Beauty and the Book Boyfriend

  Beauty and the Book Boyfriend

  Copyright © 2017 by Kelsie Galvin

  Cover Design by Najla Qamber Designs

  Editing by T.K. Editing

  Formatting by Champagne Formats

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission - except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review - in writing from the author.

  Events in the work are fictitious. Any similarities to any persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental and not intentional by the author.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Other Books

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Playlist

  Acknowledgements

  Going Forward Excerpt

  About the Author

  Other titles by K.M. Galvin

  Twenty – Something Series

  Going Nowhere

  Going Forward

  Coming Home

  Moving On

  To Jericho Barrons, my book boyfriend and the ultimate beast.

  YOU HAVE TO UNDERSTAND, NO one ever writes a book thinking they’re going to become the next phenomenon. The chances are… well to say slim would be like saying Victoria Secret models sometimes diet. My reason for starting the Night Stalker Series was even more removed from ideals of fame and fortune.

  I was lonely.

  Remember that girl sitting by herself at lunch, probably…ok, definitely… with a book in hand and headphones on practically screaming “leave me alone”? That was me. It wasn’t until Creative Writing my senior year of high school that I discovered Makyla and Max.

  Makyla was everything I wished I was: beautiful, witty, and your all-around badass vampire hunter. I may have watched one too many Buffy reruns. And Max? Ok, this is embarrassing. See the thing is…

  I, Bellamy Strong, am a fangirl.

  Not an abnormal confession in the age of BDSM billionaires and teenage vampire heroes, except I created him. It raises the bar an extra quarter of an inch to accommodate that special kind of cray-cray. He is by which all real life men are judged and found woefully lacking.

  I lived all my dreams on paper with my two best friends.

  So how did everything get so out of control?

  Queue college montage.

  See that gorgeous blonde putting up yet another poster of Liam Hemsworth? That’s my roommate and soon-to-be real life best friend, Natalie Porter. She’s the one who begged to read whatever I was always tapping away at on my computer and rather than live any longer with a five-year-old, I let her.

  And… she loved it.

  Like really loved it.

  At first I thought she was bullshitting me, being a pal, but she asked to show some of her friends in the Writing Lab, and curious, I agreed. It took me about a month to compile a selection of short stories into what I imagined a rough draft of a novel looked like.

  Thank you, Google.

  It didn’t take long to get a reaction, as they all loved it too. I tentatively began to believe I might be talented, which is a weird feeling, let me tell you. They didn’t know me; there was no fear of hurting my feelings, so there was no reason not to believe them.

  Things happened rapidly after that. Submission to The Write Stuff Publishing House, two book deals, five books, and seven years later, I’ve got myself a hit.

  There are people wearing t-shirts with caricatures of Makyla and Max on them. People have tattooed my words onto their bodies.

  Forever inked themselves with the feels I’ve vomited onto a page.

  And me?

  Well, I’m still that awkward, shy, girl. Although I’m active in the book blogosphere, I’ve never gone to a convention. I’ve never done a signing or any podcasts. I’m practically a myth.

  Who is Bellamy Strong?

  In a world devoted to sharing lives online, how is it that I’ve managed to keep my privacy?

  I could say it’s because I’ve been busy writing, which is very true.

  But the real reason is because I feel suffocated by it all. These characters were mine for so long and now they belong to so many; everyone’s constantly pushing to have a piece of me, of them; they’re always wanting more, to know what happens next?

  And it was about to get even worse.

  I stare blankly at my computer screen with the email from Susan, my agent, blurring in front of me. I run my hand through my long black hair and blink the frustrated tears that fill my eyes.

  “Shit,” I whisper furiously, rubbing a hand roughly over my face.

  “You ok?” Natalie questions from her spot on our couch. She’s been with me every single step of the way. She’s my publicist, assistant, best friend, sister from another mister, roommate, sidekick, and soon-to-be travelling companion, apparently.

  “Natty, come read this.”

  I hear her get up off the couch and then she’s shoving me over to sit beside me. Natalie is my opposite. We are nearly identical in height and body, lucky for our closets, but while I have black hair and hazel eyes with an olive skin tone, Natalie rocks white blonde hair with light green eyes and is pale as snow.

  I hold my breath as she reads and then squeals when she gets to the part I knew she’d love.

  “You’re supposed to be supportive,” I murmur, resting my chin on my knees.

  She threw an arm around my shoulders. “Bell, this is great news! You’re going on a world-wide tour with some dude they picked out that looks just like Max!”

  “Someone who they think looks like Max,” I argue.

  “No, no, you didn’t read. They ran a contest of potential models who fit the description and your faithful fan base chose the one who looked and acted most like Max.”

  “How could they do this without me?” I whine, glaring at the offending email.

  “It would seem, my love, that you gave consent.” Natalie reaches over me and pulls up an attachment of the document that I apparently signed and squints before realization crosses over her face. “Oh, well, uh-oh.”

  “What do you mean ‘uh-oh’?” I demand.

