Page 1 of Lovetown, USA

Lane

Next to me, in my bed, a naked man stirs under the covers, and I have no idea who the hell he is.

My skull pounds relentlessly. It feels like a pressure cooker that’s ready to blow. My mouth is cotton, and my eyes feel like someone threw me face down into a pile of sand.

I shoot another bleary-eyed glance at the naked man, then rummage around for my phone. I breathe a sigh of relief when my fingertips brush against something hard—not the naked man—and come up with my cell, but my relief is short-lived when I see the time.

“Shit!” I bolt upright, grimacing as the room spins like a disco ball. Speaking of…there may have been one of those in the mix last night.

Fuck.

Like my good sis Jazmine Sullivan said, I gotta stop getting fucked up. Thirty-eight is way too old for this shit.

I jump out of bed and somehow manage to get myself cleaned up in twenty minutes, which isn’t really a victory because I’m still gonna be an hour late to work.

I throw on a sheath dress and some earrings, sliding a bracelet on my arm as I walk back into my bedroom. I stare down at the naked man for a second, still confused. There’s a tattoo I vaguely remember licking. He’s handsome as hell. Strong jaw. Dark skin. Muscles.

I hit that handsome face with a pillow.

“Time to go,” I announce. “I have shit to do.”

He groans, and that’s familiar, too. When he sits up, he squints at me through one eye.

Damn. He’s fine as hell.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” I say, “but…what’s your name?”

He chuckles. “You’re funny, Lane.”

Okay, so he knows my name. That means we talked first, at least. But now he has the upper hand, and I don’t like that.

“I’m serious,” I say as I slide my feet into my heels. “Remind me.”

He reaches high for a stretch just as my eye catches the sight of a bra hanging off the lamp. I’ve never seen it before in my life. Is it mine? Is it his ? What the fuck is happening here?

Now he’s smiling at me. “Rashid is my name, sweetheart. I’m surprised you forgot, the way you were screaming it last night.”

I sit with that for a moment.

Nothing is coming back to me, but now I’m intrigued. And a little turned on. But also irritated.

“Rashid,” I repeat. “Cool. Put your clothes on, Rashid.”

I watch him dress, tapping my fingers against the side of my thigh because I need him to speed it the fuck up. I’m on thin ice at work. This isn’t gonna help.

On our way downstairs, he says, “When can I see you again?”

I stop in the kitchen to grab an apple cinnamon muffin. “Probably never.”

“You serious?”

I take a bite, wrap up the rest, and drop it into my tote. “I don’t date men I can’t remember. House rule.”

He laughs like that was a joke. I let my eyes scan the length of him, all six-foot plus inches of man , and remind myself that men are just toys for me now. Disposable. Use once and throw away.

I grab an apple from the bowl on the counter and hand it to him. “Let’s go, Rashid. Some of us have to work for a living.”

I look a fucking mess.

And not just because I fought through forty minutes worth of Atlanta traffic to get here.

My dress is wrinkled, my hair is falling out of my bun, and I’m wearing sunglasses inside the Peterson building like a self-important celebrity at a nightclub.

But I’m here.

“Rough night?”

I shoot a glare at Kassie, forgetting she can’t see my evil glare with these sunnies on. She snickers as I pass her cubicle.

“You need coffee?”

I stop walking and turn around. “Don’t I look like I need coffee?”

Kassie’s a freelance writer here at Verve , but she sometimes doubles as my assistant. I swear, I never set out to be the alpha around here, but for some reason, folks cower to me. Do my bidding. Try to please me.

Who am I to question it?

I’m at my desk with my head in my hands when Brittney, my managing editor, knocks softly.

“Oh my. You look like shit,” she says. “Are you okay?”

I lift my head slowly. “I’m hungover, Britt. Don’t act brand new. You’ve seen this a million times.”

Brittney and I go way back to journalism school, which is why we talk to each other any kind of way. On paper, she’s my boss, but we’re equals in every other way. The only reason I’m not the managing editor somewhere is because I derailed my own future.

But I don’t like thinking about that.

I know this is serious business because she has her iPad in her hand. I won’t be able to hear a word she says before my first sip of coffee, but I sit here with a pounding head, nodding while she takes a data dump all over my morning.

Metrics. Heatmaps. Acquisition channels. Scroll depth. Britt takes this shit seriously, as she should. She once broke up with a man because he didn’t understand what ‘bounce rate’ meant.

Kassie walks right in and sets the cup on my desk before scurrying out. Britt doesn’t stop talking as I sip my latte in relief.

“So anyway,” she says, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder, “all that to say Melanie is very impressed with your last three pieces.”

Melanie is my section editor.

And what is my section here at the fourth most popular women’s magazine in the country?

Get this.

Love and Relationships.

Of all the things. Of all the fucking things.

I’m kinda like the Black Carrie Bradshaw, except I know even less about successful relationships than she does about sex. But they really, really like my, and I quote, “biting, sardonic reporting from the front lines of modern dating.”

“All three outperformed projections,” Britt continues. “Very impressive.”

I shrug. “I’ll never get over the fact that people actually read my stuff. And take it halfway seriously.”

“Well, they do,” she says. “That’s why we have a new assignment for you.”

I have to remove my sunglasses for this. She got one more motherfucking time to pitch me that story about the yoga teacher who faked her own death to get a marriage proposal before I lose it.

I don’t like stuff that’s too on-the-nose. It’s cheap.

“What’s the assignment?”

She shows me all of her teeth. “It’s about a town.”

“Fascinating.”

“In Florida.”

“Gross.”

Her laugh bounces off the walls of my tiny office, making my ears ring.

“Listen,” she says. “Eighty-seven percent of people who move there get married within three years.”

I blink.

Stare.

Then blink again.

“So it’s a cult?”

“No,” she says firmly. “It’s a town.”

I take several more sips of latte, then slip my sunnies back on. “Are you sure it’s not a cult?”

Britt shrugs. “I guess we won’t know until you get there.”

I sit up straighter, ignoring my headache. “Shouldn’t you send somebody who still believes in things? Like love? And hope? And happiness? I mean, it’s one thing for me to do the cynical thing, but a fluff piece?”

Britt smiles like she knew that was coming. “No fluff. Just facts and your voice. You know, heart . Something that makes people feel something. Nobody does emotional insight better than you.”

I narrow my eyes behind my glasses. “That sounds a lot like a compliment.”

“It was off the record. You can’t use it.”

That gets a chuckle out of me.

“Am I able to say no to this?”

Britt stands and smooths her dress as she heads to the door. “In theory, sure,” she says. “But I wouldn’t if I were you.”

I nod.

She stands in the doorway, mighty pleased with herself. “I’ll get your travel stuff to you by close of business. You leave tomorrow. For…” she trails off with a playful grimace. “Lovetown.”

“Lovetown? Oh hell no.”

“It used to be called something else, but they decided to lean into it.”

I blow out a sigh. “Thanks, Britt. I couldn’t be happier with this assignment.”

She winks on her way out the door, and I sit back in my chair with my arms folded like a petulant child.

This is bullshit.

Corny, saccharine bullshit.

There’s no way.

No fucking way this is real.

It’s gotta be a scam.

I’m at the bottom of my latte when I realize maybe this doesn’t have to suck. In fact, this could be good. I don’t have to change my writing style for this after all.

I’m gonna approach this as an investigation.

And then I’m gonna expose that scamming ass town for exactly what it is.

Then maybe I can get my career back.