking. And I’d answer that the ATP is the Association of Tennis Professionals, and my boyfriend, Ender, had qualified to play in the Australian Open—the tournament that kicks off the Grand Slam season.

What if I hadn’t returned to my motherland of koalas, kangaroos, and wombats to watch Ender play in said tournament?

Then I wouldn’t have met Britney.

Britney changed the trajectory of my life and at the time I didn’t even know her last name. She simply went by Britney. You know how some celebrities are so big they don’t even need a last name? Beyoncé. Bono. Aretha. Adele.

But Britney wasn’t a celebrity. She was a WAG. And apparently I too was a WAG.

Record scratch.

Allow me to rewind just a little and explain how I got here.

Over the summer, I’d graduated from UC Berkeley and decided to take a gap year before applying for PhD programs.

Is this about finding yourself? Ender had asked me when I informed him about my decision to take a gap year.

Silly boy. I didn’t need a gap year to find myself. I found myself every morning in the shower.

For me, a gap year was about having time to breathe before college and university. Time to travel, and more importantly, time to spend working on things I was passionate about.

While the arrow of time carries us forward, I’ve tried to not measure the passage of time with clocks because if cosmic time is abandoned, there is no logical explanation for the time we have. The clock is simply programmed to reproduce specific units of time: seconds, minutes, hours, days and so forth to accord with the cycles of the earth so that 365.242199 solar days will coincide exactly with the earth’s orbit of the sun.

So why should I let the behavior of a clock affect my passage of existence? The course of time had always made more sense when it was measured by experiences and moments that enriched my life. And it would be hard to create those moments when so much of my time was spent in classrooms and lecture halls.

Which was why I was here, back home in Melbourne, making positive use of my time and spending it with people I cared about.

Ultimately, I hoped to gain clarity in figuring out my next move.

What did I really want to do?

Who did I want to become?

Now I was confronted with the galling reality that I was a WAG.

You’re one of the Wives and Girlfriends of high-profile professional athletes, Miguel declared with an air of gravitas. A WAG.

Please don’t call me that. I groaned. I don’t want that label.

Tsk-tsk. It doesn’t matter what you want, honey. You’re Ender’s girlfriend, which makes you a WAG. And really, you need to start behaving like one. Stop that! he chastised. Stop fussing with your dress!

Stifling another groan, I quit adjusting the straps of my HI HERE ARE MY TITS dress.

You look fine. He sent me a reassuring smile. "Not just fine but foyyyyne."

Okay. Whatever that meant. Nevertheless, I trusted Miguel—my best friend, my loyal confidant. Ender’s PR ‘team’ had insisted I needed a stylist. Of course I’d refused and when they wouldn’t let the matter drop, I’d suggested they hire Miguel.

Where should we sit? My stylist looked around, scanning the room for an empty table.

How about over there? I suggested, pointing to a table that afforded us the best view of the buffet station.

Perfect! Miguel cried. Right next to the buffet table. That’s prime real estate right there.

C’mon. My voice was sharp with urgency. Let’s get our food before someone steals our table.

Go, go, go! Miguel ordered like a drill sergeant. Forward. Hut! Hut! Hut!

"All right. I’m going, I’m going." Picking up my pace, I powerwalked over to the buffet station.

Beside me, Miguel’s stride hitched and his jaw slackened. Don’t panic. Panic filled his voice. Look over there.

Where?

Twelve o’clock.

Staring straight ahead, I saw nothing of interest.

No, wait, Miguel hissed. I meant six o’clock.

Whirling around, I was even more perplexed. What should I be looking for, Miguel? Are we standing on the same horizontal clock face? Where should I be facing?

My bad. Wrong direction. My clock was upside down. Three o’clock, he whispered urgently. Three o’clock!

Pivoting to my left, I almost did a double take.

It was Leonardo DiCaprio.

In. The. Flesh.

He was just as I’d expected, short in stature. His cargo shorts and model girlfriends seemed to eclipse everything else.

Miguel’s eyebrows came together with an almost audible snap. Why is Leo wearing cargo shorts to a charity event?

What’s wrong with cargo shorts? Honestly, they looked a great deal more comfortable than those skinny nut-hugging jeggings that put men’s vascular health at risk, constricting their testicles and cutting off blood circulation. Maybe he has a lot of stuff to carry around. It’s all about tactical storage. I mean, look at the size of those pockets.