  “What did I tell you about drunk working?” She glares, but I can see the amusement clear on her face.

  “When was the last time I got drunk?” I snort; I hardly ever imbibed.

  She nods her head towards the dated signature. “Feburary 2nd.”

  “No!” I wail, realizing what happened.

  “Your birthday.”

  “No! No! No!” I continue, having a full on tantrum.

  “You also agreed to dress as Makyla.”

  “Ah!” I scream.

  “Drunk Bellamy should come out more often. You’re going to make a ton of money, travel the world with your best friend—obviously I’m coming—and hang out with some super hot dude who looks
like the man of your dreams. None of which would have happened if sober, schoolmarm Bellamy was in control.”

  “Excuse me, I am not a schoolmarm,” I protest in outrage.

  “Babe, if you were wound any tighter you’d be in a straight jacket. I think this is a fantastic opportunity.”

  “I hate you.”

  “Go change. You have a meeting with Susan in a couple hours to go over logistics. Hence the reminder email. It’s like she knows you never meant to agree to this.” She cackles and then nudges me hard, nearly knocking me off the chair.

  “Loathsome troll.”

  “And wear something nice. Who knows? Maybe this model guy will be there,” she continues, already typing away with her new to-do list.

  “Harlot,” I growl, shoving away from my desk and stalking into my room.

  “It’s time to meet the world, Bellamy Strong. Live up to that last name of yours and let people know how awesome you are!” she calls out.

  “Oh shove it!” I call as I slam the door.

  I am not ready for this.

  I turn on my shower to the hottest I can stand and glare at myself in the mirror. Twenty-four years old, never left my home state, never travelled on a plane. I’ve always stayed securely in my bubble. College was the last big step I’ve ever taken, and I’m still living with the same roommate. Maybe it was time to push myself? God knows my parents would be thrilled.

  I get into the shower, wincing as the water hits my skin, and let the panic have its moment. I slide down the wet tile and tuck my head between my knees as my heartbeat fills my ears. Tears streak my face, indistinguishable from the water, and my whimpers are silenced by the music I switched on before getting in.

  I shake, cowering like a cornered animal, as I have my moment. I let my anxiety consume me because when I leave this shower, I have to be Bellamy Strong, Worldwide Bestselling Author. Bellamy Strong, scared, lonely, anxiety-filled girl has to stay here in this bathroom.

  To quote Highlander, “There can be only one.”

  I’m tired of being such a basket case.

  “Ok, Bell. Ok,” I whisper brokenly, clearing my throat. “Get up now.”

  My hands slap the tiled floor as I push myself up, clumsily locking my knees so I stay standing.

  “Enough now. That’s enough.”

  Grabbing my shampoo, I finish my shower and exit the stall.

  I feel empty.

  But that’s ok. It doesn’t have to be a bad thing.

  Baptized by my own fears, I leave that girl in the shower.

  “BELLAMY!” SUSAN BARKS, COMPLETELY EXASPERATED.

  I jerk around and smile apologetically.

  She blows out an annoyed breath and sets her laser gaze on me. Oh crap. “Look, sweetie, I know you’re nervous about this, but it’s time we take the kid gloves off. You’re young, successful, intelligent, and attractive. Your fans love you and the final book in your series is coming out in a few months. Own this time. Sit up straight and demand respect for yourself. Be proud. I’ll be with you all the way. From a distance, anyway. Now, your appointment is set up for tomorrow. You leave in three weeks for the East Coast leg of the tour-”

  “What appointment?” I interrupt, completely flabbergasted that all of this had been organized without my knowledge. But then again… I’m busy finishing up the most important book of my life.

  “Bellamy, please pay attention! You have a spa appointment tomorrow at eight a.m. Nothing major, just playing to your natural charms. Luckily, Makyla is you physically… well, amped up of course,” she looks me up and down, rude… ”so little needs to be done. Maybe more than a little, but not much.”

  I hold up a hand, halting her rapid-fire information dump. “Wait, you mentioned a Caleb. Who’s Caleb?” Cue Susan’s glare… again. Uh oh.

  “He’s the model,” she says flatly.

  “Sorry. Ok, Caleb is the model. What else?” I ask, scribbling notes. We go over merchandise, autograph tables, workshops, appearances, and a whole bunch of other things.

  At this point I’m just writing what I hear and not really taking it in. I figure I’ll show up where Susan and Natalie tell me to and go from there.

  Soon, I’m rushing out of her office with orders to begin packing, put my mail on hold, and a plethora of other necessities that need to be taken care of before the trip.

  I leave the The Write Stuff offices, heading towards my car, my head filled with cotton. It’s early July in Atlanta, which translates to air so humid you can cut it with a knife if you didn’t melt or faint first.

  I dig in my purse for my keys, yanking them out as soon as my fingers touch them. This, of course, launches a bunch of crap that somehow found its way into my purse out into the air.

  Ugh, I’m such a spaz.

  Growling under my breath, I bend down and begin shoving my stuff back into my bag.

