Bad Bridesmaid. Portia MacIntosh

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Bad Bridesmaid - Portia MacIntosh


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       Author Bio

       Acknowledgement

       Dedication

       Chapter 10

       Chapter 11

       Chapter 12

       Chapter 13

       Chapter 14

       Chapter 15

       Chapter 16

       Chapter 17

       Chapter 18

       Chapter 19

       Chapter 20

       Chapter 21

       Chapter 22

       Chapter 23

       Chapter 24

       Chapter 25

       Chapter 26

       Chapter 27

       Chapter 28

       Chapter 29

       Chapter 30

       Chapter 31

       Chapter 32

       Chapter 33

       Chapter 34

       Chapter 35

       Chapter 36

       Chapter 37

       Chapter 38

       Chapter 39

       Chapter 40

       Chapter 41

       Chapter 42

       Chapter 43

       Chapter 44

       Chapter 45

       Chapter 46

       Chapter 47

       Endpages

       About the Publisher

      They say there is no such thing as bad sex. They lie.

      After a couple of weeks of seriously steamy flirting with Zack Carson I just knew that there would be fireworks when we finally got around to getting it on – but it’s an uncomfortably hot Los Angeles night and, despite Zack’s best efforts, the fireworks just aren’t going off. Not even a sparkler. Not even a birthday cake candle. I’m too warm, I’m bored and my neck is starting to ache thanks to the overly ambitious position of Zack’s choosing.

      Did it occur to me that it might not be such a good idea to sleep with my boss’s assistant? Of course it did, but one look into his sexy brown eyes combined with his jet-black crew cut and his chiselled, model-like good looks and I was never going to be able to resist – and that’s before I realised he has a motorbike. Bikers are hot – especially tall, dark and handsome ones who are covered in tattoos like Zack is. Still, I’ve got nothing going on down there. I’m not sure how long we’ve been at it but I’m ready for it to end – even if I don’t get a happy one.

      I scoop together my long, honey blonde coloured curls and twist them into a bun on top of my head. This does little to cool me down but I know that as soon as I break out my GCSE drama skills (I just about scraped a C grade) I can pull a Meg Ryan and put an end to this.

      ‘That was awesome,’ Zack says afterwards, in his strong Californian accent – one that never fails to fascinate me, no matter how many years I’ve been here.

      I moved here when I was twenty-five, and in the four years I’ve been living and working here I haven’t lost my Kentish accent, not even a little. Everyone teases me for it; you wouldn’t believe how many Mary Poppins jokes I have to endure on a daily basis. Despite being born and raised in Canterbury, my American friends can’t distinguish between my accent and Dick Van Dyke’s attempt at sounding Cockney, and so the soundtrack to my life here will forever be ‘Chim Chim Cher-ee’.

      I watch as Zack makes himself more comfortable on the sofa. As I anxiously nibble my middle fingernail, I wonder how quickly I’m going to be able to get him to leave.

      ‘Could you fix me a drink?’ he asks, flashing me a big, toothy grin. ‘Whatever you’ve got.’

      ‘Sure,’ I reply reluctantly. ‘Back in a sec.’

      As I walk towards the sink I hear Zack call after me.

      ‘This is a nice place you got here.’

      ‘Thanks,’ I reply. I’m not surprised he likes it; it was designed with someone like Zack in mind. The interior of my Beverly Hills apartment is everything you’d expect of a lad pad. It is ultra modern, with clean white walls and huge floor-to-ceiling windows to make the most of the stunning view, perfect for the king of the castle. With its white walls, glass surfaces and the pretty LED lighting that runs around the room, the open plan living area has the vibes of a fancy hotel lobby. I can change the colour theme depending on my mood, but unless I set the glow to pink (as I most often do) you could easily think this was still a bachelor pad.

      The place came furnished (because the bachelor it belonged to met a girl, fell in love and decided he wanted to play house – sucks for him, great news for me) but the furnishings suit me just fine. The custom-made white leather sofa is a delight to sit on (it feels like Matthew McConaughey is hugging your bum), the kitchen has all the bells and whistles you could even begin to imagine (plus some I still haven’t figured out) and the bathroom could rival certain spas we have back home.

      You can tell the place used to belong to a movie star because when I moved in there was a huge wall-mounted TV – which I have recently upgraded to an even bigger one – and I loved the way he had framed posters from his movies all over the walls, so much so I did the same. I realise how vain that sounds, but it’s not as bad in my case because my face isn’t on the


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