Two Wedding Crashers by Meghan Quinn is available now!

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I don’t know what love is anymore.

Well, that’s not entirely true, but I’m going to tell you a little secret: I’ve lost the spark.

You know the kind of spark I’m talking about?

Where butterflies take flight in your stomach from two hands innocently colliding. Or catching your breath when you first meet someone attractive. Yeah, that spark.

Except I haven’t felt that feeling in forever; there is nothing left inside of me.

Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem–but I’m a writer on a serious deadline, and my editor is breathing down my neck for a romantic, Nicholas Sparks type love story. No pressure, right?

That’s how I find myself flying across the country to crash a wedding in the name of research, dress and heels stuffed into my small suitcase.

It should be the easiest book research ever. Drinking some free champagne, basking in the love of two strangers, and tapping into my romantic side. That will be a breeze. I’m a pro. I can handle this.

Until I mistakenly end up in the wrong hotel room, naked as the day I was born, with the sexiest human I have ever met staring me down, wondering what I’m doing taking a shower in his bathroom. I don’t think calling it research will get me out of this pickle.

Excerpt

“What brings you to Key West, Beck?”

I feel like that’s a question I should have asked a while ago but with the whole naked hotel room exposure—which I have yet to tell my friends about—and the sweatshirt burial, we haven’t had a real chance to get to know each other. Not that I’m complaining all too much. What I know about Beck so far is that he’s a gentleman and likes to have a good time, even if that means torching a sweatshirt and sending it on it’s way.

There aren’t many people I know who would stand there, hand over heart, talking about the thread count of a sweatshirt while fake crying.

The corner of my lips pull up just from the image of Beck wiping “tears” from his eyes with the back of his index finger.

“Do you want the truth, or do you want a fabricated lie that will cause you to fall madly in love with me?”

Chuckling, I answer, “Both.”

“Fair enough.” Beck pushes his foot against the sand below us, sending the hammock into a relaxing swing. “Want the truth or the lie first?”

“Hmm, how about I guess which is which.”

“Ah, things are about to get exciting.” He chuckles and rubs his hands together. “Okay, reason number one.” He clears his throat. “I’m attending a wedding this coming weekend, a wedding I wasn’t invited to, but my friend begged me to attend because he wanted to bone his wife without children around. It doesn’t make sense, but hey, I’m a good friend so here I am.”

Errr, that’s eerily familiar. I swallow a little harder than expected. There is no way he’s crashing a wedding like me. That’s only something a desperate author does in order to find signs of love again. “Okay, reason number two.”

“My sister is getting married this weekend and I’m giving her away. Our dad passed away a few years ago from a heart attack, and even though we’d been estranged for two years, she asked if I would be a part of her wedding. So here I am.”

Silently he swings us, my mind whirling with what the truth could be. Both stories were told so effortlessly, so he’s either a really good liar, or some kind of con artist. I should be scared. I should go to my hotel room right now, wishing Beck a good night, but I don’t, because I’m intrigued by this man. Behind the good looks and intelligence, there’s something beneath the surface, something dark that makes understandable the age in his weathered eyes.

Because of that, I go with option number two. It seems the most plausible, because who really crashes weddings? Only crazed women with the tendency to sit in a bush with a notepad and pen and take notes while staring at couples and listening in on their conversations.

Research and all, it comes at a high price, like spikey branches to the tush.

“Hmm, I’m going to go with reason number two.”

He nods and says, “I knew you were going to say that, but you’re pretty little self is wrong. I don’t even have a sister.”

Stunned, I prop myself up as best as I can on the loose woven thread of the hammock and stare him down. “You’re here to crash someone’s wedding?”

He winces. “Uh, yeah, kind of.”

“Unbelievable.” I shake my head in disbelief and lie back down.

“Now before you judge me and give me a lecture about RSVPing—”

“I’m not judging you.” I turn toward Beck, the hammock making the shift slightly difficult. “I’m just a little . . . surprised.”

“I don’t plan on eating any food.” He bites his bottom lip. “That’s a lie. I plan on eating a lot, but hey, I’ll bring the party to the dance floor. If anything, I’m bringing them the gift of dance, so you can’t be mad at me for that.”

