Hot Wired: Five Wishes, #3

By Elise Sax

"Elise Sax will win your heart."—NYT bestelling author Jill Shalvis 
 
"Elise Sax will make you laugh. Her larger-than-life characters jump off the page and make crazy seem like a fun place to hang out."—Christie Craig, New York Times bestselling author of Texas Hold 'Em

"Fans of laugh-out-loud romantic suspense will enjoy this author as she joins the ranks of Janet Evanovich, Katie MacAllister, and Jennifer Crusie."—Booklist

"A fun read sure to entertain."—RT Book Reviews

Marie Foster is not a cheater. Nevertheless, she gets thrown out of college for doing just that. With her life turned upside down, she decides to try new things. You know…Get drunk in a bar. Pick up a guy. Marry a stranger, who just happens to be a hot billionaire.

Hot Wired is the sexy and hilarious third novella in the Five Wishes Series. Each novella is approximately 100 pages with no cliffhanger.

Five Wishes...A happy ending is just a coin toss away.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elise Sax
• Release date: Oct 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536569766

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

I straighten my tan suit, arrange my round rimmed glasses firmly on my nose, and take a seat on the bar stool.

What’ll you have? the bartender demands.

Well, between you and me, this is my first time in a bar, I say.

Congratulations. What’ll you have?

I’m an academic. I mean, was an academic. That means school.

Thanks for the definition. What’ll you have?

It’s awfully dark in here. Is that normal?

It’s so nobody sees your shame. What’ll you have?

I’ve never actually consumed alcohol before. I’m trying new things out, I announce to her. She’s about my age but a lot prettier, and she’s dressed like Beyoncé. I try to maintain eye contact, but I’m distracted by her ample cleavage. She’s got a lot of everything… hair, makeup boobs.

I’m thrilled for you. What’ll you have? she demands a little louder.

What do people who go to bars usually get? I ask. I want to be just like them. I’m going to be a bar kind of person. I’m not going to care about science or studying or reasonable hygiene.

Then you’re in the right place, she says. You can have what’s on tap or tequila shots. Your choice.

What’s a tap?

*

I’m feeling awfully warm, I say unbuttoning the top two buttons of my shirt. Is that normal?

Tequila makes everything normal, the bartender says. Now, you need to get out from behind the bar, or I’m going to have to kick you out.

I look around at my surroundings. How did I get back here?

"You sang I Gotta Be Me and when you finished, you climbed onto the bar and rolled over onto the other side. But now, you gotta get out from behind it. This is my territory, and I don’t share."

I believe her. She doesn’t look like the sharing kind.

Of course. I’m sorry, I say. I hitch my skirt up and try to lift my leg up onto the bar. But it’s no use. I’ve never been very flexible, and I can’t get my foot up there. I’ve no idea how I climbed over it in the first place because my leg won’t reach at all.

Oh, no! I shout. I’m trapped! I’ll never get out!

Oh, my God. Why me? the bartender moans. She puts her hands on my waist and pulls. Come on. She guides me to a table and shoves me into a chair.

You have the biggest breasts I’ve ever seen, I note. Huge. Do they give you back trouble? Do you find it difficult to balance?

I have a bat behind the bar. If you don’t shut up, I’m going to triple play your ass right to the hospital.

You can call me Marie, I say, trying to pat her arm, but I’m seeing double. I wind up slapping the table.

I was going to be Dr. Marie Foster, but Dr. Farrington said I’m a cheater, I tell her.  I’m not a cheater, big boob lady! My voice booms louder than the soft rock coming out of the bar’s speakers.

Okay, look, if you insist on talking to me, call me Layla, she says.

Layla, I say, giggling. Funny name.

It’s better than Big Boob Lady.

I didn’t plagiarize my Ph.D. dissertation, Layla, I tell her, truthfully. "‘Fluid Dynamics in Momentum Transfer of Chemical Species’ is all mine. The other guy plagiarized me! But they didn’t believe me. They kicked me out. Can you believe that?"

Rough.

Rough, I agree. Rough! I should be a chemical engineer! Now, I’m just a drunk bar addict. Just like all of these other people.

I gesture toward the room. It’s small, and I wonder how it compares to other bars. Are they larger or smaller? Are they all this dirty?

The other patrons are either drinking on their own, their attention focused purely on their drinks, or they sit at tables in twos. An older couple sits in silence at one table. A young couple is arguing at another table. In the corner, a young man and an older man are deep in conversation.

I focus on them. They’re both well-dressed. Custom-made suits. Fitted. They obviously have money, and by the looks of them, they’re talking about business. Successful. Suddenly, I need to ask them how they became successful.

Because I’m a big, fat failure. My whole life is ruined.

I get up and walk over to them. I tug on the young man’s jacket sleeve. He turns toward me, and I take a step backward in surprise. He grabs my arm just in time before I fall flat on my back. Whoa, you’re hot damn sexy, I blurt out.

I think you’ve had too much to drink, he says, looking up at me with a snooty, I-can-hold-my-liquor expression on his face.

You’re right. I didn’t know one shot of tequila could pack such a wallop. I punctuate my words by poking him in the chest with my index finger.

You got this drunk off of one shot of tequila?

Yes. Well, half of one. I knocked the rest over when I was finishing my song.

I think we’re done here, Jarrod, the older man says, standing up. He’s even snootier than the younger one.

Wait, I say. I didn’t get to ask you yet why you’re not a big, fat failure.

The older man ignores me and shakes Jarrod’s hand. I’m sorry this couldn’t have worked out differently. I thought we had a great future. But you know what they say about business.

Jarrod nods and I can tell he’s pissed. His jaw’s working overtime, and I debate with myself whether to warn him about TMJ problems and the wear and tear from grinding his teeth. But I bite my lip. I don’t think it’s the moment to discuss dental issues.

The older man walks out of the bar, and I sit down next to Jarrod. It’s not that I want to spend time with him, but the room is still spinning, and I sort of fall onto the seat.

Are you old enough to be drinking? he asks sensibly.

I’m twenty-one. So, I’m exactly old enough to be drinking. Are you old enough to be drinking?

His mouth turns up slightly in a grin. I’ve been old enough for a while now. I like your glasses. He’s leaning forward, which forces me to lean back. The close proximity is making me uncomfortably warm.

I like my glasses, too. I can’t see without them, and that would be unfortunate, considering my current company. I wink at him. Holy shit, am I flirting? Is this what flirting is? Am I doing it right?

Jarrod’s smile broadens. He has thick, dark hair, which is perfectly cut. It perfectly frames his perfect face and makes his perfect blue eyes pop. His suit fits him, perfectly, over his perfect body. Long and lean with a broad chest and strong hands. Big, strong hands. Perfect.

He’s got a lot of perfect happening.

"So, tell me how you made it. How did you get to be successful? Why aren’t you a big,