Falling for Grace: Funny sexy chick lit (Wellywood Romantic Comedy Book 3)
If you're going to fall off a catwalk and into someone's arms, you could do a lot worse than choosing handsome Sam Montgomery's, star of the hottest sci fi show on TV.
So when twenty-four year old Grace Mortimer does just that, her life is turned upside down.
Sam is gorgeous, funny, and too sexy for words. But he's got a girlfriend, America's newest sweetheart, the very beautiful TV star Vanessa Hudson. With his Hollywood lifestyle he's got to be a no-fly zone, that's for sure. So why does he insist on being Grace's knight in shining armor? And why can't she stop her legs turning to jelly every time he's around?
Just as her new career is about to take off, a disastrous TV appearance sends her spinning--right back into Sam's arms again, the one place she shouldn't be.
Escape to beautiful New Zealand in this sexy, feel-good romantic comedy.
FINALIST for the 2017 RONE Award for Chick Lit/ Women's Fiction!
Suitable for readers 16+
Books in the Wellywood Romantic Comedy Series:
0. Wedding Bubbles (short story prequel)
1. Styling Wellywood
2. Miss Perfect Meets Her Match
3. Falling for Grace
Best Book Bit:
I turn in time to the music and begin to walk towards the centre of the catwalk. It’s all working beautifully. I begin to relax into it, confident I know the choreography. I’m actually enjoying this now. What was I worried about? I’m acing this!
Suddenly, without warning, the bra strap stretched across my back somehow breaks its clasp, slapping my arm with a painful whack.
The bra begins to lift. This can’t be good.
Potential public nudity alert!
What am I going to do? Quick thinking, Grace. Immediately I clamp my arms to my side, managing somehow to secure the edges of the strap under each arm. I can feel the bra slipping up my chest. I grab it with both hands before it has the chance to ping off and ricochet around the auditorium.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. The traffic lights are still flashing, the cars are still circling. Everything is in place: calamity averted.
I risk a quick glance down to check nothing’s poking out where it shouldn’t be. All good. I heave a sigh of relief.
This will be a funny story for backstage after the show.
I look around me. I’m now out of sequence with the other models! I need to get to the front of the stage—and fast.
I put my head down, assume my racing car stance, and head as quickly as I can to the front of the stage. God, I hope the audience thinks this is just part of the choreography.
I reach the front of the stage and prepare to step into place. Ordinarily I would be here by now, posing and ready for what happens next.
The circular stage begins to rotate. No! Wait! I’m not there yet! I wobble in my sky-high heels.
This can’t be happening.
My instinct is to steady myself with my arms, like an aeroplane. It works.
As I straighten up I hear gasps and murmurs from the audience.
I look down. Oh, God. Racy Rubber has ridden up my body. I’m flashing the entire audience!
My throat tightens in panic. Think, Grace, think! I grab the bra and pull it back into place, successfully covering my modesty. As I do so I step one foot off the rotating stage. With the other foot still on the move I lose my balance and stagger towards the edge of the stage, trying to regain my equilibrium.
Suddenly everything goes into slow motion. It’s like I’m watching a movie of a girl gracefully falling through the air to slow orchestral music, everyone around her frozen in time.
But this isn’t a movie and I’m not watching a girl fall gracefully at all. It’s me, and it’s far from graceful.
By now the bizarre bra is up around my neck. With my arms flailing I’m forced to leave it there. Having teetered off the edge of the stage I know I’m hurtling towards the ground and I can’t do anything to stop it.
I can almost hear my big sister Brooke’s voice in my head, describing me as a bumbling hippo on roller-skates.
Damn her—why does she have to be proved right tonight, of all nights?
I just know this is going to hurt.
I clench my eyes shut, preparing for the inevitable impact of hard, unforgiving ground.
Instead, soft, strong, safe arms envelop me, pulling me into a warm, solid chest. Still in slow motion, a hand pulls my bra back down, restoring my modesty.
Realising I’m not about to break a leg—or worse—I look up into the most mesmerizing blue eyes I’ve seen in my life.
Holy crap. I didn’t know they made eyes like that.
And the face: so gorgeous it would make angels weep.
My breath hitches in my chest.
“Well, hello there.” A smile creases the handsome face looking down at me. “I suppose this is one way to meet.”
His voice is like liquid honey, running over me. What sort of accent is that? Irish?
Oh, my god. This. Man. Is. Hot!
I gaze up at him, enjoying the feel of his body, his arms holding me close. I take in his sandy blonde hair, his strong jaw, his five-o’clock shadow. I blink at him, my body feeling like it’s been slammed into a wall.
A warm, solid, extremely sexy wall.
It’s as though everything around us has become a blur, and there’s no one but the two of us in the universe. My legs turning to jelly. Lucky he’s holding me because I don’t think I could stand right now for all the chocolate in Belgium.
Butterflies flutter in my belly, right on cue.
Concern clouds his face. “Are you quite all right?
I open my mouth to speak. Fail. I close it and open it again. Still nothing. I must look like an oversized goldfish, nibbling on kibble.
So not my best look.
The thump of the music bursts into my consciousness. Crap! I fell off the catwalk!
I look back at him. He’s like some sort of knight in shining armour, but sexy, oh-so very sexy.
A flush rushes up my neck and burns my cheeks.
I laugh nervously. “I’m… err… I’m sorry.”
Well at least my voice is working, even if my body feels like a blob of jelly.
Still holding me in his arms—don’t let go, please don’t let go—his mouth curves in an easy smile, his insanely blue eyes locked with mine. “Thank God you’re alright. You had me worried for a moment there.”
I melt further into him. That accent is sex-on-a-stick. Is it English? Somewhere in the north, perhaps?
I shake my head. “I’m fine. Thank you, thank you so much.” One side of my face suddenly stings. I reach my hand up to feel it, touching blood.
“You’re hurt,” Mr Sexy Knight says.
“Oh, it’s nothing. It’s… f-fine,” I stutter.
He puts me down so I’m standing next to him. He seems instinctively to know my legs are far from fully functioning just yet as he wraps a steadying arm around my waist.
“Here.” He reaches in and pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket.
Who carries a handkerchief? This guy is old school.
I suck in air as he dabs the cut.
“It’s just a graze.” He smiles at me.
A blush creeps up my face.
A loud cheer erupts, popping our private bubble. I’m abruptly aware of the thousands of people around us. I’m hit by embarrassment so intense I could curl up and die on the spot.
With reluctance I tear my eyes away from Mr Sexy Knight and look around the auditorium. All eyes are on us.
Wow, Grace. You really messed this one up.
I give a wave to show the assembled masses I don’t need to be stretchered out to a waiting ambulance and the crowd claps and cheers. Despite cringing with embarrassment on a global scale, I can’t help a grin from spreading across my face.
I glance back at the man at my side, acutely aware his arm is still held protectively around me. Although it feels so good, I know this has to end. I check the bra is in place—well, as ‘in place’ as a bra with a broken strap can be.
I look at Mr Sexy Knight. “I… I think I’m okay now.”
“Of course,” he replies, immediately removing his arm.
“Thank you for… ah… catching me.” I shoot him a sheepish smile.
“It was my pleasure.” His smile fills my body with warmth.