Yeah. His voice was ripe with mockery. They’re big enough to hold two beers on each leg!

Isn’t that called being resourceful?

Blergh. Miguel made a gagging noise There were some great things about the nineties but trust me, cargo shorts aren’t one of them. They’re like purses for dads. Clearly Leo needs a stylist. Should I give him my card? Actually—he stopped himself—never mind. Just look at that crowd of vapid vamps gathering around him.

Grabbing a plate and some silverware, I slid into the buffet line. What are they doing?

Probably cuing up Snapchat or Periscope or InstaMoron, Miguel replied as we watched the gaggle of girls whip out their smartphones and turn into part-time documentarians, snapping selfies and taking videos, recording the entire moment through their five-inch screens.

Those girls with Leo... I observed. They’re stunning.

Oh, they’ve all had work done, Miguel stated matter-of-factly. "Plenty of work. They’ve Botoxed and Juvédermed the heck out of their faces. All that plastic surgery is just creepy if you ask me. Everyone walks around looking like supermodels, then when they have kids, some of their offspring end up looking like trolls."

All of a sudden, a piercing scream rent the air. Errhmahgerd! I got a selfie with Leo! I’m literally going to explode!

Literally explode? Did she just ingest dynamite?

Hey. Miguel elbowed me in the ribs. "Don’t you want a selfie with the Leonardo DiCaprio?"

No. I elbowed him right back.

Why not? he quipped. Don’t you idolize him?

Nope, I said, popping the P sound. I don’t worship people. Actors are humans; they are not gods or sacrosanct. I think our culture, in thrall of fame, puts far too many on a pedestal.

Oh, I agree. Just look at Leo. Miguel suppressed a snort. He looks good on the big screen, but in person he’s about as remarkable as a Kia Sorento. A pause. Still, don’t you at least want to say hi to him?

Not really. I gave a careless shrug. It’s a bit awkward, I’d say. You know how when you were a kid and you saw your math teacher out in the wild?

Like out in the mall or at Olive Garden or Panda Express?

Precisely. Mr. Elliot shouldn’t be out shopping or dining; he lives in a classroom and teaches math. That colliding of worlds just never sat well with me. Twisting my lips, I found myself staring at Leo from a safe distance. "So seeing Leo in person just feels strange. Like he should be on the Titanic. With Rose. Not here at a charity buffet."

Okay. Miguel snickered. Whatever you say.

I began piling my plate high on the first pass when Miguel chided, Adelaide! You’ll be lucky to get that mountain of food to the table without a forklift. Pace yourself, girl. This isn’t a sprint. It’s a marathon.

A marathon, I repeated.

Right. Miguel gave a crisp nod. First, we need to get our bearings. You see, there’s a bit of tricky psychology going on here. You’ve only got so much room in your stomach and buffets count on filling that space quickly with low-cost, high-carb foods. So look around first and leave some room for the good stuff.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, Miguel. I stood drooling at my shameful pile of pasta, cheese bread, pizza, sushi rolls, and shrimp cocktail. I’ve got all the good stuff.

Amateur, he huffed, plopping shitake, creminis, porcinis, and portobellos onto his plate. Learn from the maestro. I know how to turn this spectacular gastronomic adventure into a symphony.

After loading up on every edible mushroom at the salad bar, Miguel worked his way toward the falafels, fruits, and vegetables. It’s my New Year’s resolution, he informed me. I’m now a vegan. Well, except for dick.

Charming. I smiled.

I need to get my protein somehow.

Of course. I willed my smile to remain. Good for you.

Satisfied with our selections, we sauntered over to our table. There sat a middle-aged woman in a faux fur coat with foot-long lashes.

Phwoar! Her eyelids must be exceptionally strong to lift those mega-thick lashes. And I found myself wondering what sort of industrial-strength glue she’d used to attach those suckers.

Miguel’s voice hushed to a low whisper. Pro tip number one: If your fake eyelashes are casting a shadow all the way down to your nostrils, they might just be too long. Just look at her. She’s a beauty queen who’s basically a pair of sentient false eyelashes. Pro tip number two: You don’t have to show up like the Sephora store. Never go too heavy on the makeup.

