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Dirty Laundry (Get Dirty #2)

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Lauren Landish

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I’m a reporter, and I’ve got the best assignment in the world–get dirt on the hottest country star on the charts, Keith Perkins.
The sexy beast who rocks those tight jeans like nobody’s business.
I’m supposed to learn all of his Dirty Laundry, his deepest and darkest secrets.
Without sleeping with him.
Easy enough, right?

I mean, just looking at him makes me wonder what those big, rough hands could do to me. With a voice that’s one part velvet and one part growl, it’s hard for me to sass him when he melts me into a puddle with a single look.

And when he sings?
All bets are off.
He owns the stage . . . and maybe some naughty parts of my body too.

But he’s notoriously single and notoriously private.

Given his status as a walking sex god, neither makes sense.
Something is amiss, and I’m going to figure out exactly what it is.

But if I’m not careful, I might just become his dirty little secret.

Dirty Talk is a full-length Romance with a happy ever after, no cheating, and no cliffhanger!

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Get Dirty Series by Lauren Landish

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Lauren Landish Books

Chapter 1


Yes, sir. I’m on it, sir. By Monday, of course.” I sigh, rolling my eyes as Donnie, my boss, somehow manages to both ream me out for not delivering yet and make me feel like I can totally accomplish my latest assignment.

I’m not sure how he manipulates people so well, but he does. It’s a gift, I guess.

Hanging up, I look at myself in the mirror, making sure my disguise for today is in tip-top shape. I’m not famous, but my face is known enough that I want to be sure I’m not recognized. My blonde hair is tied up under a dark brunette wig that falls down in perfect mermaid waves, my usually slightly made-up face is fully done like I’m some YouTube makeup tutorial, and I’m dressed in casual clothes that scream money in quality, not flash. I’ve got on the one pair of designer jeans I own, a perfectly slouchy tee, and a fluffy soft hand-knit cardigan.

With the addition of my huge sunglasses and heeled booties, I’m off . . . looking just like one of the other millions of twentysomethings, out for coffee and to run errands. Which is exactly what I need, nondescript from the masses.

It’s nowhere near my normal look, but that’s what makes it a great disguise. Glancing at my watch, I realize I’ll need to take a cab if I’m making my first observation point on time. At least I can turn the receipt in for reimbursement because taking cabs all over the city is definitely above my pay bracket.

I hope Donnie isn’t going to be a prick on the expense report this time.

After a quick ride, I order a coffee and a blueberry muffin before sitting down at what’s become my table over the last week, taking out a notebook full of scribbled notes. To an interested observer, I’m working on a movie, or maybe a TV show, or something similarly vapid. I assume an aura of ‘don’t-fuck-with-me’ and pretend to work, which makes a great cover because I am actually working, just not on what it seems.

Keeping my head still behind the shades, my eyes move left and right, not missing a thing. From the obviously morning-after coffee date, to the mom juggling two kids while bribing them with muffins that look just like mine and will put those two into sugar overload in ten minutes, to the old man reading the paper. I’ve worked long and hard on these skills. They’re more vital to my career than the ability to type quickly.

It’s not long before my target appears. Keith Perkins, the country music star who’s topping charts and winning awards left and right. He walks in to order his morning cup o’joe. He’s not really in disguise, just wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but the missing cowboy hat and tennis shoes instead of boots seem to be all the disguise he needs to go about unrecognized in this town. Then again, this isn’t a big country town. I bet he couldn’t pull this off in Nashville without getting mobbed.

He tells the barista his name is Kevin instead of Keith, but I don’t think she even looks up. In fact, I know she doesn’t look at him, because if she did, she’d be drooling like I’ve been for the last five days since I started my assignment.

There’s something about the way he moves, like coiled power waiting to spring into action, that makes me hum with anticipation. Combine that with a build that’s tall and wide-shouldered, with powerfully built arms and a tightly muscled waist that’s so narrow that he can’t wear normal jeans without squeezing his thighs and leaving his waist baggy . . . the man’s walking sex on a stick. He’s infused with energy in such a way that you can’t help but wonder what he could to with it.

Or what he could do to me with it.

I shake my head, a small smile tilting up one corner of my mouth. As if. That’s never gonna happen. I’m not the sort who gets wooed and swept off her feet by handsome stars who then proceed to wine and dine me before making my toes curl. No. With my job, I have a better chance of my name ending up pinned on a voodoo doll than my body being pinned to a bed.

My job is to follow Keith and watch that fine ass and dimpled smile as much as possible to find out his secrets. Once those secrets are in hand, I’ll write a damn good story for the online gossip rag I work for. It’s not my dream gig. Hell, I’ve hated it at times, but it’s interesting and pays the bills. I wanted to be a real investigative reporter. I wanted to follow in the steps of Woodward and Bernstein, exposing the back-alley machinations and dirty laundry of those who really deserve it. Those in power who are trying to fuck the average Joe.

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