Abundantly Attractive

By Tonwand North

How Much is Love Truly Worth?

Romantic Comedy | MM Romance | British Humour
 

Liam has a simple plan: find a wealthy wife and enjoy a luxurious life by the pool. He has the looks, the charm, and the confidence to pull it off. But when he lands the job as barman to the irresistible billionaire Lawrence Paul, his plan takes an unexpected turn. Suddenly, he's not so opposed to the future Mrs Perry being a wealthy Mr Perry.
 

But alas, bats, cats, rats, and reindeer are out to ruin his happily ever after! And with an empty fridge, and rent due, he can't afford to lose his heart or his job.

Hilariously heartwarming romantic comedy with sizzling chemistry, and witty banter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tonwand North
• Release date: Jul 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201599416

Tonwand North

Hi, I'm a romance writer who loves to create worlds where people find love and find freedom. My stories are about people who are brought together by fate, destiny, or luck—but most often by their own stubbornness and refusal to give up on each other.I believe everyone has an inner romantic and wants to be swept off their feet by an incredible partner—and that everyone deserves to have that kind of love in their life. My stories are all about finding your soulmate, letting go of fear and judgment, and finally embracing yourself so that you can truly be seen by someone special.And I promise: no matter what obstacles stand in the way of true love (and there are always obstacles), there will always be a happy ending.

Book preview

Contents

Title Page

Blurb

Copyright

1.Dogs’ Abuse

2.All Ducks—Go! Go! Go!

3.Soggy Pants

4.Passionfruit Pornstar

5.The Fairer Sex

6.The RoadHouse

7.Champagne Kiss

8.Starry Starry Night

9.Employee Relations

10.Just Dance

11.Special Delivery

12.The Height of Colour

13.Striptease

14.Sisterly Advice

15.#BossLife

16.VIP Denied

17.The Hangover

18.Shirt Tales

19.Cog of Fortune

20.Angels and Demons

21.The Aftermath

22.The Vice

23.Another Day. Another Dollar

24.Cats and Orphans. Oh my!

25.Animal Welfare

26.Hell Hath No Fury Like a Kitty Scorned

27.Deer Disaster

28.Jingle Balls

29.Perry Christmas 

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by

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How Much is Love Truly Worth?

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Liam has a simple plan: find a wealthy wife and enjoy a luxurious life by the pool. He has the looks, the charm, and the confidence to pull it off. But when he lands the job as barman to the irresistible billionaire Lawrence Paul, his plan takes an unexpected turn. Suddenly, he’s not so opposed to the future Mrs Perry being a wealthy Mr Perry.

But alas, bats, cats, rats, and reindeer are out to ruin his happily ever after! And with an empty fridge, and rent due, he can’t afford to lose his heart or his job.

Hilariously heartwarming romantic comedy with sizzling chemistry, and witty banter.

Copyright © 2023 by Tonwand North

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Cover design by: Tonwand North

Formatting & Editing by: Tonwand North

www.tonwandnorth.com

1

Dogs’ Abuse

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If the universe is listening, I need a wife. Ideally dark-haired, kissable and wealthy as fuck, ‘cause dog walking is balls.

I growl in frustration as I untangle eight leads for the umpteenth time. Why can’t the hairy fuckers walk in a straight line? Honestly, if this were Ghostbusters, the crisscrossing of tails would have blasted the park into an ashen wasteland.

Slow down.

I haul on the leads to no avail. The four-legged cannonballs are unstoppable. They score a strike, and I leap to avoid tripping over a tangle of furious neon spandex. I’d stop to apologise, but I lack the superpowers to halt doggies getting their money’s worth from their hour of freedom. Instead, I focus on remaining upright as my ego prefers to look the ladies in the eye than shriek past their ankles.