  “Here, you forgot this,” a deep voice says from behind me. Still crouched, I spin on the balls of my feet and immediately fall flat on my ass when I see who’s behind me.

  Standing above me is Max. My Max. But that’s not possible, right? Maybe I’m having a psychotic break; the stress of the series is causing me to hallucinate.

  Max bends down, bringing us to eye level. His face is millimeters from mine. He lets out a breath and it washes over me. Actual breath. From his lungs. In. My. Face. I gulp in air, finally able to breathe, and that’s a little better. I blink.

  “Huh?” I croak. Brilliant.

  “I said you forgot this,” he responds, his voice filled with laughter as he waves a tampon in front of my face like a magic wand.

  Goddammit, it’s a super.

  My face fills with so much heat I’m surprised it doesn’t singe my eyebrows straight off. Jumping to my feet, I scrutinize him carefully. He follows my movements, standing to his full height, and holy hell he’s tall.

  At least a foot taller than my 5’4.” Just like I’d imagined. His hair is a dark auburn, so dark it looks like spilled blood at midnight; so dark it looks black until the sun hits it. His eyes are honey-brown, almost supernatural in their color.

  It’s supposed to be unreal because he’s not real. What the frick?!

  His face looks as if it’s carved from granite. In fact, every inch of him is defined. Light golden skin is stretched tightly over his muscles, and even though he is wearing a loose work out tank and track pants, I can tell he’s hard all over. I can tell because that’s how I wrote him. I’ve known him for almost ten years now.

  “Are you ok?” he asks, his eyes crinkling at the corners with concern.

  So many thoughts and words, too bad they’re all trapped in my throat. My hand rises on its own violation and… I poke him.

  I poke his chest.

  I touch him.

  Holy effing shit!

  “Oh my God!” I whisper-yell. Am I dreaming? I pinch myself hard and yelp. Nope, I’m awake. “Oh my God. This is not happening!”

  “Hey, listen lady, I’ve got a meeting to get to. Are you all right or do you need help?”

  “You-yo-you’re Max?” I stutter out and watch as realization dawns, his lush mouth tightening. Jesus, his top lip is slightly fuller than the bottom. Just. Like. I. Imagined. He takes a step back from me.

  “Now I get it. You’re a ‘Stalker’, right?” he asks, using the name my fans adopted for themselves. “Want me to sign something for you?”

  “You think I’m a fan?” I ask incredulously. This whole situation is surreal.

  “Look, you’re cute, but I’m about to be late.” He starts backing away, but I grab his arm. He can’t leave!

  “Wait!” I don’t know what I was doing; I needed to wrap my mind around this. He’s real!

  “Whoa!” he barks, yanking his arm out of my grasp. “Hey! Don’t touch me. Fucking hell. Aren’t you a little old to be freaking out about this stuff? I thought this was a book series for teens?” he sneers.

  Oh, no he didn’t.

  “Hold the hell up, yo
u jerk. Did you just insult your fans?” I hiss furiously. No way was he insulting my fans. They are all ages and I love every single one of them.

  “Look, I don’t have time for this. Grow up and get a life,” he says and then storms off. Man, he is beautiful when he’s angry.

  I mean, what an asshole!

  I grab the rest of my stuff and hop in my car. My hands grip the steering wheel, flexing periodically. I know that isn’t Max. That’s impossible. This is real life. That’s the model, Caleb whatever-his-last-name-is. This is ridiculous. He looks exactly like I had imagined. Too bad he’s such a douche in real life.

  Sighing, I start my car, grinning a little as a thought takes shape.

  He’s in for such a surprise when he realizes who I am. I can’t wait.

  What a douche bag.

  “And then!” I pause dramatically from my standing position on the couch.

  “Oh my God, what?!” Natalie cries in anticipation, lying underneath me.

  It’s Thursday night, which means it’s Roswell and Rosé Night, nothing better than wine and aliens. Yummy, Max. Yesss. So I have a thing for guys with that name… so what?

  “Bell!”

  “Hmm?” I shake myself out of my thoughts and look down at my captive audience, both literally and figuratively.

  “What happened next?” Natalie asks breathlessly.

  “Well, get. This. Shiz-”, hiccup, “-zle. He squints his melty, honey, super gorg eyes-”

  “Don’t ever write drunk, your vocabulary has taken a deep dive into shitsville.”

  “-and insults my age and basically said I’m way too old to like these books and that I should get a life. I mean!” I scoff so hard I start coughing.

  “I have a life! I have so much of a life! Can you even-“ I hop off the couch and walk over to my desk. “I mean, this is where I create! Hello? Life.” I do a quick run around our beautiful two-bedroom loft. “A super sweet apartment with, and excuse me, with exposed brick and a balcony and a wood burning stove. Hola? Life.”

  I run to my bedroom door and fling the door open. “Four poster bed with a down comforter sitting atop a pillow top mattress with cooling action, so no matter where you lay, it’s nicely chilled. Aloha? Life. Life! I have so much life! Natalie, our kitchen has stainless steel appliances.”