Shhhhh. I shushed Miguel, for I never judged a woman by her makeup or the length of her eyelashes, even if she looked like she might take flight if she blinked too fast.

Clearing my throat twice, I said, Excuse me, are these seats taken?

The woman was on her phone and responded with a flick of her ring-laden fingers.

Miguel cut me a look as if to say, Does that mean the seats are taken? Or not taken?

I gave a shrug as if to say, Who knows?

Then we promptly sat down and started chowing down with enthusiasm, wasting no time with idle chatter. I didn’t care what Miguel had said. This all-you-can-eat buffet was a sprint and I intended to race like Usain Bolt to the finish line.

Midway through inhaling my pasta, the woman was looking distraught as she spoke into her phone. "I literally, figuratively, metaphorically, emblematically can’t and won’t even with you."

There was a fraction of a pause as she listened to the person on the other line.

Where’s your cutlery? Miguel hissed under his breath. Because you can cut this tension with a knife.

It’s in my hands, I hissed back, watching the exchange with nervous eyes.

Meanwhile, the sparkle in the woman’s eyes had dulled in the space of a blink. How dare you call me that, she screamed into her phone. You—you... bloated ballsack fuckup! You sit on your throne of lies! I’ll see you in court! You don’t mess with me. Not now. Not ever!

Uh-oh. That escalated quickly. I wouldn’t want to mess with her either. The rage in her voice was enough to strip flesh from bones.

Yeah, muthafucka. Because I’m Britney, bitch! Those were her parting words before she stabbed her phone, effectively ending the call.

Her breathing was labored as she sat staring at us as if she had just noticed us for the first time.

A beat passed.

And then another.

"Who are you?" she asked slowly.

I’m Adelaide, I said brightly.

And I’m Miguel Arroyos Mendoza—hard-hitting investigative journalist. He chortled. Ha ha! Not really. I’ve always wanted to say that, though.

I’m Britney. Just two words, yet she spoke with such purpose and confidence. She struck me as a force of nature, a woman who stormed fearlessly through life without compromising anything. Ugh! Can you believe that man? Britney chucked her phone into her leather tote and addressed the entire table, which happened to be occupied by me, myself and Miguel. Can you? Her eyebrows lowered ominously and the look she gave us nearly singed the hair from our heads.

Simultaneously, we shook our heads fiercely. Miguel plastered a smile across his face.

Following his lead, I forced a smile, practically splitting my face into two.

Britney didn’t return the gesture. In fact, the look on her face was so frosty you’d think she’d emerged from a cryogenic chamber. All these athletes need Jesus, I’m telling you, she barked.

Amen. Miguel nodded so hard I feared his neck would snap. They most certainly need Jesus.

"My husband had the audacity, the audacity to call me a fat See You Next Tuesday!"

A what? I asked politely.

Miguel coughed into his fist. A cunt, he hissed. He called her a fat cunt.

Oh, I get it, I said mostly to myself. "It’s a euphemistic backronym. See and you are homophobes for c and u, while the first letters of next and Tuesday are n and t. A pause as this sank in. Oh, bum! I cried. I’ve been saying ‘see you next Tuesday’ for years. How was I supposed to know it had an ulterior meaning? Should I be saying ‘see you next week’ if the day I see you happens to fall on a Tuesday? What about ‘see you next time?’ Is that frowned upon, too?"

Under the table, Miguel delivered a swift kick to my shin.

God, that’s awful, Britney, I said. Ghastly business. Simply ghastly for your husband to call you a... a... plump genitalia.

Soon-to-be ex-husband. An edge of rancor slipped into her voice. "He had the audacity to call me that while pretending to be woke. You call that woke?"

No, I said forcefully. Absolutely not woke.

Most definitely not woke, Miguel concurred. Turning to me, he said, Hey, gurl! I’m surprised you know all about staying woke.

I don’t live under a rock, Miguel. Of course, I know all about the concept of ‘woke’ being used as an adjective with connotations and nuances of how racism, sexism, classism, oppression, and social injustice affect our daily lives.

Sighing heavily, Britney said, That bastard has been having an affair with a nineteen-year-old.

Nineteen? Miguel squawked. If she were any younger she’d be an embryo!

Sweetie, I have house plants that are older than her. Britney rolled her eyes. When he showed up with her at the office, everyone thought it was Bring Your Daughter to Work Day.