Fuck the ducks. Not like I could afford to feed them anyway, as my canine engine veers up the grassy slope where the death threats are less suggestive. Or not, as a swerving cyclist loses his seat. The entitled turkey has a cheek, screaming abuse and shaking his gloved fist. Totally his fault. Bikes should be on the path, and I’d give him the middle finger, but my digits are clinging to my pay cheques.

My neck cricks at the abrupt halt around a carpet of crispy leaves so nose-probes can snuffle for signs of female existence. Until I spot a vacant bench, snap the reins, and we gallop forward to state our claim.

Rust and splinters; it’s a heap of shit. No wonder it’s the only empty seat. I unbuckle my Avengers’ belt and thread it through the loopholes before fastening it to the top wooden spar. I’m a genius. If they awarded qualifications for acumen, I’d be an A+ student instead of the academic challenge I am. Still, my big sister might be the brains and career success of the Perry family, but I have the good looks and charisma. What can I say? The mother stork wept with joy the day my manly perfection popped out of the womb. Well, technically, it was a forced eviction. Mum claims I did the splits and got wedged in the birth canal. Clearly, I had a premonition of the Scottish rain, and baby Liam decided, no thanks, it’s a soggy world out there, and raised a foot above his head in protest. But what can a squatter do against a scalpel? Scream like a banshee claimed dad. Then we met and he fainted, says mum.

I stretch with a yawn. My heavenly presence can have that effect on people—taking their breath away. If Jophiel, the angel of beauty, had wavy blonde bangs, we’d be twins for Liam Perry is the sirloin of steaks—both tender and tasty.

Seated on my rustic throne, I check there’s no bird crap, empty bottles or crisp wrappers. It needs to be presentable to attract a wife. My attention zaps to the bright yellow triangle the troops are peeing and trampling over—a warning? Scanning weathered planks and rusty Fleur-de-Lis armrests, there’s not a lick of wet paint in sight. I exhale in relief. That’s all I needed—an arse like a zebra. After an ironing faux pas this morning, that caused an air vent in the left thigh, my black jeans are now my bestest jeans.

The sunshine brightens, sending golden ripples sparkling across a pond like a warm bowl of chicken nuggets. A gurgle gains momentum as it whooshes around my intestines, then builds for a dramatic symbol-clanging ending. I’m on a budget diet until payday. So instead, I inhale the fresh aroma of nature—Lovely. Azure skies, cotton clouds, crinkly brown leaves. Yep, bored. I whip out my mobile.

The sun needs to dim its torch. This is Scotland, not the Sahara. As I shade a barely readable screen, I dodge a bee trying to steal my nectar. Shit! It returns to impregnate me with bumble larvae, and I raise my phone and dare it to buzz closer. Bring it on. Argh! I dodge its flight path. I’m gonna get stung to death before I achieve greatness.

Dougie the Great Dane’s teeth snap, and he smacks his lips. I proudly salute before scratching his ears. If this mighty defender dies from the bee venom, I will remember his heroism fondly.

Wait, nope, nope. Sit. Down.

The bench wobbles while I heave its weighty fawn ass off my knee. And now they all want a cuddle. Eight canines demanding attention aren’t ideal social browsing conditions. I bark, Sit. And louder, SIT! Deaf and brainless. If they don’t settle, there will be legs missing. I point and growl, Down, but I may as well talk to the trees.

I consider dropping to my hands and knees to prove I’m the alpha dog when I remember the magic word, Biscuits, and sixteen ears snap to attention. Told you—genius. I point at the grass. Lie down, and they collapse like dominoes. Suckers. I kid you not. This brood would hand their firstborn to Rumpelstiltskin for a doughnut. Seriously though, the planet is full of wankers asking for your vote. If I were a politician, I’d give out chocolate buttons on polling day. I’d be King of the World.

Anyway, now that I’ve bought some meme time, my finger scrolls down the screen until an errant breeze ruffles my golden locks and I flick to selfie mode to check my best feature—the hair. Ignoring the message that pops on the screen from my big sister, Lizzie, I hone my how ya doin’ wink.

