Isley Opposites Attract (First Comes Love, #1)

1. Auflage 2021
ISBN: 978-88-87269-53-6
Verlag: Pink Bloom Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 255 Seiten

Reihe: First Comes Love

First law of magnetism: opposite poles attract.

Single mom Vivian has been burned by love once before, and her job as a divorce lawyer has presented enough evidence to convince her there are no good men left in New York City.

The worst offender is her new neighbor: Dr. Lucas Keller, a couple's therapist whose piercing blue eyes and flawless dark hair are just as annoying as his bad temper.

And when Lucas starts poaching Vivian's clients by saving their marriages, she makes it her mission to force him out of the building to save her practice. But it's Lucas who gives her the perfect opportunity when he proposes an unexpected bet.

With their offices at stake, Vivian and Lucas play the field of love in a fierce battle of wits that quickly turns hot and personal, especially when Vivian's daughter gets involved. Now, taking down Lucas has become more than business for Vivian. It's become a pleasure-and soon, Vivian and Lucas will realize how pointless it is to fight the laws of attraction.

A fun, neighbors to lovers romantic comedy filled with heart. Be ready to laugh and swoon. Chick Lit Post

This is Camilla Isley at her very best, it's funny, it's touching, it has threads of a tricky storyline, and the banter and chemistry between to the two leads is rather evident from the beginning and it's just a sheer pleasure to read. Rachel Random Reads

Autoren/Hrsg.

Isley, Camilla

Leseproben

One

Lucas

A woman in a red coat rushes in front of me in the subway station, cutting me off at the yellow line marking the end of the platform. Chivalry prevents me from protesting aloud or asserting my right to board the train first and compels me to pause for a second to let her pass.

It’s one second too many.

The moment she steps into the subway car, the doors slide shut and the train begins to move, leaving me behind gaping like an idiot at the beautiful profile of the woman in red who stole my ride. I barely have time to take in the regular curve of her nose, heart-shaped mouth, and dark hair swept back in a bun before the train gathers speed and they both disappear into the tunnel ahead.

On the ceiling, the subway monitor informs me another train is due in ten minutes. Fingers crossed it’ll be on time; otherwise, I’m going to be late, and I can’t afford to be. I’ve spent months hunting for a new office, ever since the rent on my current space skyrocketed and I had no choice but to cancel the lease. But so far, I’ve had no luck. All the places I’ve seen were out of my budget or not to my taste—as in, they wouldn’t be to any sane human being’s taste, unless they favored dingy holes with no light, no windows, stained walls, and fifty-year-old carpet.

And the clock’s ticking—not just to get to my appointment, but to find a new place, too, as I have to move out of my office next week. In short, I have everything staked on the newly-renovated business complex I’m supposed to be visiting in less than an hour, assuming I can make it to Brooklyn Heights in time.

Luckily, the next train pulls into the station on the dot, and, with no other corner-cutters in heels before me, I hop in first and even find an empty seat.

Aha.

Now I can get to my appointment on time, and I don’t have to grab onto an overhead handle while being jostled right and left, as that red-wearing woman is surely doing right now.

Despite the unexpected setback, I reach my destination with fifteen minutes to spare; just enough time to grab a quick breakfast first. I find a Starbucks in my path that’s surprisingly not too busy, so I step in and give the female barista my standard order.

“Tall cappuccino, double espresso shot, easy on the foam. And a donut, please.”

“Right away, sir.” The young woman behind the counter smiles at me. “Could I have your name, please?”

“Lucas,” I say. “Luke is fine.”

Her smile widens. “Luke it is.” The barista rings up my order, and frowns. “I’m sorry, sir, it looks like we’re out of donuts. Could I get you anything else to eat?”

Disappointed, I take a quick look at the bakery display. “A blueberry muffin is okay, thanks.”

I pay and move to the other end of the line to wait for my drink. In my peripheral vision, I catch a flash of red and turn toward it… And why am I not surprised to see a heart-shaped mouth bite down on a mouthwatering, double-glazed donut?

What should’ve been my donut.

Looking away from both woman and pastry, I try to convince myself the muffin is going to taste just as delicious as the donut.

It won’t.

When my cappuccino is ready, I move outside, since it’s a sunny day none too cold for March in New York. I hate eating and walking, so I sit at one of the metal tables and sniff the muffin.

Mmm.

Halfway through my first bite, the woman in red leaves the coffee shop. She strolls down the street without a care in the world. Her coat flaps open as she walks, revealing a black skirt suit underneath. The skirt is so tight it forces her to take small steps, while her black stiletto heels make a click-clack sound as they hit the concrete.

That queue-jumping, donut-stealing witch. I hope I’ll never see her again.