“I’m not mad.” I laugh, still surprised. “I’m just trying to comprehend this.” Looking him square in the eyes, I say, “I’m here crashing a wedding as well.”

This causes Beck to sit up, his brawny chest straining the fabric of his shirt. He intently studies me, his eyes flitting back and forth until he finally asks, “You’re serious? You’re really crashing a wedding?”

I press my lips together and nod.

A sharp laugh escapes Beck as he lies down on the hammock and sends our swing into more of a frenzied movement. “I’m just going to assume, given our luck of baby puke, naked encounters—”

“I knew you saw boobs.”

“I didn’t see . . . ah hell, what’s the point? I totally saw your tits and fuck, woman, they’re hot.” I blush . . . horrendously, my face heating up along with every vein in my body. “But like I was saying, with our luck, we’re going to the same wedding.”

Clearing my throat, trying to move past the part where Beck just made my nipples harden and pop out like turkey thermometers, I lamely say, “Yeah, that would be our luck.”

“Let me guess, wedding is on Saturday at The Hemingway House.”

Cue another rush of heat to eclipse my body. “The one and only.”

He nods and lies there silently for a second before saying, “So what you’re telling me is that I have a date for the wedding Saturday night.”

Not expecting him to say that, I laugh out loud and for some reason say, “I’m wearing teal, in case you want to match and take couple pictures. You know, might as well do the whole couple thing up, right?”

This garners, a deep, low, rumble of a laugh from Beck. “Thank God I packed grey pants with a white button-down. There won’t be any kind of clashing in those couple photos.”

“Nope, not even in the slightest.”

About the Author

Born in New York and raised in Southern California, Meghan has grown into a sassy, peanut butter eating, blonde haired swearing, animal hoarding lady. She is known to bust out and dance if “It’s Raining Men” starts beating through the air and heaven forbid you get a margarita in her, protect your legs because they may be humped.

Once she started commuting for an hour and twenty minutes every day to work for three years, she began to have conversations play in her head, real life, deep male voices and dainty lady coos kind of conversations. Perturbed and confused, she decided to either see a therapist about the hot and steamy voices running through her head or start writing them down. She decided to go with the cheaper option and started writing… enter her first novel, Caught Looking.

Now you can find the spicy, most definitely on the border of lunacy, kind of crazy lady residing in Colorado with the love of her life and her five, furry four legged children, hiking a trail or hiding behind shelves at grocery stores, wondering what kind of lube the nervous stranger will bring home to his wife. Oh and she loves a good boob squeeze!

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“Good Morning Malibu, it’s another beautiful day on the west coast! I’m Noely Clark, your host: and I’m in the market for love…”

When the publicity team of the new local restaurant, Going in Blind, began their search for a hot, local celebrity to promote the wildly popular eatery, they couldn’t have found a better person than me.

Outgoing? Check.
Single? Check.
Open to finding love? Check.

I signed up immediately.

A hopeless romantic with an exceedingly demanding schedule, I’ve found it impossible to find the man of my dreams—so Going in Blind seems too good to be true! That’s until they start setting me up on dates—three very different, very attractive, very distinct blind dates—and only one thing is for certain . . .

I’m in big trouble.

Good Morning Malibu,
I’m Noely Clark, and I have a choice to make.
The question is who will I choose; the suit, the rebel, or the jock

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Excerpt

With both hands, I grip the tumbler and pour it back in my mouth like I’m trying to get the crumbs out of an almost-empty chip bag. The liquid burns my throat once again, but I welcome it. I welcome the shudders, loving how I can feel my body starting to float. I have one more glass, because why not? Yes, this was a good idea. A very good idea. I just need to loosen up, find my groove, feel the blind date—

“ShopGirl?”

I spin around in my chair, probably a little too fast, given I need to grip the back of my chair to steady myself.

“IceBiscuit?” My eyes don’t meet his. Instead, I’m at nipple level, taking in his very broad and muscular chest. Wow. Heat rises to the back of my neck, and I know it’s not the whiskey; it’s the powerful chest right in front of me, and are those . . . are those his pecs? They’re all defined and large and yummy and . . . sigh. Curiosity pops out of me before I can stop myself, and I poke his chest. When I’m greeted with a firm bounce, I giggle to myself. “Pecs,” I mutter under my breath. Yep, yummy indeed. IceBiscuit is putting the work in at the gym and not shoving cheesesteaks down his throat. Hand on his chest, my fingers diddling his shirt, I look up to find a very confused but familiar face.