I’m in this nightmare job because of her coercive accusations that I wouldn’t survive on my own without mum and dad. Bitch—I am not spoiled. And at twenty-two, I’m an independent and self-sustainable man—most of the time. But I’ll donate my penis to science before I show weakness in front of my sister.

It hasn’t helped that I peeved off my seven-foot Yeti-boss in the first week. Not my fault, I’d like to add. When nature calls, you gotta go. How was I to know a dog orgy raved outside, and a class of fifteen kids were live-streaming canine reproduction on the internet? It’s not like I ignored distressed yelps for help as I flicked through an abandoned GQ magazine in the public lavatory. Still, nobody cares about my mental health. Traumatised I was at having to break up a lewd puppy love fest.

My skills are under-appreciated. The boss should award me a pay rise or employee of the month for achieving for free what dog breeders charge top dollar for. And I’m not mutt shaming, but my ladies had a glint in their eye and a curl in their tail when they waddled back that day. Best damn walk of their lives.

Instead, the Bigfoot picks out the wildest bunch to make my day as shitty as possible. Today it’s a pack of horny vandals who want to hump everything, including me, so I discovered when I bent to tie my shoelace. And the worst part is it’s the best action I’ve had all week. I’m cranky and frustrated, and it’s all Lizzie’s fault. Accusing me of using her pooch as a pickup tool. So what? Exploit is when it’s one-sided. Pookie got exercise, and so did I.

Seriously though, who would have thought a snowy Afghan with a pink bow would be a chick magnet? A four-legged siren that could lure the ladies from far and wide. I was rocking the sex leagues with romantic rendezvous every other night until accused of misappropriation and barred from taking sasquatch out for her evening stroll. Sex life unfairly shut down and doomed to a relationship of self-love for all eternity. Not that I’m against some me-time, just not every time. Big sisters are born first to get a head start on ruining your life. Still, Liam Perry is destined for greatness.

Mrs Finkle, the school career advisor, disagreed when she ripped up my work experience request to be a trophy husband. Some teachers are born pessimists. When I find my rich kitten, I’ll worship her with oodles of sexy satisfaction. So, fuck you, Mrs Finkle, you toffee-nosed Barbie with a stitched vagina. This Perry man’s an achiever, not a quitter.

Obviously, there are rungs to be climbed before I reach the hallowed Mrs Perry at the top of the ladder.

I carry out a quick tail count: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven... I straighten. Where’s eight? There’s a pooch missing. Pixie? A long-haired rat springs from behind a Dobermann. Be calm, my freaked-out heart. All paws are present and accounted for.

Floral perfume diverts my senses from counting tails to the black glossy waves cascading the shoulders of a possible Mrs Perry, now seated on my turf. I like a dark-haired vixen and a smile flashes across my well-practised lips as I slip the phone into my pocket. Believe me, the mobile doesn’t get put aside for just any lady.

A few lines around the eyes, but like Stacey’s Mom she’s got it going on. Her dark lashes flutter when our eyes meet and my groin twitches—be still my throbbing love stick. I go over the checklist: high-paid job going by the hand-tailored suit, and she’s got that I never lose quality about her. My insides purr; I like that. There’s nothing more seductive than a success-driven woman in top position. No wedding band and she has a cat screensaver. Perfect. A lady who respects and worships an independent creature. That’s so me.

I beam a ‘honey, I’m about to rock your thighs’ smile as my arm sprawls across the back of the bench. Fingers casually raise to wave in greeting. It’s a beautiful day. I turn to stare at the pond and patiently wait for my spooked wife to settle. You’ve got to show you’re keen but not pushy. See, I didn’t just use my sister’s mags as wank material—I read stuff.

