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Hot Mess

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Emma Hart

Language:
English
Book Information:

What do you do when the whole world has seen you getting down and dirty in a broom closet?

I, Elle Evans, am on the run.
Not from the fuzz—although that would be more exciting.
No, I’m on the run from the four-year-old private tape that, thanks to my vengeful ex, has probably already ruined my vlogging career.
There’s nothing like the entire world knowing what you look like mid-O.
Creek Keys, Florida, is a million miles away from NYC and the perfect place for me to hide for the rest of summer until I can figure out what I’m going to do.
Something that’s easier said than done since my new landlord’s daughter thinks you’re God’s greatest gift. Even better? Their beach house is right next to the one I’m renting, so there’s no getting away from her—or her hot, British dad.
Who most definitely does not think I’m role model material.
He might be right.
The problem is that neither of us can say no to her.
Or each other.

Books by Author:

Emma Hart

CHAPTER ONE – ELLE

It’s not every day a video of you getting fucked in a broom closet shows up on the internet.

You might think that it wasn’t the biggest deal in the world. I mean, who was Elle Evans, right? And why did it matter that her vagina getting pounded was on camera for the entire world to see?

Well, I’ll tell you.

Elle Evans—AKA, me—was one of, if not the, biggest lifestyle vloggers in the good old U S of A.

People looked up to me. People cared about what I had to say. They cared about my cushion covers and my mascara and my volunteer missions at animal shelters and all that other stuff that shouldn’t matter to anyone other than me.

But now, all they cared about that everyone has seen my ass. And my boobs. And what I looked like mid-orgasm.

And it was all thanks to my asshole, jerkface, sleazebag, total dickhead of a salty ex-boyfriend, Mitch.

It’s also why I was passing a sign that said, ‘WELCOME TO CREEK KEYS,’ a small Florida Keys island, hundreds of miles away from my apartment in New York City.

New York. Where the media was. Where the people who wanted to know why Elle Evans had made a sex tape lived.

Newsflash, buckos: Elle Evans didn’t make a sex tape. Her asshole of an ex did—without her knowledge, then posted it on the internet.

So I was on the run. I kind of wished it was from the police; at least then this might have been mildly entertaining.

But no, here I was, on the run.

From my own ass on the internet.

This was not me, let me make that clear. I never cussed, I never did anything inappropriate, and I was the most family-friendly vlogger in the world. I’d even reviewed toys with my niece, for goodness sake.

Elle Evans was wholesome, family goodness.

Until I wasn’t.

I wanted to stick my head in the sand like an ostrich and never come up again.

There was no coming back from this. If there was, it was like a one-percent chance. If that. That was generous. Nobody wanted their favorite vlogger to come back from this scandal.

I could see them now—the comments. I could go live right this second from the seat of my car and tell the truth: that I had no idea about the video, that I didn’t know it would be posted, that it had well and truly blindsided me.

But for every person who believed me, there would be someone who didn’t. Someone who would insist that I was saving face, that I was lying to make myself look better.

I knew I would have to address it sooner or later, but that was a problem for later.

Now, my problem was that I was on a strange island in Florida at the beginning of summer with nowhere to stay.

Yeah. I hadn’t really thought this one through.

I pulled onto a road that looked like it would guide me to the middle of town. I didn’t know. My phone had died around an hour ago when I’d hit the islands that made up the Florida Keys and I’d relied on signage ever since.

It was a wonder I’d made it here without getting lost.

All right, without getting lost more than once.

Whatever.

The further down the road I drove, the busier the sidewalks got. Nerves twisted in my stomach—if all these people were staying here, there was no way I’d find a place to stay tonight. Maybe even for the next few weeks. I would have to sleep in my car again tonight and keep driving tomorrow.

Shit. I was sick of driving. I was sick of everything. I needed to catch a damn break, because God only knew I hadn’t caught one since my stupid ex—

No. I wasn’t going to think about him again. I was only going to get riled up, and until I could figure out what to do about the situation, it wasn’t worth it.

I wasn’t going to spare another thought on that no-good asshole. I had enough to think about.

Like finding somewhere to sleep.

And judging by the gurgling of my stomach, I also needed somewhere to eat.

I drove for another minute or so until I pulled off what I assumed was Main Street. I could see the ocean, and I cracked my window so I could smell the sea air. A huge wooden building that had a sign proclaiming itself to be Crab Shack came into sight, and I pulled into the parking lot. Thankfully, I caught a space right as someone was reversing out, and I swung my car into the packed lot before someone else could steal it.

I blew out a long breath. I was starving. I was sick of prepacked sandwiches and fast food at service stations.

Hopefully, Crab Shack would have some good food.

If there was even a table.


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