Shit.

Crap.

Oh God.

Have you ever felt all the blood in your face leech out of you, as if every last piece of color drains from your features and falls to the floor from total and utter embarrassment?

Try not only diddling your date’s chest, but diddling the one and only Hayden Holmes’s chest.

Shaking my hand away, as if he’s burned me. I stand from my chair but stumble forward. Clearly, heels and whiskey don’t mix. I fall to my knees and curse under my breath. I pop up quickly, my legs feeling like a newborn calf’s, and throw my arms up in the air like a gymnast on her dismount. To add to the embarrassment, I say, “Nine point five, not a perfect ten, but I’ll get there.” I laugh nervously and right my shirt, while lowering my arms. “They don’t score like that anymore, but who’s really going to say fourteen-point-two-six-seven? I mean, especially when the viewers don’t know the degree of difficulty. You know?” Hayden just stares at me, so to put that final nail in my coffin, I punch his arm and say, “Gymnastics, am I right?”

Exposed and embarrassed, I glance at Danny, who’s watching from a distance with a look that says, I told you so. In my head, I shout back at him, “Shut up, Danny!”

Hayden reaches behind his neck and pulls on it, his large bicep flexing beneath his shirt. He’s dressed casually in a dark pair of jeans and tight-fitting, long-sleeved shirt. “Uh, are you okay?”

“Yep, fit as a fiddle.” I motion with a low fist pump across my body, as if to say, just dandy. Although I’m thinking just dandy would have been better than fit as a fiddle. Who can really know at this point? They’re both something my grandpa would say with a hop and a click of his heels in the air.

“Good.” He looks around, scanning the restaurant. “Never thought I’d run into you here. Are you ShopGirl?”

“I am but you can call me, Noely. Noely Clark.” I awkwardly grab his hand from his hip and shake it. “Nice to meet you.”

Puzzled, Hayden laughs. “I remember who you are, Noely.”

“Oh yeah, of course.” I pat my legs and say, “This is weird. I, uh, I didn’t think I would be matched with you, so I’m feeling nervous and intimidated. Because, you know, you’re all hot and whatnot with your hockey body and strong thighs and nice hair. And I’m sure if you turned around right now, I would see your high, tight ass.” My hands cup together and my face scrunches as I form a tight ass for him.

Note to self.

Whiskey equals truth serum. Shit. Shit and double shit. Why tonight? Why Hayden?

“Thanks.” He chuckles and looks over my shoulder. “Started early on the drinks?”

“Maybe.” I bite my bottom lip. “Third blind date and rough day equals more drinks for me.”

Hayden knowingly nods. “Got ya. Should we get some food in you so you don’t pass out onto your dinner?”

“Good idea.” I bop his nose, hating my inability to stop my hands from doing stupid things.

Hayden holds out his arm to me, which I take no time in grabbing. Ooo, so many muscles. I can feel his forearm rippling beneath my palm. Forearms are the new abs. I’m calling it now.

Born in New York and raised in Southern California, Meghan has grown into a sassy, peanut butter eating, blonde haired swearing, animal hoarding lady. She is known to bust out and dance if “It’s Raining Men” starts beating through the air and heaven forbid you get a margarita in her, protect your legs because they may be humped.

Once she started commuting for an hour and twenty minutes every day to work for three years, she began to have conversations play in her head, real life, deep male voices and dainty lady coos kind of conversations. Perturbed and confused, she decided to either see a therapist about the hot and steamy voices running through her head or start writing them down. She decided to go with the cheaper option and started writing… enter her first novel, Caught Looking.

Now you can find the spicy, most definitely on the border of lunacy, kind of crazy lady residing in Colorado with the love of her life and her five, furry four legged children, hiking a trail or hiding behind shelves at grocery stores, wondering what kind of lube the nervous stranger will bring home to his wife. Oh and she loves a good boob squeeze!

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