She rises, but her gaze continues to meander down the assets. I’m a dog walker with no brains. She’s right. But let’s be honest; it’s not my IQ she wants in her check out basket. If I play it cool, a free dinner and some human reproduction could be on the menu tonight. And in my white tight-fitted top, this freezing body is a goose-bumped sculpture of manliness. As you’ve guessed, I’m not shy about pimping my masculine strengths to my advantage. I feign a stretch to show off a flexed bicep.

Whilst running fingers through my golden locks, a suicidal squirrel bounding my way draws my gaze. Halting to clean its whiskers, its beady eyes flick left—dogs. Right—more dogs. Then they dilate. Yep, it just realised its fatally flawed life choice. Needless to say, my peacocking goes to shit.

Run, you bushy-tailed rodent. It does, causing my breath to catch. Noooo. Don’t run this way. I don’t wanna die. Skippy needs to go back. Retreat. Instead, it mentally flips me its middle claw and darts between my feet. Fuuuck.

Death sharpens their scythe as the pearly gates squeak open in readiness for my arrival. I hate those moments that play out in slow motion when queasy panic floods from head to toe. My heart pounds in time to my guardian angel strumming its harp like a Fender Stratocaster as my delayed fight-or-flight response finally kicks in.

I attempt to spring to safety. But my butt cheeks have barely left the bench when a whippet scuds my right leg out from under me and dashes below in hot pursuit. I splat like a dropped egg on a cracking plank, and a splinter harpoons my arse cheek. Argh!

If only it ended there.

Survival urges help dodge Dougie’s hairy balls, blurring past my vision. I inwardly cackle Missed, but the tail doesn’t and cracks my cheek. Ouch! The last time someone slapped me that hard, my hand had wandered into a restricted zone. What can I say? I misjudged the situation—mistakes happen.

When my hazy eyesight refocuses, there’s a sense of weightlessness while the pond disappears from view and my white trainers roll over my head. So not good. My body rumbles, and my teeth rattle while air whistles through my golden locks. I twist my neck and scream, Fuuuck, narrowly avoiding decapitation by a fast-moving rose bush.

I think I just swallowed a bug.

The belt buckle snaps with a leather-ripping twang, and my cross-country freestyle grinds to a halt. My guardian angel huffs and carries its harp indoors while I lay sprawled on the grass after rodeoing a hijacked park bench. It’s a miracle I didn’t get a speeding ticket.

Satisfied my heart is still beating, I release a shuddery breath—I’m alive. Where was I? Dinner and sex with the future Mrs Perry.

When I part my lids, I’m dazzled by a halo with piercing sapphire eyes, and my heart skips. I’m no longer concerned my free dinner may have absconded because I’ve had an epiphany—I’m attracted to the wrong women. Beguiled by dark-haired vixens when true love was meant to be blonde, just like me. Our children will shine so brightly, mere mortals will need sunglasses to look upon their golden crowns.

I’m not criticising, but surely the universe could have found a more subtle way to steer me towards my happily ever after than stun her with a park bench. But love works in mysterious ways. Also, this might not be the ideal time for a hard-on. But the adrenalin pulsing around my system has got me quite excited.

Her focus softens with relief that her soulmate isn’t dead, and my heart melts at her tender expression. Since chicks dig a vulnerable mate, I blink large, gentle eyes at her. This wounded man needs the kiss of life. And it’s not fake. At the moment, my body might genuinely be broken.

I can’t lie. I’m smitten with the future Mrs Perry. Her gilded beauty reminds me of Thor, and I adore Thor. I always fancied a big hammer... like in a manly save the world way. Not in a gay, like my cousin Fraser’s way. And she has trimmed facial hair. BEARD!

I yank my hand off his thigh. I’m not sure who’s more surprised, him or me, as I bolt upright.

His hand grasps my shoulder. Wait.

Shit. Clutching my throbbing head, I collapse on the grass. I fondled a man. I’m concussed, obviously. If I was gay, I’d embrace it. But my dreams have never included a dude serving a Cherry Cosmo at the poolside tiki bar.