I finish my breakfast and check my watch. Time to go.

The address Leslie—my new real estate agent, and the girlfriend of my best friend, Garrett—gave me brings me to one of those industrial rehabilitations. Before the area was gentrified, the complex must’ve been a factory now turned into lofts and offices. I take to the place at once, liking that history dwells within these walls and that the building isn’t a brand-new high-rise with no soul.

In the entry hall, I check in at the reception and they direct me to take the elevator to the third floor. The elevator is another surprise. Whoever remodeled this lot has an impeccable sense of style and kept the old freight machine instead of opting for a new, shiny metal box that would’ve clashed with the retro, historical vibe of the structure. The interior has been refurbished to transport people with a polished casing, while the metal frame has a distressed paint effect easily recognizable as a design choice rather than spontaneous wear and tear. Admittedly, the journey to the top is on the slower side, but, hey, one can’t have everything.

Once the elevator stops, I step out on the small landing facing three doors. On my left, a double set of industrial metal and glass doors is half-open. Behind its panes, white desks equipped with monitors fill the space. The office seems already running and busy. A bronze plate informs me these are the headquarters of Inceptor Magazine. Never heard of it. Must be some kind of hip startup, judging from how young and trendy its working force looks.

In front of me, there’s a closed wooden door—less glamorous than the glass one but more practical, perhaps. And, on the left, Leslie is coming out of a similar, regular wooden door.

“Lucas.” Her bright smile falters as she spots me, and my heart sinks with a surefire realization: I’m too late. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “But I’ve just rented out the office I wanted to show you.”

My shoulders sag, and because I must be a masochist, I glance beyond the wide-open door to get a peek at the space I’m sure would’ve been perfect.

Instead, I catch sight of a woman in a red coat bent over the single piece of furniture in the room—a white desk—as she signs the lease to my dream office.

Oh, hell no!

I barge in. “Not you again,” I say.

The woman jolts and straightens up. She turns to me, holding the papers in one hand and the pen in the other.

Big brown eyes set on me with a glint of curiosity. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Do we know each other?”

“No, but you cut in front of me on the subway this morning, making me miss the train. Then you ate the last donut at Starbucks. And now you’re stealing my dream office.”

The woman in red doesn’t so much as blink. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. But I know that as of a minute ago, I’m officially leasing this space, which means you’re trespassing on private property.” She calmly replaces the cap to the pen and drops it on the table, brandishing her papers at me. “So, I suggest you show yourself out before I call the police.”

My mouth gapes open. It takes all my self-control not to utter any of the many rude retorts streaming through my mind.

The woman walks up to me and stops, adding, “If I could make a suggestion, though, screaming at strangers isn’t a super healthy way to cope with your frustrations. Maybe you should see a therapist about anger management.”

I glare at her. “I am a therapist!”

“Really?” She scoffs. “I presume you don’t help people deal with self-control, though.”

“I’m a couples’ therapist for your information.”

“Well, I hope this is not how you treat your clients.”

With one last haughty stare, she exits the office and entrusts the signed lease to Leslie, who stashes it away into the black leather folder she’s holding in her arms.

Then, to my utter surprise, they hug.

“Thank you, Lee,” the woman in red says. “This space will be perfect for my law practice.”

“Glad I could help.” Leslie smiles, and hands her evil client a set of keys. “These are officially yours.”

Sporting a smug smile, the donut thief walks back to the door and pointedly stares me down. I’m still in her office; I’ve been petrified in here ever since Medusa put her eyes on me. I let out one last, defeated scoff and storm out of her precious private property. She locks the door, gives Leslie another quick side hug, saying, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” And then she’s gone.

The moment the elevator disappears, I ask, “You know that witch?”

“Hey,” Leslie says. “Vivian is one of my best friends.”

Vivian. So, the Gorgon has a name. “What kind of law does she practice?”

“She’s a divorce attorney.”

A Marriage Terminator, why doesn’t that surprise me?

“I’m sorry she snatched up the corner office,” Leslie continues. “But I’m sure we can find you another place.”

“Leslie, please tell me you have something decent to show me today, right now. I only have a week left to move.”

I’ve only recently switched to Leslie as a real estate agent, since my old agency could not deliver, and it isn’t fair to put so much pressure on her, but I’m desperate.

“As it happens”—Leslie shifts the black leather folder to a one-arm hold, and uses her free hand to fish a fresh set of keys out of her bag—“the office next door is still available. But you should know all the lots in this building are going fast.”

She unlocks the middle door. “Not a corner office like you wanted, but it’s spacious and bright.”

I follow her inside and assess the space. Not bad. The back wall is made of windows, in the same distressed...