Miguel laughed a little and Britney said, You laugh, but I’m serious. That’s how I found out about her. His secretary told me.

I’m sorry, I said earnestly.

She sighed again. "He’s going to screw me over in this divorce. I just know it. He’ll hire the top attorney in town and leave me with nothing. The calm in her voice was strained around the edges. I’ll be financially ruined."

Not if you act fast and conflict out all the top divorce lawyers, I offered.

Conflict out? Britney blinked once. Twice. And did not take flight. What do you mean?

If you meet with all the top attorneys in your area and reveal just enough about your situation, they can’t act for your spouse. Legally, they won’t be able to.

Meet with all the best lawyers? she mused aloud. Even if I have no real intention of retaining them?

Correct, I said. Once you share confidential information with these lawyers, it creates a conflict of interest. In short, you’re conflicting out the best attorneys so they’ll be prohibited from representing your husband.

Interesting. Britney studied me, her blood-red lips pressed together in a thoughtful line. This is for real? You’re not fuckin’ with me, are you?

Of course not, Miguel chimed in before I could. My friend over here is a great repository of useful and useless information. She’s Siri in the flesh. Ask her anything.

Britney repeated her question. So this is for real?

In the spirit of Siri, I said in my best Siri voice, What is for real?

I just need to be sure. Britney stared at us long and hard. "That there really is such a thing as conflicting out."

There is, Miguel assured her. You’re talking to a law school grad right here. He jabbed a thumb to his chest. And Adelaide’s right. Conflicting out the best attorneys in town is one of the dirtiest divorce tricks in the book. You’re essentially preventing your husband from getting top-tier counsel.

Thank you. Both of you, she added, looking meaningfully from me to Miguel. "This whole divorce is going to be a long, drawn-out battle. This is war and I must protect my assets. I must. And you two might have just saved me millions. I owe you. Truly."

Aw, shucks, I said, twirling my fork around a knot of spaghetti. You owe us nothi—

Here’s my card, Miguel said briskly. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he plucked out his business card and thrust it at Britney. If you ever need a stylist, call me. My rates are very affordable.

You’re a stylist? Surprise marked her features. What’s a law school graduate doing here working as a stylist?

Well, said Miguel, stuffing fungus into his mouth. I’m taking a sabbatical from law.

Cheers to that. Britney lifted her wineglass. After what Rex has put me through, I’m on a dick sabbatical.

Rex? Miguel almost choked on a mushroom. "Is your husband the Rex Rodgers of the Green Bay Packers—the greatest NFL quarterback of all time?"

Yes. That lying cheating bastard is my husband. And let me tell you, he’s not that great. Rex retired from the NFL a few years ago to start his own shitty empire. He might’ve been good with a football but that man is a horrible businessman. Birdseeds for brains. Nothing but muscles between his ears.

Miguel gasped. So that makes you Britney Rodgers?

Please, she said. Just call me Britney.

You’re the Queen WAG. Miguel spoke with a hushed awe, as if she were a legend.

A slight feline smile curved the corners of her mouth. What do you know about us WAGs?

Oh, I know all about the social hierarchy, Miguel said salaciously. Wives are at the top since they already have a ring on their finger; then the fiancées, who almost have the ring, but not quite; then the girlfriends, who are all vying for a ring; and lastly you have the groupies who are here one week, gone the next, and they never ever get that ring.

What’s with all the Frodo-like obsession with a ring?

And, Miguel added, I also know that you WAGS are what’s keeping the Spanx industry alive.

Hah! Britney gave a tinkling laugh. Not all of us are Instagram fitness models doing squats in our Lululemon and Fabletics.

You’re not? Miguel lifted a skeptical brow. You mean to tell me you don’t hawk Flat Tummy Tea, Blue Apron, and Hello Fresh on Instagram?

Hey, pal, respect the hustle. Britney repaid his cynical gesture with an arched brow of her own. I get where you’re going with this. When your life becomes one sponsored post after another, it stops feeling authentic. But Rex and I are the real deal. Well, at least we were, she said somewhat dejectedly. He and I met before he was drafted in the NFL; before any paychecks, status, fame, or diamond ring.

Oh, so you were college sweethearts! Miguel exclaimed, patting my arm dotingly. Adelaide, that’s just like you and Ender.

Britney sipped her wine, watching me