A squeak peeps in my throat when hands squeeze up my leg. What are his motives? His palms halt on my thighs. Better be my wallet those adventurous pinkies are searching for. Our eyes meet, and his rosy cheeks cause mine to burn hotter. I know I’m hard. It’s stress, and the adrenalin is causing the blood to pulse faster.

His eyes flick away from my groin, and he announces, Nothing appears broken. Is he a doctor? If so, he’ll deal with manly extensions every day. Still, my pride wishes I were a worm so I could recede into the ground or sprinkle salt, shrivel and die.

Slowly, take your time. He grasps my shoulder and helps me to sit.

My dignity is in tatters while I hold out my palms to assess the damage. Scrapes and scratches—they’ll heal. Dirt on my white T-shirt—it’ll wash. An unrepairable gash in the knee of my bestest jeans—Noooo! My bottom lip trembles as I pick at the fraying denim threads. If I find that squirrel, its tail will dangle on a keyring.

I bend my knees, and the golden knight clutches my elbows. Slowly. You might have a concussion. No shit. He was almost the mother of my child. Avoiding eye contact, I let him haul me to my feet. Unsteady legs wobble, and his arms sweep around my shoulders. Supported against his chest, there’s a waft of clean clothes and fresh deodorant while a palm soothes my back. You’re fine. Just breathe deeply.

I might look like a handsome damsel in distress, but I come with male pride and an easily offended ego. So I shrug from his embrace and assure him, and everyone gawking, I’m fine.

Catching my wrists, he examines the grazes on my palms. You should disinfect the wounds.

He’s in running gear, but I can tell by the limited-edition Omega watch and confident stance Thor doesn’t lack money. I drop my gaze and release his hands. It’s a shame I don’t swing for his team for the direct way he’s staring in my eyes; a free dinner could be back on the menu. Thanks, I will do, I tell him, scratching my ear and wincing at the sting. Aren’t benches usually fixed to the ground? I ask.

Yes. His lips morph into a smirk. You must have missed the sign.

Ahh shit, yellow warning triangle. I flash him a wry smile. Don’t sit on the bench?

Under park maintenance. His shoulders shudder, and he raises his hands in apology. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to laugh. It was just so... unexpected.

I’m sure my brush with death was hilarious. If the scythe had swung any closer, I wouldn’t have needed to shave my three straggly chin hairs. It pisses me off I can’t grow a beard. I follow his gaze to the ravaged bench and the deep ruts in the grass trailing to where it all began. Ten years from now, I’ll reminisce and laugh too, but not while my ass still throbs from grass burns. My hands grasp my butt cheeks, and I sigh in relief that they’re not exposed.

Are you sure you’re okay?

I feign a smile. I’ll live.

After thanking my golden knight for his help, I walk away. Or, more precisely, limp like an enraged hunchback.

Swiping grass blades from my thighs, I murderously search for a stray pack of canine vandals. I spy angry youths cursing at a burst football and further away, parents calming a distraught child. Doesn’t require a detective to deduce which direction the criminal fuckers have gone.

Man’s best friends? My ass.

2

All Ducks—Go! Go! Go!

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I’m so done with this day. First, I had to replace ice cream. Then flee from angry youths and finally retrieve a gnawed cane from a pond and return it to a blind man. Hence, I’m an hour late when I hobble into the kennels with eight muddy, flora-trailing Houdinis. Anyway, the boss has a squint, so it’s not like he’ll notice. But before I can sneak out, the looming figure of a Yeti summons me into his office.

I step back when he towers over me. There’s a deep furrow on his forehead and a pulsing vein at his temple. My gaze darts to the spade against the wall. Not the best timing to wonder what happened to the last employee. I have wealthy playboy ambitions. I don’t want my headstone to read death by spade, or I’ll go down in history as a gardener. So, I babble, Why don’t you charge extra for the additional time?

He’s not impressed with my financial astuteness while he bays in a language I don’t understand. Although, I’m